Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
Bem-vindo!


Localização
Bem-vindo ao Roleplay Of Legends. Esperamos que aprecie a sua visita!


No Roleplay of Legends podes entrar no mundo de League of Legends e recriar a história dos teus champions favoritos com a ajuda de outros jogadores da comunidade portuguesa! Desta maneira, pretendemos que os laços entre a comunidade se estreitem e as capacidades de escrita de cada um evolua.

Junte-se à nossa comunidade!

Se já é um membro, não se esqueça de fazer o log-in para ter acesso a todas as nossas funcionalidades.

Username:   Password:
Add Reply
Champions Novos; Sempre que um novo champion for adicionado ao LoL, este tópico serve para o apresentar.
Topic Started: Aug 19 2014, 11:59 PM (443 Views)
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
GNAR, the missing link

Posted Image

Posted Image




Quote:
 
The jungle does not forgive blindness. Every broken branch tells a story.
I've hunted every creature this jungle has to offer. I was certain there were no challenges left here, but now there is something new. Each track is the size of a tusklord; its claws like scimitars. It could rend a man in half. Finally, worthy prey.

As I stalk my prize through the jungle, I begin to see the damage this thing has wrought. I step into a misshapen circle of splintered trees. These giant wooden sentinels have stood over this land for countless ages, their iron-like hides untouched by the flimsy axes of anyone foolish enough to attempt to cut them down. This thing brushed them aside like they were twigs.

How can a creature with this level of strength disappear so easily? And yet, even though it has left this unmistakable trail of destruction, I have been unable to lay my eye upon it. How can it appear like a hurricane then fade into the jungle like the morning mist?

I thrill in anticipation of finally standing before this creature. It will make a tremendous trophy.

Passing through the clearing, I follow the sound of a stream to get my bearings once more. There I see a small shock of orange fur, crouching, waiting. I spy on it from a distance. A tiny fish splashes out of the stream and the creature scrambles for it, diving gleefully into the rushing water. To my joy, I realize it's a yordle. And a hunter, at that!

This is a good omen. The beast will be found. Nothing will escape me.

The yordle's large ears perk up and face towards me. He runs on all fours with a bone boomerang in hand, quickly stopping in front of me. He babbles.

I nod in appreciation at the young yordle and venture onwards. I traverse the difficult terrain with ease, trying to pick up any sign of my quarry. As I try to pick up his scent, a distraction. I'm startled by strange chittering. The yordle followed me. I cannot allow him to disrupt my hunt. I face him and point into the distance. He looks at me quizzically. I need to be more insistent, good omen or no.

I rear back and let out a roar, the wind whipping the yordle's fur and the ground rumbling beneath us. After a few short seconds, he turns his head and, with what I think could be a smile, he holds up his small boomerang. There can be no further delay. I snatch the weapon out of his hand and expertly throw it into a tree, impaling it high amongst the branches. He turns and scrambles for it, jumping frantically.

I barely get ten paces when a roar shakes me to my very spine. The deafening crack of stone and wood echoes all around. Ahead, a giant tree crashes across my path. The bone weapon of the yordle juts out from its trunk.

An unearthly growl rises behind me.

I've made a terrible mistake.
― Rengar


Disponibilidade no RoL: Em Leilão
Edited by Necis, Feb 5 2016, 11:11 PM.
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
AZIR, the Emperor of the Sands

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
An oft-repeated legend stirs in the desert of Shurima. The swirling sands carry rumors of the ancient emperor Azir, somehow returned.

Once a mortal man blinded by his own hubris, Azir has recently returned as an Ascended being with unmatched dominion over the burning sands. He seeks to restore Shurima to its former glory, but some dispute his right to rule them. Azir's power, however, is undeniable.

Fall of the Empire
In ancient Shurima, young emperor Azir was persuaded by Xerath, his magus, to attempt the fabled Ascension ritual – despite ancient warnings to do so only in times of direst threat.

Azir’s hubris proved disastrous. As the Shurima's Legacy Sun Disc focused the dawn rays into a transformative beam, Xerath betrayed Azir, shoving his emperor aside and stealing its power for himself.

In an instant, Azir was obliterated – and Xerath remade as a spectral being of pure, malevolent energy – as the city around them was swallowed whole by the desert.

Nasus and Renekton, Ascended heroes of Shuriman legend, sensed in an instant that something had gone terribly wrong and rushed to the Sun Disc. They hurled Xerath into a chained sarcophagus – but the magus shattered it into shards.

Renekton dragged Xerath into the Tomb of the Emperors and shouted to Nasus to seal the door. With a heavy heart, Nasus entombed his brother with a madman in the buried ruins for all eternity. Or so he believed…

Rise Of The Ascended
Narrated by Nasus,
"As Sivir lies betrayed and bleeding, something incredible occurs. For though she does not know it, Sivir is the last in the bloodline of Azir, Shurima’s lost emperor. And as her blood soaks into the ancient sands, a deep magic sparks to life. Resurrection!'

First Azir’s mind, then his body. Snatched back from oblivion to be reborn. Then he sees Sivir, wonders at her face, he sees himself in this daughter of Shurima. In that moment, he has no thought of empires or rituals. He only knows: she needs his help.

He must take her to the Oasis of the Dawn - the Mother of Life. He smells the waters - smells of life. He prays he is in time. He does not dream that he, Shurima’s greatest emperor, can at long last earn his Ascension and bring back his broken city. He dares not dream that if he can save her...Azir can save them all."


