A history of Runeterra is a history of war.

For generations beyond counting, this world has bathed in the spilled blood of fathers and their progeny. Towns were displaced by the invading graveyards. As cities burned, their flames were used as forges to create new weapons. Streams of powerful magic coursed across the lands, floods of pure destruction that ravaged the once nurturing earth given to all, but shared by none. It was the apocalypse, played on repeat… and attempts to escape this destructive history, for however bleak it the future may be, are futile. For all the powers a Summoner possesses, they are still enslaved by all the weaknesses and paranoia of men.

Thousands of years of history cannot be undone. The league, inevitably, will fall.

But what will life after the league look for the champions who once served it? What will become of those warriors once the restraints of the League are lifted from their shoulders? How will they shape this world, to try to drag it from the precipice of disaster… or push it to its destruction?

Here, then, is a look…

~*~

Ahri: Incomplete

How funny was it that her quest for humanity lead her to become a mercenary?

She should have seen this coming, she supposed, from the offset—it was war and death that blessed her with this body, so why wouldn’t killing in the service of the league be how she ultimately lived up to the ideal of humanity? It was just as the Summoner’s promised: every match she won, every kill she
secured, she felt just a little bit more human.

But the league was gone, and they hadn’t kept their promise before vanishing, as far as she could tell—she still had tails, these preppy ears that the men just adored, and above all she still felt… unfinished. There was more to do--she felt it in her stomach, the same pangs that she suffered as a fox that told her ‘You are not finished’.

But maybe that’s what humanity was, when it was all said and done: Being incomplete. She’d take solace in that, for the time being. Until then, she’d gotten a taste for fighting--and of the two skill she’d mastered since turning human this one was, somehow, considered the less morally questionable way to make a living.

Humans are strange, strange creatures. And the mystery made them all the more alluring.


Akali: Balance, Pt 1

The room had been prepared for them by their attendants: everything had been mathematically proportioned to illustrate the virtues of perfect balance. Each ninja was exactly the same distance away from each other, and the adjacent walls in the perfectly square room. The temperature was exactly 50 degrees, and they had geometrically measured the very forces of light and dark so as to perfectly find the exact point between the two: equilibrium in all things.

And naturally, they had all eaten a balanced breakfast.

“And thus we find ourselves at a crossroad.” Shen’s even voice spilled across the room like a slowly spreading flame. “A great upsetting will soon befall Valoran, and the whole of Runeterra.”

“How can we three possibly maintain balance when the scales the world rests upon themselves tremble?” Akali asked, her voice pressing on the tip of passion, but restrained nonetheless. “The league was the best tool we had for maintaining symmetry in all things.”

“In our moment of greatest desperation, we rely upon our greatest weapon.” Shen replied without a considerate pause. “A weapon that must not fail, for the sake of our order and the universe at large.”

Akali nodded, closing her eyes, anticipating his wisdom: the fall of the league was a blow to their operations, but not a death kneel by any means; the world was unstabilized by the collapse of the league, certainly, which meant to counter the great storm that was about to fall upon their shores, they had to concoct an equal force to counter it, no matter how dramatic it may be--for they were warriors of balance.

Not restraint.


Alistar: Bull

“NO! NO! I’LL KILL YOU ALL!”

“Someone shut that damn animal up.”

The Noxian Summoners interlaced their hands together, a mist swirling from the insides of their fingers—a sleeping spell that drifted to the thrashing gladiator’s nose—it forced itself into his nostrils, but in his rage he merely snorted it out again, rending yet another chain from the hands of his captors.

“NOXIAN SCUM! YOU CAN’T TAKE ME! I’D SOONER DIE!”

The General merely sneered, waving a hand dismissively at the horned beast who stood, barely restrained by the forces of dozens of magically enhanced chains, a mere few feet away from him, his bloodshot eyes boiling with a loathing that promised death the instant they gave him even an inch of freedom.

“Please. Who’s going to save you? Ayelia? That girl couldn’t even last a single round in the Fleshing. Very boring match. Lots of crying.”

