(Whipped this up because I was in the writing mood. Here ya go, I tried to make it good)
Date: February 21st, 01 CLE
The clodding of thick leather boots combined with strong hardened bones emanated throughout the hall as the great undead warrior reached the Institute of War. His frame was immensely muscular and tall, the height of two men. His head, just a skull with thin amounts of flesh hanging on, was battered and cracked. In his hand was a massive axe far too heavy for most people to even lift. It glowed a haunting green from the carvings that resembled eyes, as if it were somehow alive.
He let out a deep groan. He didn't like stairs, especially when there are roughly 1000 flights of it. His two tiny beady eyes probed the room, he ground his misshaped teeth under his massive underbite of a jaw. His battered and gnarled nostrils sniffed the dusty air.
He locked his eyes on the massive door in front of him. The inscription above read "The truest opponent lies within". The words opponent clearly stuck out to him. Opponent meant someone who wants to battle. Battles are fights. He liked fights. If this involves fighting then the climb up was worth it. Even if it was a weak foe, he had not tasted blood since the war had ended. With an extension of his tree-trunk thick legs, he kicked open the door and trudged inside.
Darkness. Nothing but darkness. Then it was hot, very hot. He felt restrained, his legs were moving without his consent, and they felt chained. A sharp jab into his back prodded him forward. Sion pondered as to where he was, perhaps being led to his battle? Was his test to fight blindfolded and bound? That would not be a problem, he could simply use his head. It was then it dawned on him, where was his chopper? It had been in his clutch the moment he had entered the room. Unless there was a period of time as to where he had been knocked unconscious, there had been no opportunity to remove it from his personage.
A blast of sunlight peered through tiny holes in the sac over his massive head. He could hear many voices, all chanting and cheering. With a firm grip, a hand yanked the sack off. Sion narrowed his eyes as the sudden intensity of light temporarily blinded him. When he could regain vision, his jaw hung open in shock. He was back in the Castle of the Undying Angel, the palace of King Jarvan II, the day of his execution. He remembered the Demacians crowded on the ramparts cheering for his death. He remembered King Jarvan himself personally overseeing his death. He remembered the executioner, though he could not remember his name, he had been a powerful Demacian general.
How is this even possible? He was quite certain time could not repeat itself, though he admitted to himself had poor understanding of magics. He was confused when the necromancers had explained to him how he had suddenly acquired magical powers, something about "complications involving the hextechnology and other variables", whatever that meant. He hadn't listened for very long before eagerly trudging back into the battlefield.
He remembered this part, this is where the tomatoes and debris started flying. Being one of the most prominent Noxian generals and having a headcount larger than that of some armies, he was quite hated in Demacia, something he adored. The paste itched his skin as it impacted.
He looked down and wiggled his fingers. Sure enough, tan as the earth and solid as a rock, there was his skin. This only led to more confusion. As he was marched up the gallows he met face to face with the King himself. Scowling, he raised his hand. Immediately the two captors let go of Sion and stopped prodding him forward.
"Sion Sontok, Commander of the 1st Noxian Field Army, and among Demacia's most hated of adversaries" said the King. His simple voice agitated Sion. He spoke proud and highly and dressed in the most expensive and decorated garments and armor. Just looking at him made Sion want to rip his throat out. Such debauchery and disrespect for warfare. Whilst the King and his men slept in carriages and tents, Sion and his men had trekked through the Freljord mountains with nothing but fur coats and the skin on their back. Whilst the King had access to the finest foods and wine, he survived off the raw meat of the wild and it's blessed water. It was a sign of weakness is what it was, why Sion bet that if he were not surrounded by 100 archers at this very moment and had several swords raised to his throat, he could easily kill the King. Glory and luxury was won through proving, not through inheritance and privilege.
"Here you stand, defeated and awaiting death. Your regiment destroyed, your battle lost, you allies having abandoned you" said the King. Sion inwardly grinned at the last statement, oh if only the King had known how wrong he was. "Tragic in a way, you are no weakling. An idiot maybe, but no weakling". Sion had to admit as well, he had never been known for his smarts. However this insult couldn't go without some punishment. Sion stared at the King for a very long time, before suddenly barreling his head forward directly into his face. A loud crunch was heard as the King stumbled back, blood beginning to rush from his forehead, as well as Sion's to a lesser extent. Sion cackled as the guards shoved him to the ground and onto the guillotine rack. Sion, still laughing, received a kick to his face from Jarvan. "While I admire your tenacity, I am afraid your story ends today".
Nodding to the executioner, the general began to pull on the ropes as the guillotine blade climbed higher and higher. This one seemed especially large, probably to ensure he was dead. He did tend to have a reputation of being unkillable. "Before you die, do you have any last words, respected adversary?" King Jarvan asked, ignoring the blood flowing from the wound on his forehead. The first time around, Sion had gone into a long tirade of insults, in fact, the first time around, he was much more angrier and at this point had tried to strangle Jarvan before the guillotine had suddenly been dropped on him. However this time, he simply said "I'll be back" and grinned.