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Kalista, The Spear of Vengeance

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
The sword-wife stood amid the burnt out ruin of her home. Everything and everyone that mattered to her was gone, and she was filled with fathomless grief... and hate. Hate was now all that compelled her. She saw again the smile on his face as he gave the order. He was meant to be their protector, but he’d spat upon his vows. Hers was not the only family shattered by the oath-breaker.

The desire to go after him was strong. She wanted nothing more than to plant her sword in his chest and watch the life drain from his eyes... but she knew she would never be able to get close enough to him. He was guarded day and night, and she was but one warrior. She would never be able to fight her way through his battalion alone. Such a death would serve no purpose. She took a shuddering breath, knowing there was no coming back.

A crude effigy of a man, formed of sticks and twine, lay upon a fire-blackened dresser. Its body was wrapped in a scrap of cloth torn from the cloak of the betrayer. She'd pried it from her husband's dead grasp. Alongside it was a hammer and three rusted nails. She gathered everything up and moved to the threshold. The door itself was gone, smashed to splinters in the attack. Beyond, lit by moonlight, lay the empty, darkened fields. Reaching up, the sword-wife pressed the stick-effigy to the hardwood lintel.

"I invoke thee, Lady of Vengeance," she said, her voice low, trembling with the depth of her fury. "From beyond the veil, hear my plea. Come forth. Let justice be done."

She readied her hammer and the first of the nails.

"I name my betrayer once," she said, and spoke his name aloud. As she did so, she placed the tip of the first nail to the chest of the stick-figure. With a single strike, she hammered it in deep, pinning it to the hardwood door frame.

The sword-wife shivered. The room had become markedly colder. Or had she imagined it?

"I name him twice," she said, and she did so, hammering the second nail alongside the first.

Her gaze dropped, and she jolted in shock. A dark figure stood out in the moonlit field, a hundred yards in the distance. It was utterly motionless. Breathing quicker, the sword-wife returned her attention to the unfinished task.

"I name him thrice," she said, speaking again the name of the murderer of her husband and children, before hammering home the final nail.

An ancient spirit of vengeance stood before her, filling the doorway, and the sword-wife staggered back, gasping involuntarily. The otherworldly being was clad in archaic armor, her flesh translucent and glowing with spectral un-light. Black Mist coiled around her like a living shroud. With a squeal of tortured metal, the spectral figure drew forth the blackened spear protruding from her breastplate — the ancient weapon that had ended her life. She threw it to the ground before the sword-wife. No words were spoken; there was no need. The sword-wife knew what was being offered to her — vengeance — and knew its terrible cost: her soul. The spirit watched on, her face impassive and her eyes burning with an unrelenting cold fury, as the sword-wife picked up the treacherous weapon.

"I pledge myself to vengeance," said the sword-wife, her voice quivering. She reversed the spear, aiming the tip inward, towards her heart. "I pledge it with my blood. I pledge it with my soul."

She paused. Her husband would have pleaded for her to turn away from this path. He would have begged her not to condemn her soul with this course of action. A moment of doubt gnawed at her. The undying specter watched on. The sword-wife's eyes narrowed as she thought of her husband lying dead, cut down by swords and axes. She thought again of her children, sprawled upon the ground, and her resolve hardened like a cold stone in her heart. Her grip tightened upon the spear.

"Help me," she implored, her decision made. "Please, help me kill him."

She rammed the spear into her chest, driving it in deep. The sword-wife's eyes widened and she dropped to her knees. She tried to speak, but only blood bubbled from her lips. The ghostly apparition watched her die, her expression impassive. As the last of the lifeblood ran from her body, the shade of the sword-wife climbed to her feet. She looked down at her insubstantial hands in wonder, then at her own corpse lying dead-eyed in a growing pool of blood upon the floor. The shade’s expression hardened, and a ghostly sword appeared in her hand.

An ethereal tether, little more than a wisp of light, linked the newly formed shade to the avenging spirit she had summoned. Through their bond, the sword-wife saw her differently, glimpsing the noble warrior she had been in life: tall and proud, her armor gleaming. Her posture was confident, yet without arrogance; a born leader, a born soldier. This was a commander that the sword-wife would have willingly bled for. Behind the spirit's anger, she sensed her empathy — recognition of their shared pain of betrayal.

"Your cause is our cause," said Kalista, the Spear of Vengeance. Her voice was grave cold. "We walk the path of vengeance as one, now."

The sword-wife nodded. With that, the avenging spirit and the shade of the sword-wife stepped into the darkness and were gone."


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Rek'Sai – The Void Burrower

Posted Image

Posted Image

Quote:
 
My Dearest Merina,
Arriving in Bel’zhun at last! Though it pains me to leave our beloved country, I am certain Shurima will make my fortune. Uncle Velius left word that, in addition to cartography, I’m to draw "anything and everything of value or interest, especially wildlife." For this meager service, I’m to be paid an additional three gold securi a day! You need only avoid your mother’s matchmaking for a little while longer. I will soon be able to return to you as a worthy suitor. There are no obstacles that could divert or slow me from that pursuit.
I've enclosed a picture of the view from my window. I couldn’t help but laugh when our innkeeper called his home "a luxurious city!" Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.