His casually presented words struck Alistar like a jackhammer to the chest. The Minotaur’s eyes widened, his limbs, once as tense as columns of stone, went slack—his breathing stopped, and his mouth, once over bubbling with threats and violence and saliva, grew quiet.

“We’re just taking back what’s ours.” The general sighed, patting Alistar on the snout. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll join her soon, once we get bored of you.”

“…you… you monsters…”

“I only see one monster here. Is the branding iron ready? I don’t want to lose this one again.”


Amumu: Home

He came to the League for one thing only: A home. And while it lasted, he had found one. And boy, what a home it had been! People liked him! They liked him a lot! He was useful, and he met so many nice people, and sure it hurt when he was banned so often but it was only because they didn’t want to fight him. And that’s always flattering, right?

All those times his team would smile and laugh when he managed to turn the tide of a team fights, or the thanks he’d get for saving their lives when being chased… how could he have gotten that lamenting in that moldy tomb? All those times those Summoner’s praised him, all the friends he made… they made him happy. But now… it was all gone. All those smiling faces, all those friendly words, all those people who’d practiced and battled alongside him… all gone. His home was nothing but dust in the wind now.

…but you know? He was smiling. Even now, as he sat on the steps leading up to the abandoned league, a smile crept on his face for the first time since he was brought back to this world. Because for as much as he loved the league, loved his home… he was only ever welcome when he was sad. He was fueled by sadness, and if he cheered up, well… he’d just be a little green mummy, wouldn’t he?

So was he sad that his home was gone? No… with that burden gone, he could finally be happy.

“Amumu!” A little girl’s voice cried out, urging him to look up at Annie as she darted up to him, a big grin across her face. “Hurry up, mom and dad are waiting! Let’s go!”

Besides, there was one beautiful truth he’d learned in his travels, and in his time at the League.

No one was ever truly homeless.


Anivia: Reset

To call her ancient would be an insult, for she predated the language.

“I suppose some would consider it odd for us to talk, but I quite enjoyed our battles,” Anivia started, her chilled but soothing voice lulling into Brand’s ear, “And I wanted to know what your plans are.”

“Why? Intend on getting in my way?” Brand sneered, cackling as the flames bounded off his flesh—what a sad display. It was fitting such a being should be so rash and immature, for flames are synonymous with youth—passionate and hot, but fleeting. “Do you want to save your precious human masters from the flames I rear?!”

“I never said that.” She soberly reminded him, nodding her head from her perch. “If that’s what you intend, burn away, my friend, burn away…”

“What?!” Brand choked on the words, unable to comprehend her wizened words. “You aren’t going to stop me?!”

“It hardly matters at this point.” Aniva cooed, “This world is bound towards a path of destruction, and it is better that way. It has been impossibly corrupted, and is in desperate need of a reset. Be it by your hand or the Summoner’s, this world will end before too long.”

“THEN LET IT DIE IN FLAMES!” Brand cracked, the fire swathing his body ignited by the short-sightedness of his hopeless ambitions. “LET IT BURN WITH SUCH FURVER THAT NOT EVEN YOU ESCAPE ALIVE!”

“Well, you can try.” She chuckled in response, a little grin tugging on her beak. “But when the kindling runs out, and the flames fade… only the cold will remain.”

“Bah!” Brand waved a hand dismissively, completely ignoring her point as he strove away, plotting where to start. She merely watched on, her cool gaze upon the beasts back as she prepared to take flight: it was a real pity; too, she’d grown quite attached to this world.

Oh well. The next one should be better.


Annie: Power.

She never had any ambitions for a normal childhood. Nor did her parents. Nor did her tutors, what few dared teach her, anyway. The league had aided in making her childhood as abnormal as possible, but now that it was gone, what was left for her?

That was pretty simple. Grow stronger.

“N-no…” Ryze gasped, clutching onto his burnt chest as he tried with what remained of his strength to grab the scroll from her hands. “I… I can’t…”

“Tibbers, I think he wants more!” She giggled, cheering with delight as the bear backhanded the tattooed mage, causing him to fall to the ground.

