Strength, above all else. Beyond merely a motto or mantra, if Noxian thinkers were to be given credence, it was a way of life. Their way of life. Words that, by themselves, justified the razing and decimation of so many - weaker - others. Ideas that, far over the horizon at that very moment, spurred on the minds of every metal-clad, red-bannered, Noxian soldier at the behest of their empire. Noxus would claim what was rightfully theirs, and that extended, naturally, to the corners of the world, wherever sunlight fell.
It was simply so, very, uninspiring.
There was a time where a younger, far more impressionable, Elizabeth might have wholeheartedly believed in such silly notions. A time long before she had assumed the mantle of House Kythera-Zavaan's matriarch, far before her evolution into the perfect creature she had become. Perhaps, even before the silence that had long since taken a perpetual hold of the halls she occupied that night. Elise dragged a finger, slowly, across the parapet before her, drawing a look of disgust at the - truthfully, expected - clump of dust that had accumulated against her skin. She flicked it, into the wind and down towards the streets below.
Once a shining example of Noxian exceptionalism, House Kythera alone was a name that demanded respect and afforded discretion. House Zavaan was the lesser, although Elise's strategic acquisition of their resources had, nonetheless, sent ripples through the aisles of nobility. Yet, here she stood, in the tower of what was once the latter's main hall of residence, finding nothing but wilt, dust, and disrepair. Ultimately, it mattered not, for as she stood in the balcony, hundreds of little black shapes had sprung into action behind her, ridding the room of dust, weaving new bedsheets and curtains, and even refueling the oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. It would take some measure of time, but their queen was nothing if not patient - after all, time had long since become an annoyance rather than a restraint.
The arrival of a cool breeze would stridently interrupt the woman's rumination, compelling arachnoid appendages to twitch in unison. Elise hummed, taking a sip from her glass of wine - one thing they had, fortunately, recovered here that ripened with age - and pulling silken robes tighter around herself even as they defiantly swirled around her in the wind. They were high up in the Noxian skyline, where the air became ever so slightly less repulsive, and she could watch her lessers scurry along the troughs and bridges that wound their way through the Bastion like ants and fireflies.
She pondered, as she often did in quiet moments like these, how many of those beneath her truly subscribed to the nation's propaganda. It was not a question readily welcomed by most, and Elise found it was usually far easier to fulfil her objectives if her loyalty was not in question, and so it was a question she often refrained from posing. They lacked perspective, Elise reasoned, of the beauty that existed beyond the walls of this wretched city - the spring blossoms of Ionia, the endless dunes of Shurima, even the quaintness of Demacia's petricite forest - all obstacles, even fodder, in the way of Swain's conquest. Perhaps she was uniquely opposed, cursed to see what others could never, although her opposition meant little with the sway her family held.
Her mind wandered, and she took a moment's respite to sip again from her glass.
Ultimately, such thoughts only fueled motivation. Where others could not see beyond pure muscle and sweat, Elise had mastered guile and charm, an art form sharpened over four centuries of her infinite existence. And while she called the Matron of the Black Rose her master, she often excused her obedience to herself as simply a means to an end. It was only by pure fortune that their goals seemed to align regularly enough. After all, why let an army rampage when Elise could muster similar results with merely a well-placed word?
As crimson eyes drifted from the streets to a steeple in the distance, another gust of wind threatened her peace. This one held with it the faintest of whispers, barely decipherable by its recipient. Speak of the devil, then, almost literally. She had promised LeBlanc a gift on their next meeting, as was the reason she had come to this long abandoned abode, but it seemed her Matron was growing impatient already. Tipping her head back, she raised her wine glass and quickly emptied its contents. A spiderling soon came along to retrieve it.
"Oh, darling," Elise began as soft as the wind, retreating from the balcony and slowly sauntering into the newly cleaned, dimly lit chambers, though with the exception, as always, of a few cobwebs hidden amongst the furniture and corners of the room. She was unsure if her audience was listening, although she evidently had her suspicions. "Patience is quite the virtue, and I promise yours will soon be rewarded. I have yet to disappoint, haven't I?"
Her own words drew a smirk across her lips, finding amusement in teasing a woman she couldn't be sure was listening in the first place. Regardless, LeBlanc could wait a day. With a wave of her hand, her spiderlings began to retreat into the shadows to provide their queen with some measure of privacy. Another wave dimmed the candles further, until they flickered once and conceded to darkness. The most effective way, she had learnt, to rid a mind overly eager to explore, was with a night of restful sleep. And so, with practiced grace, she slipped out of her silks, snuck under freshly laid covers, and drew the night to a close.