Though his payments arrive regularly, I still have yet to catch up with Uncle. It is disconcerting that all I remember of him was his unrelenting mantra that "the lifeblood of the empire is our bureaucracy."
I find myself employed as part of our nation’s endless clerical staff; ironically, not within its borders, but operating in these uncivilized lands.
My cartographic mission received an unexpected boon after I purchased an ancient stone map. The unsavory dealer was obviously a tomb raider or thief (like most Shurimans), but the item was too precious to pass by.

Today, the caravan hired teams of Elujrav'i', or "bell riders."
These old men and boys will scout ahead to warn us of any approaching threats. The caravan master also purchased a few dozen Saih'kharash'i, or "sand walkers." These peasants — poor, even by this country’s miserable standards — will trot beside the caravan for their meals. If we find ourselves pursued, we will quickly outpace these unfortunates, leaving them behind as fodder.
In the southern desert, a great deal of suffering is endured to avoid the Xer'Sai and the other outerbeasts. That my unseen benefactor continues to lead me deeper into this strange and primitive land is unsettling.

A dead Xer'Sai.
The average-sized specimen was killed a few days ago after annihilating a herd of Eka’Sul goats. Its repulsive flesh oozes and bubbles, while decomposing at an abnormally rapid rate. Not surprisingly, the creatures are inedible. Xer’sai apparently burst from their small burrows and savage anything nearby. That this unimpressive beast should inspire such terror in the caravan's guards speaks to their ignorance and weakness.

With fifty securi, we purchased a Ralsiji. The belligerent giant will make for an impressive display in the arena, but it lacks the ferocity of the Xer'Sai. Uncle Velius sent word the team is to concentrate on searching for live Xer'Sai. He has promised me three hundred securi for each good-sized specimen we procure! At that price, I could return home in a month with all of the fortune needed to proceed with our nuptials! I pray your cousin has stopped pestering you to meet that idiot, Genden Belgaunt.

We have entered the "Sai," the rolling plains of sand and sharp stones that define the harsh, southern desert. This is where I will finally be able to catch these mysterious creatures Uncle has fixated on. Within a fortnight, I hope to escape this hateful country's grinding poverty and the unending silence that defines this land. There is no unnecessary noise permitted in the southland. No laughter. No idle conversation. Natives wait silently by their caravans, listening for the bells that warn of raiders or beasts. How I long to talk openly and to hear your sweet voice again.

A Xer'Sai the size of your pet hound attacked us yesterday.
Thankfully, our spotters saw it, and our spearmen were able to deploy in time. After it took down one of our guards, his fellows were rightfully enraged, and killed it. Though I could have sold the beast for two hundred securi, I cannot, and will not, blame my guards for taking their vengeance. The deceased wasn’t a man in our noble arenas, chasing fortune and fame; he was butchered by a vile thing without any hope for glory or wealth.
So much of Shurima seems a hateful place, determined to punish any who visit it and grind its inhabitants into submission. I am ashamed to think I once derided the people who live here.

For weeks, I’ve been hearing stories about Rek'Sai — an infamous Xer'Sai of unmatched size, ferocity, and speed.
"Perfect for the arena!" I laughed, grimly mocking Uncle's repeated missives. Ridiculing my benefactor to our Shurima trackers and guards must seem like madness to you, but I find myself feeling more connected to them than to our Noxian traditions. The desert has changed me. It is the absence of everything, and as such, it brings that which is important into sharp relief. Why should a man care for the amusements of the arena? What cherished memory is made there? It is the subtle curve of your cheek and the hint of a smile at your mouth’s edge that keeps the dread of this place at bay. I loathe the thought of Genden Belgaunt courting you and that your family considers him a worthy suitor.

Despite its bleakness, this empty outpost still possessed the only drinking water for leagues, and even spending a few hours in the shade of its ruins was a sweet relief from the unrelenting sun. Supposedly, Rek'Sai annihilated it decades ago. A few weeks past, I would have shrugged this off as yet another ignorant superstition of the desert folk. But I’ve seen too much death. I have walked past the bones of thousands. What sort of monster is capable of inflicting such horror?
Even with the supposed expertise of our Noxian trappers, I find myself doubting we have the means to capture this beast.

A burrow of Rek'Sai.
What possessed me to follow Uncle's Noxian trappers there? And on the threshold of this beast's realm, with the evidence right before us, why didn't we turn back? It was as if we were standing on the edge of a great cliff and were seized by some primal instinct to lean against that emptiness until we plummeted to our deaths.
Thankfully, my Shuriman friends convinced me to turn back before it was too late. I wish I had heeded their advice to look away from the events that followed.
Truly, I cannot even explain what I saw. No violence in the arena could begin to describe this creature's unspeakable horror. What I witnessed, within the blink of an eye, returns to me endlessly. I do not sleep for fear of seeing it again, and its memory seems always on the edge of my vision. The outerbeasts are a plague, which destroyed these lands, but Rek'SaiSquare.png Rek'Sai is death incarnate.
I hope I never see this unforgiving desert again, and yet, I know now I could never return to Noxus. I do not see our nation as strong. We are as arrogant and foolish as children.
I am seeking a position near the Demacian border or in the southern jungles – anywhere that takes me far from the devastation this creature has wrought. Would it be possible for you to live outside of our capital? Sadly, I know your answer. I must accept that long ago you moved on from my failed courtship, while I was trapped in a limbo of my own design.
I have enclosed the stone artifact I acquired and based my maps on. It is a wedding gift. I truly hope you will find happiness with Genden Belgaunt, but I pray you will not end our correspondence.
And in hope and love, I will always wait for your letters at the edge of our empire's domain.