All the time she had known him, he had protected this scroll with his life—every spell he had ever invoked had been in the service of protecting this scroll. It had made her curious… and hungry. So she sought him out. Found him in his isolated studies, and did what any child would do: she took it. And now it was in her hand, throbbing with immense power, just WAITING to be used…

“N-no good can come of this! Don’t…” Ryze begged, clawing his way back to his feet—his mana reserves were dried, and there was no power left in his withered form: Annie hadn’t exactly escaped without a scratch herself, mind, and because of the many wounds she’d sustained she wasn’t feeling charitable.

“No!” She shouted at him, stomping a foot in protest. “It’s mine, I won it! Now, let’s see what’s inside~” She sang, slowly rolling the scroll open to gaze at its contents.

…her heart stopped in her chest the moment her eyes saw the scripture within. Her mouth dried. And her face paled.

“…I…” She gasped in an uncharacteristic display of fear, “…I...”

She bit her lower lip, then looked up at the collapsed and confused Ryze, frustration and humiliation building up in her quickly reddening cheeks.

“…um… can you read this to me, mister?”

Of course, between her magical training and her time in the league, it’s easy to neglect some of the fundamentals of growing up. Like learning how to read.


Ashe: Longshot

“It’s… so dark...” She whispered to herself as she gazed upon her thawing domain. For as distant and foggy as the horizon was, she could see the war machine as clear as day: she had strove so hard for peace, but it seemed all that she built was founded on the league—with that gone, what did she have? She had a war spurred by Sejuani and her growing number of allies. She had summoners preparing for another rune war, stirred by the former master of the league. She had a newly reinvigorated Noxus and a husband all too eager to cut them down to size. Worse still, she feared there was no number of arrows she could shoot at this problem to make it go away.

She had fought for so long in the name of her people: and now they fight against her. Without the stability of the league, a steady monarchy seemed impossible. There was too much greed. Too much ambition. Too many hands, with no pot big enough to fit them all.

She sighed, fingers strumming the instrument of bloodshed, listening to the single-note melody of her bow as the string vibrated under her expert touch. The noise was a comfort to her, for as much as it might have filled her foes with terror, and it soothed her aching mind—she couldn’t lose herself in her fears of the future. There was too much to do today to exert any attention on tomorrow.

She had fought for a hope that was gone now. Where there was once prosperity and promise, there was now only chaos and confusion and despair. But even though her dream of a perfectly unified Frelijord and a world bound to peace seemed like a longshot…

…she’d made longer.

Please, keep going, this is GREAT.

Also, Annie's portion was HILARIOUS.

Blitzcrank: Father

Logic made everything easy.

The League of Legends had fallen, and Blitzcrank knew precisely why: Human error. Basic observation and calculations were enough to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was faulty fleshing practices that initiated the downfall of his home. But he didn’t resent them for it—Fleshings were temporary creatures, and their works (with some notable exceptions) were temporary as well.

He had taunted many times in the League, boasting that the time of Men was over, but it was never a dogma he had sincerely subscribed too: His fleshing compatibility service was proof enough of his generally benevolent stance on these lesser beings—much as a son has a duty to watch over his decrepit father, Blitzcrank felt he had an obligation to protect fleshlings, for however strongly their innate inferiority tried to sabotage their own continued existence.

And the key to this was in the one function where Fleshlings exceeded Automation: reproduction.
He had made no shortage of companions in the league, fleshlings who would help him as he prepared himself to become a father of the second generation of Blitzcrank’s. He had willingly allowed them to examine his internal structure, examine his circuitry, and even disassemble parts of his body to allow them a greater understanding of his making. For he was dedicated to creating more of his kind: less for companionship, the Fleshlings were antiquate for that task, and more for the protection of those ‘human’ and ‘yodle’ creatures who, given the opportunity, would continue to fail themselves.

When the next league was founded by benevolent robots rather than scheming Fleshlings, it’d last forever, as the first had intended.


