Champion and skin sale: The blinding snow

By Swain

 

  • Outside the swirling snow roars with the ferocity of the winter wind. I am Northern Front Swain and now, at present, I'm trapped inside this tent while the storm rages around me, unrepentant. Fortunately, I brought a pair of hextech binoculars at a Zaunite black market stall, along with some warm northern furs. 375 RP





  • Hyena Warwick strides across the tundra, tongue wagging and tail flopping, chasing a form that I cannot quite make out. He stops and sniffs the air, form unwavering and his long fangs bare; his eyes look like the daggers given to the Crimson Elite, stabbing into the blinding sheet of frozen snow. 487 RP





  • I see it now – Gothic Orianna runs from the fell beast, her dark mechanics blending with the shadows spread by the driving force of a winter gale. Such an odd creation, with so much untapped potential; I wonder if she might be able to be somewhat more malleable, if I suggested an alternate profession, to teach her hunter one last grim lesson. 260 RP





  • The hunted and the prey are not the only ones caught out by the frost: Galio is also far from home. His fearsome countenance hangs heavy, his wings wrapped around him to shield him from the cold. Ah, distinctly I remember last when I saw this grave guardian; 'twas in the bleakest hour, when darkness and grey funeral pallor cast long shadows across the floor. 440 RP





  • With a sudden explosive snap, Blitzcrank grabs at my tent, rending open the flimsy flap. He may be a great steam golem, but I hear his moaning over the storm; he seems alone and wandering, lost and long forlorn. 395 RP





  • As the howling begins to fade, and the roar of winter tolls one last knell, the scent behind the golem emerges as a lumbering ursine smell. It is both strategy and luck, of course, that I was not caught unaware, but I will exit quickly now, instead of facing Volibear. 487 RP






The sun finally trickles out, doling rays of warming glow, but I cannot stay behind to face such an enemy in those deep banks of snow. Likely we'll all be running, from April 16 to April 19; but you might do well to follow, if you know what 'tis I mean. And this white curtained sheet that coats the land, from shore to northern shore, shall be lifted nevermore.

 

Click here to comment


1 year ago