Yours,
Aelon


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Bard, The Wandering Caretaker

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
The Battle of Bard Mountain
Noxian troops tried to capture the Bard Mountains and obtain a Celestial artifact bestowed to the Ionians of the Floating villages. During the battle, the village sage was tasked to take the artifact to one of the Celestial shrine on the top of one of the villages peaks. The Noxians mortally wounded him with arrows before he could reach the shrine. However, as his last act of defiance, he used the artifact to strike his would-be-killer, obliterating him and slicing a nearby mountain in half (seemingly faltering in his duties). This misuse of the eggs power had drawn the attention of a BardSquare.png Celestial, who promptly intervened in the event. He retrieved the artifact and took it away from the mortal plane before the Noxians and Ionians could use its power for war.

"Stories are not just history. They can be so much more. They nourish your mind and, if told well, can even fill your belly. Some tales are warnings, reaching across time. Others uplift our souls from the yoke of everyday burdens. We laugh at fools, cheer heroes, and curse villains until the fire burns down to embers.
Our first rule: The facts may be important, but they aren’t as vital as the telling, of speaking to who we are and why we live. Details might change and fade, but truth lives with us for all time.
Stories are everywhere. We build them from what we see. Even the sky above whispers to us."
― Ionian storyteller

"Look toward the Frozen Watcher.
Summer’s grip loosens; winter’s herald dominates the night skies.
A horde of these strange creatures once enslaved the tribes of the Freljord. They smothered Valoran under glaciers and cast a shadow upon all of Runeterra.
The Frozen Watcher signals the end of the harvest. It reminds us we must all be prepared to endure winter’s lash."
― Ionian storyteller

"A cloud of smoldering destruction hangs in the night sky. This is the Fall of Shurima.
The Ancients groped blindly in the darkness, threatening to unravel the very fabric of creation in their hubris. Noble Shurimans who Ascended found a loose thread in the universe’s tapestry, and pulled upon it. The vulgarity of their ambition consumed thousands of innocent lives and ended a golden age.
Such was the fate of mighty Shurima and of men who would become gods."
― Ionian storyteller

"The powers that govern life and death are not to be trifled with. The Shattered Crown is a king’s reward for defying the shadows embrace. I believe we are meant to ponder mortality through poetry and verse, not enslave it to our will."
― Ionian storyteller

"There was a time, not long ago, when this constellation was absent from the night sky. Some call it the Mountain Shrines or the Great Caretaker. Those of us from the floating villages know of an older name, a name that speaks of a universal truth. The name we took for our kind: BardSquare.png Bard"
― Ionian storyteller


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Ekko, The Boy Who Shattered Time

Posted Image

Posted Image

Quote:
 
"A friend in need or a murderous deed. We're defined by the paths we take. The Bridge Route. Nearly broke both my legs but I made it in four minutes, twenty eight seconds. Best speed yet. But it's not enough, I'm still too late. Back to Square One: The moment I realized something was wrong and turned on my Z-Drive Resonance.png Z-Drive. All he wanted was some attention. I sent him out to get us some food. I wasn't even hungry. I won't let him become another face on the wall. One mistake, means I start over. From the very beginning...and over...and over again. Until I get it right. Rooftop Route. Three minutes and forty-one seconds. The fastest I can possibly go."

"Ekko? I feel so tired, Ekko. I just want to go to sleep."
― Ajuna
"In less than one minute, Ajuna will be dead. And there's nothing I can do to save him."
"I'll get you some help, promise. Just tell me who did this..."
― Ekko
"Don't know. Only heard him...whistling"
― Ajuna
"Ajuna won't be the only person to die in Zaun tonight..."
"HEY! He's dying right now. Alone. Why?"
― Ekko
"He got what was coming to him, trying to lift this off me. I don't know what you saw, but..."
― Murderer
"Whaa?"
― Ekko
"Is that thing going to explode?"
― Murderer
"I'll kill that Piltie piece of trash!

Here's the next two minutes, fifty-three seconds...There are no more changes. No more hope. No more rewinds...This is all the time I have left."

"Ekko? I feel so tired, Ekko. I just want to go to sleep."
― Ajuna
"It's okay. Go to sleep. When you wake up. Everything will be okay..."
― Ekko
"Some things just can't be fixed. There are no tools, no spare parts, these things just need time. And even then, they're never the same."


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Edited by SilverBallerina, Jun 8 2015, 06:58 PM.
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
Necis
Member Avatar
Member
 *  *  *
Tahm Kench, The River King

Posted Image

Posted Image

Quote:
 
Into a sunken town, the Handsome Gambler ran, for he owed gold and blood, and yet had none to spare. Desperate and forlorn, he was about to change his path and walk away, when he heard a song that called on him, to chance his luck again.

Now the singer was a creature, with the biggest mouth the Gambler had ever seen. "Excuse my song," the monstrous siren said. "The tune's purpose was your attention. For I knew you had troubles and I can offer absolutions."

"Can you carry me from this bind?" the youth asked.

"Boy, the world's one river, and I'm its king. Ain't no place I ain't been. Ain't no place I can't go again... And the price is a minuscule thing. See, I got hungers that ain't easily fed. But those finest tables? They ain't never got a seat for me. So I need men, like yourself, and let me in."