Brand: Inferno

Demacia first, for forcing his participation in that awful league. Then, the Freljord, where that obnoxious bird and scheming Ice-Witch lived: he’d burn it so hot the snow will melt and flood the rest of Valoran under the tides. Then, he’d burn Zaun—he didn’t have any particular vendetta against them, but the city seemed like it’d burn real good, with all the gas and trash in the streets… personally he was looking forward to it. Yordle City was after that, mostly wooden buildings and lots of fur meant a very relaxing period, and after that he’d set fire to those pirates in Bilgewater: lets see how far you can run from fire on a wooden ship, seamen!

When that was done, he’d focus on Piltover—with buildings of stone and steel, it would be a challenge, but a welcome one…

…he’d once heard a philosopher say, long ago, that all things are made of ash: it was a state all matter could turn into, with enough time. Brand knew better than most this was provably untrue—but he still believed it. Because it gave him something to strive for, something to have faith in for however illogical it may be… kind of like a religion.

And no one could stop him—not the League, not the Nations, not the Champions, not the Shadow Isle… he’d burn it all. And when he was done, he’d Burn the void, and when the Void was ablaze, he’d find somewhere else to spread his inferno.

And when all of creation was fire and ash? Would cold take over, as Anivia claimed?

No. Because his body would never die. And as long as he lives, so too will the fire.

Caitlyn: C

To some, it had become a way of life. For her, it was merely a pit stop. But a stop worth making.

“Alright kiddies, playtime is over!” She shouted, walking into the bank with gun resting across her shoulder—a self-pleased swing in her hip with each step she took. At the sound of her voice, the robbers turned their heads sharply and immediately cursed their bad luck—if her reputation had been formidable before, now it was absolutely paralyzing. They immediately fell to the ground, their weapons dropping in a clatter, hands in the air, their black tote bags in their hands just waiting to be apprehended.

“On the ground, where you belong.” She snickered, strolling in front of each man and plucking their spoils from their outreached hand—the bags were so light, she must have showed up before they could grab much. “Such good boys!”

She dropped the bags onto the counter, smiling warmly but still cockily to the teller. “Here you go, then—leave this scum to me.”

The teller grabbed the bags eagerly, trembling hands attempting to navigate the tangle of straps and strings that had kept each bag shut. While the teller did that, the sheriff stepped to the first man and, with one graceful slap on the wrist, bound his wrists together with a pair of metallic cuffs; they jingled pleasantly each time they bound a criminal, a little jaunty fanfare for a job well done. It was the sound of satisfaction.

When each man was apprehended, she jabbed one with the muzzle of her rifle, asking “Alright, boys, whose up for a jog?”

“…um… excuse me.”

Caitlyn turned to the teller, who, refusing to make eye contact, muttered further “There’s no money in these… there was only this…”

She held out a card—it was blank, save for a single character: the letter C.

“…bloody hell!” She snarled, immediately running out the door, holding onto her iconic hat lest it fall off her head from the dash—Of course! How could she not have realized the late Duchess had her family brooch locked in a vault in the basement of this very bank! The robbery was just a proxy to distract her and the guards! Not this time, C—this heist would be your last!


Cassiopeia: Bust

Let it never be said blood tastes the same—to the uncultured tongue, perhaps all blood has the same tang, but fingers were critics in their own right, and they can attest that no man’s blood had tasted as sweet as her father’s murderer. She knew the second her claws had pierced the thin seal of freshness around his neck that this was a time to be savored, and savor she did—far, far longer than the man would have liked. But men are always finished first, so it was a familiar sensation.

Sometimes a girl has to be a little selfish.

But purpose has a funny way of lingering, even after it’s been satisfied, and as her glowing eyes examined her work she was filled with both a rush of gratification and regret: her abominable form had served this purpose well, but she was not like her sister—she had always appreciated a sharp tongue over a sharp blade. What was she to do now?

That was easy.

“Snake Charmer: Slithering into the Hearts of Men.” Her publisher raised an eyebrow, an amused grin on his chapped lips. “Laying it on a little thick, huh?”

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” She smiled seductively, leaning forward to rest her chin atop her palm. “You use the gifts you’ve got. Good advice for a girl.”