The guillotine fell. Sion blinked.
When his eyes opened he was at home. A rather small wooden cabin on the outskirts of the nearby BlackGully Forest that surrounded Noxus. He was dead again, or rather undead. His quiet log cabin home, built from the very trees that had once surrounded the area he lived in. A lumberjack when not at war, Sion spent his spare time honing his skills on the unfortunate trees around him. But this, he remembered this day. Again it was another period of time that should not be happening again. He could deal with being executed all over again. But this.... this was the worst day of his life. Rain fell heavily as Sion grasped in his massive hands the flimsy piece of paper, lit by meager candlelight.
"Dear Sion Sontok, we of the Noxian High Command have decided that after many long decades of fighting for Noxus, you are unable to function at optimal levels to maintain your status as the Commander of the 1st Noxian Field Army. Your position shall be passed down to aspiring Darius Daral who has proven himself to be worthy in our eyes. This came as a hard decision and was factored by multiple factors, one of which being we do not want to risk losing you again, and another being that over the past few months you have shown a drastic drop in vigor and post-battle reports have proven disappointing as of recent. Therefore we are, rather regretably, honorably discharging you from Noxian military. For your valued service, we gift you with 500'000 Gold to spend as you please which can be collected at the bank as it has been deposited into your account. If you wish, you may stop by at the barracks to collect your equipment. Gifting it to you is the least we could do.
-Sincerely, Boram Darkwill"
His fist closed on the piece of paper, crumpling it in a mixture of anger and sorrow. All these decades of dedication. Of fighting and glory and bloodshed. Yet in the end he was cast aside because he was believed to be not strong enough, a relic of an older age, unable to adapt. Despite all these new powers he still was too weak to lead his men. Sion the Undying would fight no more. He had let down all who had fought with him. He kept his eyes focused on the piece of paper, so much so that he was rather startled when an apparition of a human being suddenly burst into existence in the fireplace.
Sorcery, another show of weakness. If one could not fight with muscle then why resort to handicaps to fight? "It is unfortunate really. All that hard work and you are discharged in the end because you could not keep up" it said. The figure was that of a heavily cloaked human.
"Shut up" threatened Sion as he tossed the letter into the fire and stood up., another hand grabbing Chopper which had been sitting at his side. "You do not know what it is like to have your entire life of glory and prowess be forgotten" he said. "I am in danger of being forgotten. To those who I once fought with I am a relic of an older age. All that hard work and all that recognition gone. GONE!" His grip tightened. "I only had one wish! Fight for Noxus! And what do I have to show for it?!" he yelled as he pointed to a single shiny medal on the wall in a frame. "This STUPID medal!" He brought his fist down onto the table, splintering it. "Tiny mentions in the history books, and these.... youngbloods! Katarina Du Couteau, Darius Daral, outshine me for tasks that are DWARFED for what I have done!". the apparition continued to listen to the giant's rant of suppressed anger.
"I did not brag about what I had done. I did not show off or create spectacles or mount heads on pikes or use... bomb-javelins or something! I did what I was told to and through this I got respect. But now....." his tone lowered as he sat back down in the chair. "Nobody cares anymore... All of my old comrades are dead. But I have done what many only daydream of. Who else can single handedly take on an entire regiment of Demacian soldiers with a chest wound and a broken jaw? Who else can say they were the ones who hunted down the leader of the Bandle City Scouts through the Plague Jungles? Who else can trek through the Freljord mountains through a Gelid Vortex to save a private who's leg had become dead from frostbite? Nobody, because they don't make them like they used to".
It was quiet for a long time. Gradually the cabin disappeared as Sion was left back in the dark room, standing face to face with the fiery apparition. "Why do you wish to join the League Sion?" it asked. Sion was silent at first, but then he spoke up. "Because this is the League of Legends. The High Command sent me here as the first to represent Noxus. Don't you see? This is my chance. My chance to be back in the spotlight" Sion said as he closed his eyes. "What I do here, will be remembered for all time. I will be a legend, and I will not be forgotten". He opened his eyes again.
The apparition smiled. "How does it feel exposing your mind?" it asked. Sion blinked multiple times, then narrowed his eyes, his mouth moving downwards into a fierce scowl. This stranger dared to permeate his private thoughts. The apparition's smile vanished and was quickly replaced by one of fear. A purple glow came from the undead warrior's eyes as a wave of terror radiated around him. Bringing Chopper to bear, he roared out "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!" before slamming it down on the figure. In a cloud of smoke it vanished and polished marble was shattered everywhere under the might of Chopper. In front, of him, a light glowed that led back outside.
What awaited for him? He didn't know. Would he simply be forgotten? No... he would not be forgotten. he would live on and be remembered. This was the League of Legends, and he was indeed a legend. These people with their fancy magicks and their hextechnology, they would feel the power of true, raw strength and decades of battle. A new era was dawning, and Sion would be there at the start of it all.
He walked into the light, and emerged as the first champion for the League of Legends.
(How did I do? Sion is hard to write because he doesn't really have a defined personality)