Now the Gambler's only hunger was dice and cards. So this bargain? It seemed too easy a price. "If you're offering a ticket," the youth finally said, "that's a deal I will take." And before another word was spoke, the monster snapped him up and fled.

To a faraway land the Gambler was conveyed. At a palace of chance, he was left.

Years passed. And love the Gambler found. His bride? a princess. And the wedding? None would miss.

Now when that hungry beast finally did arise: the family screamed and fought. And although the Gambler tried to cast him out... it ate the gifts, and house, and gold! For its hunger? Nothing satisfied.

"Please, not now, not this time!" the bride did cry.

The beast's response? To her it purred, "This hunger's a burden, but it's the last time, I swear. So please, forgive."

Now the creature's lies, so melodic and sincere, charmed that bride. And thus she failed to recognize when that demon's jaw unhinged. She screamed, just once. As I snapped her bones and crushed her limbs! Now that meal? It left me satisfied.

So cry if you want, boy, 'cause you had a chance to walk away. Instead you're the fool, the fool who let me in.


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Edited by Necis, Jul 19 2015, 09:57 PM.
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Kindred, The Eternal Hunters

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
“Tell me again, little Lamb, which things are ours to take?” “All things, dear Wolf.”
Separate, but never parted, Kindred represents the twin essences of death. Lamb’s bow offers a swift release from the mortal realm for those who accept their fate. Wolf hunts down those who run from their end, delivering violent finality within his crushing jaws. Though interpretations of Kindred’s nature vary across Runeterra, every mortal must choose the true face of their death.
Kindred is the white embrace of nothingness and the gnashing of teeth in the dark. Shepherd and the butcher, poet and the primitive, they are one and both. When caught on the edge of life, louder than any trumpeting horn, it is the hammering pulse at one’s throat that calls Kindred to their hunt. Stand and greet Lamb’s silvered bow and her arrows will lay you down swiftly. If you refuse her, Wolf will join you for his merry hunt, where every chase runs to its brutal end.
For as long as its people have known death, Kindred has stalked Valoran. When the final moment comes, it is said a true Demacian will turn to Lamb, taking the arrow, while through the shadowed streets of Noxus, Wolf leads the hunt. In the snows of the Freljord, before going off to fight, some warbands “kiss the Wolf,” vowing to honor his chase with the blood of their enemies. After each Harrowing, the town of Bilgewater gathers to celebrate its survivors and honor those granted a true death by Lamb and Wolf.
Denying Kindred is to deny the natural order of things. There are but a wretched few who have eluded these hunters. This perverse escape is no sanctuary, for it only holds a waking nightmare. Kindred waits for those locked in the undeath of the Shadow Isles, for they know all will eventually fall to Lamb’s bow or Wolf’s teeth.
The earliest dated appearance of the eternal hunters is from a pair of ancient masks, carved by unknown hands into the gravesites of people long-forgotten. But to this day, Lamb and Wolf remain together, and they are always Kindred.

Forest for the Trees
The battle spilled over like a feast before them. Such delicious life—so many to end, so many to hunt! Wolf paced in the snow while Lamb danced lithely from sword edge to spear tip, the red-blooded butchery never staining her pale coat.
“There is courage and pain here, Wolf. Many will gladly meet their end.” She drew up her bow and let loose an arc of swift finality.
The last breath of a soldier came with a ragged consent as his shield gave way to a heavy axe. Stuck in his heart was a single white arrow, shimmering with ethereal brilliance.
“Courage bores me,” the great black wolf grumbled as he tracked through the snow. “I am hungry and eager to chase.”
“Patience,” she murmured in his shaggy ear. As soon as the words left her, Wolf’s shoulders tensed and his body dropped low to the ground.
“I smell fear,” he said, trembling with excitement.
Across the muddied field of snow, a squire—too young for battle, but with blade in hand, nonetheless—saw that Kindred had marked all in the valley.
“I want the tender-thing. Does it see us, Lamb?”
“Yes, but it must choose. Feed the Wolf, or embrace me.”
The battle turned its steel toward the squire. He now stared at the roiling tide of bravery and desperation coming for him. This would be his last dawn. In that instant, the boy made his choice. He would not go willingly. Until his last breath, he would run.
Wolf snapped in the air and rolled his face in the snow like a new pup.
“Yes, dear Wolf.” Lamb’s voice echoed like a string of pearly bells. “Begin your hunt.”
With that, Wolf bounded across the field after the youth, a howl thundering through the valley. His shadowed body swept over the remains of the newly dead and their useless, shattered weapons.
The squire turned and ran for the woods until thick black trunks passed in a blur. He pressed on, the frozen air burning his lungs. He looked once more for his hunter, but could see nothing but the darkening trees. The shadows closed tightly around him and he suddenly realized there was no escape. It was the black body of Wolf that was everywhere at once. The chase was at its end. Wolf buried his sharp teeth in the squire’s neck, tearing out ribbons of vibrant life.
Wolf reveled in the boy’s scream and crunching bones. Lamb, who had trailed behind, laughed to see such sport. Wolf turned and asked, in a voice more growl than speech, “Is this music, Lamb?”
“It is to you,” she answered.
“Again,” Wolf licked the last drop of the youth’s life from his canine jaws. “I want to chase again, little Lamb.”
“There are always more,” she whispered. “Until the day there is only Kindred.”
“And then will you run from me?”
Lamb turned back to the battle. “I would never run from you, dear Wolf.”