“Well, so help me if I’m the first man to ever say no to you. We’ll begin printing immediately. One question, though—do you want a full-body shot for the book jacket, or just a bust?”

“Well… my bust always did draw eyes…”


Cho’Gath: Patience

No mortal words have ever been invented that could sufficiently convey the absolute terror of the Void.

Cho’Gath had never been a staple of Runetta—in fact, his knowledge of that world had been concentrated entirely within the League. And while his countless battles had indeed bolstered his strength and experience, it had also left him with one unassailable truth: Runetta had defenders. Once, the idea that such tiny creatures could even stain his carapace was an insult, but death after death had taught him the error of his pride.

Even after the fall of the League, Runetta was safe from his wrath… for now.

Even within the confines of Summoners Rift, Cho’Gath had watched the personal drama of each champion unfold before him, storybooks with the entire history of their culture and armies in the subtext. He knew that the only ingredient missing in the recipe for utter Void domination was time—with enough, their defenders would be crippled, and their world would be ripe for the oncoming feast.

If his fellow Voidborn would heed his warnings, however, was a different matter entirely. He could only tell them what he knew, and if they decided to go deaf to his experience was their business. He would wait, regardless… he had all the time in their world.


Corki: Ace

Some people liked to fly for the wind in their hair and the sunshine on their brow. Corki always preferred the gunpowder in his nose. For him, flying was a lot like walking—pretty boring unless there were explosions everywhere and bullets flying through your mustache.

“Now, are you absolutely sure about this?” Heimerdiner questioned in his usual nasally tone, carefully twisting his trademark wrench to tighten one final bolt on the man-sized turret, “I’ve enhanced their tracking algorithms: they should prove quite adequate at hitting targets even as wily as you.”

“Quitcher belly achin’ and light em’ up!” Corki insisted, “I’m all spooled up and ready to fly!”

“Well, you did sign the wavers, I suppose. On with the field test!”

Corki grinned like a madman, his customized machine exploding with life as he streaked across the runway and took to the sky—immediately, Heimerdinger pressed a button, causing the turrets to whizz into being—they quickly identified their hooting target and fired their specialty-made anti-aircraft flak rounds with startling precision. Corki, an airborne ballerina (Or whatever the manly equivalent was) spun through the air, his machine and himself in perfect symbiosis as he weaved through the hailstorm.

“HA! Is this all you blackshoes got? I ain’t even had my morning whiskey!”

Perhaps because the machines had recognized and resented his cockiness in a flash of self-awareness, the turrets revamped their efforts and in a split second, Corki’s ship had dozens of baseball-sized holes in it, and he was falling to the ground in a column of smoke and fire.

“CHARLIE FOXTROT! CHARLIE FOXTROT!”

“Goodness me.” Heimerdinger sighed as the aircraft detonated in the distance, “That’s the third plane this week.”

These are fun to read. Good Job

I absolutely adore these

Darius: Reality

This. This was what he was waiting for all this time.

Eight men drop around him, like the dogs they are, their necks yawning open while blood fountains forth. He notices a runner—he extends his axe, and with a hook, drags them screaming back into the fray: holds him still while he pummels his face in with the butt of his weapon with such strength the coward’s teeth popped out of the back of his head.

It was a dark day over the battlefield. Rain seemed imminent.

Behind him, men roared with approval, spurred by the nine soldiers he’d sacrificed to Noxus’s glory. They stampeded ahead of him, brandishing newly made weapons begging for a legacy of death to be brutally stained within their steel.

“No man leaves until his kills outnumber his limbs!” Darius barked, his grizzled voice throttling the ears of every Noxian on the field, “If you run out of Demacians, cull the weak from our ranks!”
He himself stayed at the head of his platoon, the first to throw himself into the rows of quivering

Demacian infantry who had been sent to quell their first advance. Darius was afraid these days of merciless slaughter were over—that the world would forever be at the rule of the feeble and stupid elites hiding behind Summoners for protection and luxury.

The real world was much colder than that—and he was more than happy to see this cold warmed by the blood of those who had tried with such futility to escape that one ultimate reality.

