Imagine the night as a promise.
Katarina watched distant hulking ships of wood and steel cut through the calm waters of Bilgewater Bay. She knew the ports well, for a foreigner, familiar with the heavy, stench-riddled air that wafted across boardwalk and harbour alike. An impenetrable layer of scum, nurtured by the populace that lived among it. She relished it all.
There was none of that here, high up enough that the air was still and thin, far enough inland that all of that seafront rabblerousing melted into a distant, low rumble, above which the strange calmness of lapping waves permeated. Promises that came from this city, she knew, revealed themselves in dribbles. Never in totality until they arrived, without finality until Katarina had her say.
The first third of her promise led her here, made known around midday and carried on raven, an unmarked envelope sealed with undecorated wax. We will seek you high. All arrangements apply. High meant here, where cold ceramic tiles beat back the sea gales, the old church beneath bereft of use and no longer in need of such protection, but protected all the same. She had explored its husk once, out of boredom, finding old artifacts of Buhru covered in dust, robbed now of purpose. Very soon, she might have found herself doing so once more, she thought, wondering how many of them she would find again. Things worth a coin or two rarely remained lost in Bilgewater.
It was an idea the next third of her promise would put firmly to rest, as it clambered up from the same ladder Katarina had scaled hours prior. A hooded head of bright orange greeted her, popping up over the edge of the roof, followed swiftly by scowling lips. Great. Her.
"Late, Ruthven," Katarina spat, making no move forwards as her colleague helped herself onto the ledge and across rattling ceramic tiles.
"Aye, been fuckin' later if I knew it were you," Ruthven retorted, pausing her steps several short of arm's length, taking in the view of the ships in the Bay. "One thing t' send a lass gallivantin' round the world on courier duty. But for you, a du Couteau? I mean, what a fuckin' honour."
Katarina watched the speech without a noticeable change in her bored expression, only conceding the courtesy of standing from where she had perched on the raised ledges surrounding the chimney. The wind caught her cloak now, too, both shapes on the roof like splotched ink that morphed in the darkness. "Well," she began, "if you were any good at the job, you'd be doing it. Now give."
An arm stretched out for whatever it was that her courier was supposed to deliver, expectant. The movement peeled Ruthven's attention back in; she regarded Katarina's fingers for a moment, brows furrowing as the taunt landed, casting shadows that darkened amber irises. Katarina noticed this, took guesses on her colleague's thoughts, and smirked. A dare, one they both knew.
Ruthven dove forward, their armistice holding but barely. Her offered hand was pushed aside, and Katarina's back struck the chimney stack, though her smirk remained unbothered. Through thin layers of wool and silk, she could feel the familiar bite of sharpened steel threatening her abdomen. She wondered if Ruthven felt her blade in return, readied and concealed from the moment her hand had risen. Katarina chuckled, and leaned down towards the shorter woman, close enough to feel her assailant's laboured breathing.
"Do it," she challenged, "or- give."
"Fuckin' nobles." Ruthven backed down, albeit scornfully. Katarina felt the knife withdraw, replaced not a second after with a forceful shove that pressed her even harder against the stack. The space between them grew once more as Ruthven retreated, apparently wounded but only in pride. She paced a half-circle, and found herself again by Katarina's side. "Ya do this, then ya go home and ya tell those fuckers I'm done pushin' notes around, aye?" she asked, more demand than question. "They need somebody gone? They can come right t' me about it. Or I'm sure somebody else will- probably more coin in that, too."
Katarina rolled her eyes at the prospect, sliding her dagger back into her belt. "And- what? You know that's not how Noxus works. That's how you get yourself killed."
"Gotta eat somehow. It ain't all of us that can afford all that blind loyalty o' yers t' the good ol' Grand General."
A scoff was the only result of many thoughts, betraying none of them and only frustrating Ruthven more. Katarina looked down at her in silence for a moment longer, then said again with a sigh, "give."
"Fuck you, Kat," Ruthven huffed, defeated. She produced another envelope, this one with a wax seal marked by a Trifarian sigil, holding what would become of the next several hours of Katarina's evening.
"She does something smart for once," Katarina remarked, almost under her breath, as she snatched the parchment from Ruthven's hands even before it was formally given. Just as quickly was it tucked away, out of sight.
From beneath her cloak she fished out a different, thicker slip of paper - the note that had been carried to her by raven, earlier in the day. Her other hand found a small dagger. Then, as Ruthven watched on, Katarina carved into the paper, as delicate as crude, several rectangular shapes, and then an arrow. Once complete, she clasped the card between her index and middle fingers, raising it matter-of-factly between them. It was a decision she began questioning the moment she made it. For better or worse, then, the note was snatched from her before she could retract the offer.
"Go figure that out, if you're half as good as you think you are," Katarina directed, dismissing the woman with a callous wave of her hand, "maybe you won't have to sleep on the street tonight. I expect rum, by the time I'm back, or I'll throw you out."
Without even so much as a parting gaze between them, Katarina stepped deftly across the tiles. The ladder was forgone, she simply strolled to the edge, then right over it. And then she was gone, off in pursuit of the final third of her promised night, perhaps even an epilogue, if a map did not prove too challenging for her countryman.
That much the city did not provide, merely bargained for in a spur of interest and hubris that Katarina hoped she would not grow to regret. Somewhere behind her, she imagined boots finding tile. Elsewhere in the city, a window she had left unlocked. Bilgewater, she knew, held whatever remained in between.