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
Necis
Member Avatar
Member
 *  *  *
Illaoi, the Kraken Priestess

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
"I'm not big on sermons. Broken bones teach better lessons."

Illaoi's powerful physique is dwarfed only by her indomitable faith. As the prophet of the Great Kraken, she uses a huge, golden idol to rip her foes' spirits from their bodies and shatter their perception of reality. All who challenge the "Truth Bearer of Nagakabouros" soon discover Illaoi never battles alone - the god of the Serpent Isles fights by her side.

All who encounter Illaoi are struck by her presence. An intense woman, the priestess is fully committed to the experience of living. She takes what she wants, destroys what she hates, and revels in everything she loves.

However, to truly know Illaoi you must understand the religion she has devoted her life to. Nagakabouros, the deity of her faith, is usually depicted as an enormous serpent head with tentacles spiraling around it in endless motion, with no beginning and no end. Also called The Mother Serpent, The Great Kraken, or even The Bearded Lady, Nagakabouros is the Serpent Isles’ god of life, ocean storms, and motion. (The literal translation of its name is “the unending monster that drives the sea and sky.”) Central to the religion’s theology are three tenets: every spirit was born to serve the universe; desire was built into every living being by the universe; the universe only moves toward its destiny when living creatures chase their desires.

Lesser priestesses are tasked with maintaining temples, calling holy serpents, and teaching people the ways of Nagakabouros. As the religion’s Truth Bearer, Illaoi’s role is to serve the god directly by unblocking the flow of the universe. To this end, she has two sacred responsibilities.

The first duty of a Truth Bearer is to be the spearhead in the war against undeath. Having fallen outside of the normal flow of the universe, the undead are considered an abomination against Nagakabouros. While it is the responsibility of every priestess of the Kraken to protect the indigenous population from the Harrowing, a Truth Bearer directly engages its most powerful spirits and drives the Black Mist back.

Second, Illaoi is tasked with seeking out individuals of great potential and challenging them with the Test of Nagakabouros. This task is the burden Illaoi’s title reflects. With her massive, holy relic, The Eye of God, the Truth Bearer strips the subject’s spirit from their body then forces them to stand against her to prove their worth. She does this knowing those who fail will be completely annihilated, for the great Kraken has no tolerance for cowardice, doubt, or restraint. But destruction is never the goal. Survivors of the ordeal are forever changed and often find the will to pursue their true destiny.

Though Illaoi is the most powerful and respected Truth Bearer in a hundred generations, it is where she has broken the traditions of her faith that speaks the most about her. Having completed her training as a Truth Bearer, and at the height of her power, Illaoi left the golden temples of Buhru for the squalor of nearby Bilgewater.

The pirate city is the only place foreigners are permitted on the Serpent Isles, viewed as a fetid gutter by Illaoi’s people. Previous Truth Bearers ignored the city and viewed the arriving foreigners as little better than untouchables. Illaoi broke with tradition when she chose to protect residents of Bilgewater from the Harrowing, or even more controversially when she decided that some of its residents had souls worthy of the great test. Despite this, only a handful of temples have been opened in the city, and very few paylangi (islander slang for residents of mainlander descent) have ever been permitted inside.

Regardless, it is Illaoi who has brought the widespread awareness of the Mother Serpent to Bilgewater, and it is her indomitable spirit that has brought her religion into favor there.

Rumors persist that Bilgewater’s most bloodthirsty and infamous pirate had his heart broken by the towering priestess. To anyone who has ever met her, this is no surprise. Illaoi’s rough manner belies subtle intelligence, strength, and a magnetic confidence.

Many seek Illaoi’s favor and welcome her to Bilgewater... yet everyone fears being tested by the Kraken’s Prophet.

“There can be no rest. We are the motion.”

—From The Twenty Wisdoms of Nagakabouros

The Burden
“Truth Bearer, this is why we must retreat to Buhru. We cannot save the paylangi,” the Hierophant said. The heavy-set woman grinned, obviously pleased by the prospect of leaving Bilgewater.

“You’ve mentioned that before,” Illaoi said, walking around the stone table in the center of the room. She rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles to fight off a yawn.

Beside the Hierophant, an elderly serpent caller stood. He wore a vestment made from ropes. Each indigo-dyed cord had been woven to curl; their varying thicknesses and faded kraken ink gave him the illusion of being draped in rough-hewn tentacles. His face was completely covered by a black tattoo depicting the endless teeth of a leviathan’s maw. Monks and serpent callers were always trying to look scary. It was an annoying habit of most men.

“The greatest beasts won’t approach Bilgewater,” the serpent caller said with a wheeze. “They stay out in the deep water, away from the stench of the Slaughter Docks. At best, a few half-starved younglings will heed our summons.”

Only the greatest children of Nagakabouros were strong enough to consume the mists and defend the city from the Harrowing. The rest of the Serpent Isles didn’t have this problem.

It was yet another reminder of the ignorance of Bilgewater’s population. The mainlanders and their descendants didn’t give time for fresh water to flow through and clean their docks. Instead, the paylangi settled permanent anchorages around every shore in the bay. It was so foolish. Many of the priesthood asserted it was proof the paylangi actually wanted to be consumed by the Black Mists.

“Crap,” Illaoi said. If she was going to stay, she would have to find a way to defend the city without serpents. She picked at the food from one of the offering bowls around her, before selecting a mango. She needed a plan, and these two fools were useless.