This land was too small for the weak.


Diana: Eclipse, Pt 1

“Does the moon… talk?”
“That’s a stupid question. Does the sun sing?”
“Well, on a cloudless summer evening, if you close your eyes and turn your face-“
“Nevermind. I should expect such drivel from you.”
“…well, okay, how about this: how do you know the sun and moon are rivals?”
“They’re celestial bodies. They are not people. Stop personifying them.”
“You’re the one who thinks there isn’t room for the both of us.”
“You started it.”
“I can’t take responsibility for that. Stop bringing it up.”
“…say, you want to hear a joke?”
“Is it one of your stupid sun jokes again?”
“N-no! It’s something new!”
“Alright, I’ll bite.”
“Okay, so, a homeless man goes to his pastor, right?”
“Hmmm.”
“And he says, ‘You gotta help me, I can’t get my head out of the gutter!’ So the pastor says, ‘Then get a job!’”
“…”
“Get it? Because… he’s homeless, so… he’s sleeping in the actual gutter…”
“-there’s nothing funny about poverty. It’s a very real problem.”
“…why are you always such a killjoy?”
“I’m not a killjoy! You’re the one making tasteless jokes!”
“That was clever; you don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Humph!”
“Hnnnnnng.”
“…it’s looking like it’s time.”
“So it is.”
“Fare thee well, Diana…”
“…yeah. Bye…”


Dr. Mundo: Pleased

Dr. Mundo very like the League, but it died. This okay, Mundo has more time to science now. But what do Mundo science, with all the science he already do? Mudno have limited skillset. Mundo not interested in sewing, so Mundo no make shirts.

Luckily Mundo get much influence in league. Mundo have a chat with summoners and Summoners gave Mundo the secret of fountain. Mundo remember fountain. Each time Mundo dies Mundo come back good. Same with other champs. Mundo very interested in resurrection.

Mundo install fountain in lab. Now Mundo study pain without needing to replace dead—Mundo just bring them back for more! Very cost efficient. Plus now Mundo can study what endless pain and resurrection do to brain. Mess them up good, Mundo hypothesizes. Mundo be sure to test good.
Mundo has fourteen subjects in lab. Mundo need more. Good study has hundreds. Mundo need more cages. Do Mundo need to feed? Fountain does that. Mundo like this. Mundo get much science done. Mundo pleased.


Draaaaaaaaaaaaaaaven: Curtains

“And heeeeeeeere’s DRAVEN!” He shouted as he strode confidently down the lane, both axes swinging effortlessly in his massive hands, balanced perfectly with his swag. “Who’s ready to see some BLOOD?!”

The collapse of the league had many implications, the worst of which, in Draven’s eyes, being that people would have a harder time seeing him, the absolute paragon of humanity, the pinnacle of all human endeavor personified into one perfect individual, in action. After all, he was innately a charitable man: what could be a greater gift than allowing people to admire him and see him in action? Nothing. Nothing at all. He was his gift to the human and Yordle race. Before he died he wanted to invent mirrors that made everyone look like him, just so he could keep giving even after the world lost him. It’d help the people cope with the tremendous loss.

Not that he was dying anytime soon. In fact, the collapse of the league offered him more opportunities than ever. See, Summoner’s Rift was abandoned, now, which meant that that whole field that the world had been watching was just begging for a new show. So he took over, and using some of the magic the Summoner’s had used, created a perfect duplicate of himself, just so he’d finally have a worthy opponent. Day in, day out, he fought himself to the death in a glorious spectacle that he assumed drew the whole population of Runettera to the old league-viewing stations.

He was sure they were still running, after all: who’d want to miss THIS?

No one. No one at all.

Elise: Feed

When she joined the league, an air of mystery had surrounded the announcement: why would a cult leader want that kind of publicity? Everyone knew her true nature now, and only the suicidally psychotic would be drawn to her web now, of which there were comfortingly few. Some speculated she had cut off the source of her power by joining the league, and that was only half-right.

