So I decided to do a Gragas one. Thought it might be fun to try and get into the mind of someone who just kind of doesn't care.
League Judgment – Gragas
The sign above the giant door says “Blah blah blah blah” because Gragas really doesn't care what it says. Could be something about finding the mind's eye. Or inner peace. He doesn't actually read it, but he acknowledges that there is a plaque above the door, and that there are words on it.
Gragas ambles forward, approaching the massive stone doors, then stops just in front of them. He moves his hands fluidly across the door surface as he mumbles to himself, as if he is looking for something. This continues for some time, perhaps a lot longer than it should, unless someone were to really enjoy the surface of the door. It's a good, heavy stone. Quality work, really. With the right kind of oil finish, it could be almost... exotic. Feels good on the fingers. Gragas applies pressure around the bronze handle, trying to open passage. The door jambs loudly, but does not budge.
Gragas suddenly shakes his head. “Oh,” he mutters. “Push. Not pull.”
The next step Gragas takes puts him in the oaky center of the Hasty Hammer, a Noxian tavern renowned for its brawls as much as its beer. Some brawls even Gragas was a part of. His head mere inches away from brushing the ceiling, he bounds forward toward the barkeep, who looks up from cleaning his glass, his eyes beaming as he spies the giant.
“Gragas! Hey, buddy, great to see ya!” The smile beams from ear to ear as the bartender pats the counter in front of him, inviting Gragas to take a seat. This gives the giant pause; sitting on any of these stools would break them. Not to mention this barkeep hates his guts, on account of the property damage.
“Buddy,” begins Gragas, “You know I can't sit there.”
“Because I'll break that stool.”
“What? That's ridiculous!” The barkeep waves it off. “Sit, sit! I insist.”
Gragas rolls his eyes, and begins to lower his weight on the stool. The legs bend and tear. The stool is broken. The barkeep's eyes go wide with surprise. “Oh my goodness, that's never happened before.”
Gragas looks nonplussed. “Yes it has. I've broken more than one stool in this establishment. Whether by sitting on it, or throwing it.”
“Nonsense! It doesn't matter, I've got plenty more stools!” exclaims the barkeep, his bright mood not diminished in the slighest. He bounds to the storeroom to get a spare stool. Gragas shrugs and scans the bar. Off in the corner, right under a drab yellow light, is an individual who Gragas swore he got into a scuffle with before. They make eye contact.
The man smiles and nods, then goes back into his cups. It begins to dawn on Gragas that no one paid him much mind when the entered the Hasty Hammer. Most days, people would flinch just on visual recognition of the giant. They fear and remember past exploits which left many a citizen out cold. It is its own miracle that Gragas hasn't been turned away from drinking, they believe. The reality is that Gragas is a master brewer, and supplies the “quality stuff” to establishments who will pay. This means that Gragas's coin is as good as the next man's. So reluctantly, the bars continue to serve Gragas. He tips.
Noxians don't tip well.
However, it seems today his reputation is only as good as the next man's. The barkeep has returned with another stool. “Ah, there we go. Gragas, why not have a seat?”
Gragas looks down. The barkeep seems just so small. “You can't be serious. I'll stand, thanks.” Gragas looks around, shaking his head. His eyes begin to cloud over as his mind raced. Why in blazes were they not afraid of him?
“I'll have a glass of whatever he's having,” a voice behind Gragas utters. He whirls around to find no one, as he is twice the height of anyone else in this bar. He looks down to see a bald-headed gentleman facing away from him.
“You referring to me, pal?” Asks Gragas.
“Are there any other giants in the room?” And then the man turns to him and reveals his face; a blank canvas.
“You have no face,” remarks Gragas. The faceless man pauses. “I figured you would be more shocked.”
“Not really,” Gragas replies, casually. “This entire bar is bonkers. You just might be most normal person here.”
“You know this is a vision, right?” the faceless man deadpans.
“A wha-?” Gragas pauses. “Not following you.” The faceless man shakes his head.
“You remember walking in the hallway?” Gragas nods in the affirmative. “The double doors?” Gragas nods again, and adds, “I don't get where you're going.”
The faceless man sighs, and begins explaining the process of summoning, and what it means for the bond between summoner and champion.
“So you're in my head?”
“In a sense. We need to see how you handle pressure, so we want to send the most uncomfortable imagery we can find.”
Gragas nods again. “That explains the stools and the short memories.”
“So...” The faceless man trails off. Gragas does not pick up the slack, and merely stands, waiting for the next word, smiling faintly and blinking repeatedly.
The faceless man simply shakes his head. “Enough of this. Let's just ask the questions.” He sighs. “Why do you want to join the League,” he monotones.
“Fighting!” Gragas means, palming a fist loudly. The faceless man nods and grunts. “And how does it feel, exposing your mind?”
“My what? I don't follow.”
“I'm in your head.”
“Oh, right, right.” Gragas blinks.
“How does it feel?” he asks again.
“Well,” Gragas stops to think about it, tapping his foot. “Not enough fighting.” Gragas stops suddenly, his face as white as a ghost. “Wait, if you're in my head, and there's no fighting, if I join the League... does that actually mean there's no fighting? Now look here, I was under the impression that there would be fighting. Lots of it. Some drink too, here and there. Drinking related to fighting, too. Really, all the pleasures of the world.” Gragas could go on and on, but the man holds up a hand.
“You know what? No, we're good, This will work. You'll be fine. Probably, I guess.”
And with that, the bar fades, replaced with Gragas's actual surroundings. Another set of doors open.
“Hell, I wanted a drink,” Gragas mutters as he walks toward them.