A loud crack interrupted her musing. A heavy, wooden door had slammed open downstairs.

Gangplank’s voice howled, the words were unintelligible, echoing around the stone walls.

“We pulled him from the water, as you commanded,” the Hierophant smiled, adjusting the jade collar of her office. “Perhaps it would have been better to let his energy return to Nagakabouros?”

“You do not judge souls.”

“Of course Truth Bearer, it is for Nagakabouros to judge,” he said, implying that Illaoi’s opinion was biased.

Illaoi walked between the two clerics, dwarfing the pair of them. Even for an islander, the Truth Bearer was tall. It had always been so. She was taller even than the largest Northman. As a girl, she had been self-conscious about it, always feeling like she was stumbling into people, but she had learned. When I move, they should know enough to get out of my way.

She lifted the Eye of God from its stand. The golden idol was larger than a wine barrel and many times the weight. Her fingers tingled against its cold metal. It had been placed next to the giant roaring fire, which illuminated the room, but the Eye of God stayed forever cool and damp to the touch. Illaoi deftly shouldered its massive weight. In a dozen years, the Truth Bearer had never been more than two strides from it.

“Hierophant, I remember my duties,” Illaoi said as she headed down the stairs. “We will not be retreating to Buhru. I will stop the Harrowing here.” The high priestess had done little but complain since arriving from Buhru, but there was some truth in her words.

When Gangplank’s ship had exploded, Illaoi’s heart had jumped. It had been many years since they had laid together, many years since she had ended the relationship... but some feelings still lingered. She had loved him once… stupid, old bastard.

Surrounded by tall walls of interlocking stones, the courtyard to the temple was shaped like the fanged mouth of a leviathan. The entrance looked over the blue waters of the bay far below. Illaoi stomped down the stairway toward the front gate. She assumed she would have to smack Gangplank in the mouth; he was prone to arrogance and rum. But still, it would be nice to see him.

She was unprepared for the snarling creature in her temple’s entrance. She knew he had been injured, but not like this. He was limping badly and bent over from shattered ribs. He cradled what was left of his arm.

He swung a pistol around the room with his other arm, in a half-mad attempt to force the monks and priestesses to back away from him; oblivious to the fact that these were the very people who had pulled his drowned body from the bay only a few hours ago. Worse, his pistol was clearly empty and completely useless.

“Where is Illaoi?” he bellowed.

“I’m here, Gangplank,” she answered. “You look like crap.”

He fell to his knees.

“It was Miss Fortune. Had to be. Working with those two alley whores. They sank it.”

“I do not care about your warship,” she said.

“You were always telling me to move on, to head back out to sea. I needed a boat.”

“You need only a canoe for the sea.”

“This is my town!” he screamed.

The monks and priestesses surrounding Gangplank tensed at this outburst. That Gangplank was foolish enough to make such a claim while standing in a structure thousands of years older than his city, was dangerous in itself. But a paylangi shouting at the thrice-blessed Truth Bearer in her own temple? Any other man would’ve been dumped into the sea with broken knees.

“It’s my town!” he roared again. Spittle flew from his mouth in rage.

“So what are you gonna do about it?” Illaoi said.

“I, I need Okao and the other chiefs’ support. They’ll listen to you... if you ask them. If you ask them, they’ll help me.” He lowered his head in front of her.

“What are you going to do about it?” Illaoi said, raising her voice this time.

“What can I do?” he said hopelessly. “She took my ship, she took my men, she took my arm. Anything I had left… I used to get here.”

“Leave us,” Illaoi told the other priests as she walked toward the gate. She looked down on Gangplank. It had been ten years since she’d last seen him; drink and worry had taken his dashing looks.

“There is nothing for me but this town, and without your help…” his voice trailed off when he met her gaze. Illaoi kept her eyes as hard and unforgiving as the Kraken. She gave Gangplank nothing. The priestess of Nagakabouros could show no pity or sympathy, even if it tore at her chest. In despair, the old captain’s eyes darted away from hers.

“I could do that,” Illaoi said, “and with a word, the tribes and Okao’s gang would join you. But why should I?”

“Help me, damn it! You owe me,” he snapped like a child.

“I owe you?” Illaoi rolled the words in her mouth.

“I keep up the rituals. I offer the sacrifices,” Gangplank snarled.

“But clearly you did not learn the lesson. Rituals? Sacrifices? You speak of things for weak men and their weak gods. My god demands action,” Illaoi said.

“I suffered for this town! Bled for it. It is mine by right!”

Illaoi knew what she had to do. She knew it before Gangplank had spoken. She had known years before his ship had sunk.

Gangplank had strayed. For too long, he had festered in the hatred and self-pity his father had beaten into him. Illaoi had ignored her duty. She had ignored it because she had loved him, once, and because she had led him down this path when she left him. He had been content as a killer, a corsair, a true pirate, and never interested in his father’s title of Reaver King.

He had only set anchor in his bloody quest to become the lord of Bilgewater after they had parted ways.

Illaoi felt a dampness in her eyes. His time had passed. He had been unable to move forward. To advance. To evolve. And now? Now he would not survive the Test of Nagakabouros. But he needed to be tested. He was here to be tested.