There comes a point, you see, where the slave gets ideas from their master. They learn from their example, and absorb some of that mindset—this makes the act of submission all the less satisfying, and with each victim she had offered Vilemaw, a sense of resentment had started to lump into the back of her throat. Her lies had been sweet venom, but with that resentment building up the lies that had drawn so many foolish souls to her embrace turned bitter, and even she had a hard time swallowing them.

So the league was the perfect place to dispense that poison, and practice her own skills in the meantime. She was in the prime of her life, and vilemaw was old and decrepit… before too long, he’d be nothing but a hollow skeleton protected by coarse fur, and when that day came, someone with a little more… kick would be due to take his place. Someone who would be fed, rather than required to feed.

And boy, had she gotten a taste for getting fed in the League.


Evelynn: Enigma

“I’m a mystery… I prefer it that way. Loose ends, it’s nothing personal.”

“But it is personal, darlin’.” Twisted Fate grinned, flipping a gold card between his fingers as if it were nothing but a coin. “That’s how it started, anyhow. Speakin’ of, you should go back to wearing that dress I got you… you look damn fine in red.”

“That hardly matters now…”

“It ain’t. But if I’m going to be killed I’d like to be killed by a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress.” He tilted his hat up slightly, giving her a good look at his enigmatic eyes—he could charm the venom from a rattlesnake, and he knew it. His voice was smoother than the Gragas’s ale, and twice as intoxicating.

“Can’t you do that for me, darlin’?”

“No last requests… I don’t work that way.”

“Pity. I think you’d have liked what I had in mind.”

“Well…” Her voice grew uncharacteristically flustered, “I’ll entertain the idea…”

“I know this quiet little grove where the two of us can be alone…” His voice drew the red to her blue cheeks, the ashes of a passion that was supposed to be extinguished. “…and we can have ourselves a good ol’ fashioned one verses one.”

“I do love a little pleasure sprinkled into my pain…”

“My thoughts exactly, darlin’. Whatta say?”

Dammit, one of these days she’d get around to killing him.


Ezreal: Waking

About damn time!

The league was neat and all, he got to see all sorts of cool stuff in the Fields of Justice, but he couldn’t WAIT for it to go away. He preferred learning history to making it, and while he would have been thrilled to learn about the League were it maybe a few centuries dead, nothing was quite as dull as current events. Now it was just out of his way and he could get back to work, and boy, what a find he had on his hands today! During an excavation in Kalamanda he found a cave hidden away behind the folds of a nearby mountain. Impossible for most to reach, but most don’t have a magical amulet that allow them to fully utilize their natural magical talent—one with no strings attached anymore!

He created a light and continued to dive deeper—it was a large network of tunnels, the walls were crudely carved and the floor was flat, so it wasn’t natural… but there were no notches to keep touches, nor carvings or markers… it wasn’t a tomb, it wasn’t a sewer, it wasn’t a ruin, or a temple… but it was defiantly man-maid. He LIVED for these kinds of mysteries! What would be on the other end? Treasure? A trap? A cursed altar? Ooooh—gave him chills.

He walked, penning a simple map all the way, taking note of any irregularities—the walls were getting marks now—scratches, giant ones, able to easily permeate the deep rock. Crystals were starting to jet from the stone, massive and purple… man, Taric would have been all over this. He’d have to bring him back a sample when he got back home.

After what felt like hours of winding dusty passages, he finally reached what seemed to be the end of his journey—or the beginning. There was a massive, pitch-black chamber before him, one too large for his humble magical lantern to illuminate. So, he charged up his magic for a moment or two before shooting out a huge ball of light to bring light to the chasm and let him analyze what secrets the darkness held…

…oh, hey, what was Skarner doing down here? Did he live… wait… another Skarner? Did he have- oh, wow, thre- four… five… oh… oh no, ten, twenty, thirty, fifty… oh my god.

…they started to stir, disturbed by the light. Oh. Oh cripes, this was bad.

This was really bad.

[CENTER]Fiddlesticks terrifies his wardens and Fizz tackles the desert--next time![/CENTER]

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Fiddlestick: Be

Placidity had been Fiddlestick’s one redeeming feature—you can be evil and completely lack ambition at the same time, and Fiddlestick seemed entirely complacent within his isolated summoning chamber, indiscriminately picking off whoever was bold enough to enter his domain. No one quite understood why, but the form he had taken spoke for itself—Scarecrows don’t move. They scare. It’s their existence, rather than their actions, that drive black birds to madness. He didn’t need to kill to terrify, no, he only needed to be.

When the buildings were abandoned, a magical seal was placed upon his door, one that would, the summoners hoped, keep anyone and anything from entering… or leaving. However, once the incantation was complete, the spell simply bounced off, leaving the door perfectly accessible. The spell was tried, again and again, and each time the same results—the magic dissolved, the door remained untouched. Everyone knew that Fiddlesticks was responsible, but no one was sure how… or why. But by that token, none dared venture into his lair to find out, let alone stop him, because that was exactly what he wanted.

It was doubtful that Fiddlesticks would ever move, ever leave the room. But the fact that he COULD escape… that he MIGHT rampage across Runetta with a dark wind to his back… that would do more damage than he ever could. Those poor souls outside his door, trying to secure themselves against him were only succeeding in slowly driving themselves insane…

And all the scarecrow had to do was be.


Fiora: Matador

The world’s a stage, as some poet once dryly observed, and you must keep dancing to stay in the spotlight. Which was a pity, because if there was an iota of intelligent thought in the plebian mind they’d just remember how brilliant she was and she wouldn’t have to go out of her way to keep reminding them of her splendor. Honestly, the way she moved, the elegance and grace of her posture, the swift and engrossing swipes of her blade, and the stunning beauty of her toned body… her admirers had called her a masterpiece, but that was provably false: Masterpieces are art, and art is subjective, while her perfection was objective.

But she still needed a new way to display her prowess, and Demacia was no place to do that.

“My, my, my, what do we have HERE.” The dark-eyed man grinned, leering down at the bound Fiora—her body reeked of vulnerability, which even the opportunistic Noxan general knew wasn’t fitting for her. “You’ve gotten yourself in quite a bit of trouble, Fiora—how’d a former champion like you wander into our camp so carelessly?”

“I guess I let my guard down.” She rolled her eyes, easing into the tightly wound ropes that kept her hands from her weapon.

“Well, maybe in your next life you’ll learn to keep it up: for your inattentiveness you’ve been sentenced to death by the Fleshing.”

“Oh, really?” She smirked, “What a pity…”

“Oh, yes. And I think you’ll recognize who we have prepared for your first match…”


Fizz: Careless

It had never bothered him. Life was too short to worry about trivial things like the entire disappearance of his people and culture—dust in the wind… or sand in the tide, as the case may be. It’s not like he could have known it would happen. Or even have stopped it. And they were all either dead or living just fine without him so it wasn’t something that she had ever carried with him. He was too slippery for guilt.

But then he’d met Nami. People might have assumed that, being aquatic creatures living on land, they’d share a certain kinship--Boy, was that racist! They were nothing alike: He a carefree bounding warrior looking for fun and adventure, her a dutiful, desperate, and dull sorcerer who wouldn’t know fun if he’d slapped her in the face with some.

So they didn’t get along. But they’d still spoken, and she’d gotten him thinking—what if whatever had threatened her home now is what had claimed his own people? It’d make sense—both races lived impossibly deep in the waves where the sun is merely a single star swimming in a rippling sky, and their respective kingdoms weren’t terribly far apart. Besides, whatever it may be, it must have a heck of an appetite if it had been cockblocked by that Moon stone for so many centuries!

And if it were coming to her home before too long, this presented Fizz with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to avenge his lost people. All he’d have to do is go down to Nami’s city, trident and shark in tow, and kill it. All this time fighting in the league had sharpened his skills, after all, no doubt it’d be a cakewalk…

…but what fun is that? Revenge is boing and pointless and full of long-winded monologues that made him want to pull his figurative hair out… besides, he’d heard so much about this Shurima Desert—THAT sounds like an adventure!