Illaoi looked at the old pirate before her. Could I send him away? Trust that he still has some sliver of strength or ambition that might see him through? If I send him away, he might live, at least…

That was not the way of Nagakabouros. That was not the role of a Truth Bearer. This was not the place for doubts or second-guessing. If she trusted her god, she must trust her instincts. If she felt he had to be tested, then it was her god’s will. And what fool would choose a man over a god?

Gripping the Eye of God’s handle tightly, Illaoi lowered the heavy gold icon from her shoulder. A familiar lightness replaced it, yet somehow she could still feel its weight there.

“Please,” Gangplank begged. “Show me some kindness, at least.”

“I will show you the truth,” Illaoi said, steeling her will.

She stomp-kicked Gangplank, her heel smashing into his nose with a crunch. He flew backward like a drunkard, blood pouring down his lip. He rolled over and looked up at her with furious eyes.

“BEHOLD!” Illaoi intoned.

She reached out with her mind and called forth the energy of the Mother Serpent as she swung the giant idol forward. A glowing mist vomited from the icon’s mouth and swirls of blue-green energy formed around the Mother Serpent’s face, solidifying into ghostly tentacles. Touched by gold, these tendrils were as beautiful as the sunrise over water, and as horrifying as the darkest undersea abomination. More tentacles grew from the icon, replicating around the room as if born from some unknowable mathematics. Exponentially they grew larger, and somehow each one’s growth seemed to hold all the promise and horror of the world.

“No!” Gangplank screamed. But the whirlwind ignored his cries as the storm of tentacles took him.

“Face Nagakabouros!” she yelled. “Prove yourself!” The tentacles grasped at Gangplank, then dived into his chest. He shuddered as ghostly images of his past lives shook around him.

He screamed as his soul was ripped from his body. His doppelganger stood unmoving before Illaoi. The spirit of Gangplank smoldered an almost blinding blue, its body crackling and flickering through his previous lives.

The mass of tentacles attacked the wounded captain. Gangplank rolled and stumbled to his feet, dodging what he could. But for each one that missed, more and more appeared. Reality twisted and churned around him. The swarm of tentacles crashed against him, pushing him down, pulling him further and further from his soul—toward oblivion.

Illaoi wanted to look away. More than anything, she wanted to turn her eyes. It is my duty to witness his passing. He was a great man, but he has failed. The universe demands—

Gangplank rose. Slowly, inexorably, and unrelentingly he forced his broken body to stand. He ripped himself from the mass of tentacles and advanced step by painstaking step, roaring through the agony. Bloody and exhausted, he finally stood in front of Illaoi. His eyes bulged with hate and pain, but full of purpose. With his final ounce of strength, he walked into the glowing visage of his spirit.

“I will be king.”

The wind fell still. The tentacles ruptured in bursts of light. Nagakabouros was satisfied.

“You are in motion,” Illaoi smiled.

Gangplank stood inches from his former love—glaring at her. His back arched and his chest swelled with the sweet air of resolve—he was the proud captain once more.

Gangplank turned and walked away from her, no less injured or limping, but his stride now held its familiar boldness.

“Next time I ask for help, just say no,” Gangplank growled.

“Do something about that arm,” Illaoi said.

“Was nice to see you,” he said as he walked out of the temple and down the long steps toward the water below.

“Stupid old bastard,” she grinned.

As the monks and hierophant returned to the antechamber, Illaoi remembered there were a thousand things she needed to do. A thousand little burdens she needed to carry. The Truth Bearer would have to meet with Sarah Fortune. Illaoi suspected Nagakabouros would soon need to test the bounty hunter.

“Tell Okao and the chiefs to support Gangplank,” Illaoi said to the hierophant. “Help him retake the city.”

“The city is in chaos, many want his head. He won’t survive the night,” the hierophant grumbled, looking at the injured captain struggling down the steps.

“He is still the right man for the job,” Illaoi said as she hefted the Eye of God onto her shoulder.

We can never be certain if we’re doing the right thing, or how things will happen, or when we will die. But the universe gives us our desires, and our instincts. So we must trust them.

She began walking up the steps from the courtyard to the inner temple, the Truth Bearer’s idol on her shoulder. It was a heavy burden—but Illaoi didn’t mind it.

She didn’t mind at all.


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
Necis
Member Avatar
Member
 *  *  *
Jhin, the Virtuoso

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
"Art requires a certain... cruelty."

Jhin is a meticulous criminal psychopath who believes murder is art. Once an Ionian prisoner, but freed by shadowy elements within Ionia's ruling council, the serial killer now works as their cabal's assassin. Using his gun as his paintbrush, Jhin creates works of artistic brutality, horrifying victims and onlookers. He gains a cruel pleasure from putting on his twisted theater, making him the best choice to send the most powerful of messages: terror.



For years, Ionia's southern mountains were plagued by the infamous "Golden Demon." Throughout the province of Zhyun, a monster slaughtered scores of travelers and sometimes whole farmsteads, leaving behind twisted displays of corpses.

In desperation, the Council of Zhyun sent an envoy to beg Great Master Kusho for help. Upon hearing of the region's plight, Kusho feigned an excuse for why he couldn't help. But a week later, the master, his son Shen Shen, and star apprentice Zed Zed, disguised themselves as merchants and moved to the province. In secret, they visited the countless families emotionally shattered by the killings, dissected the horrific crime scenes, and looked for possible connections or patterns to the murders.

Their investigation took four long years, and left the three men changed. The famous red mane of Kusho turned white; Shen, known for his wit and humor, became somber; and Zed, the brightest star of Kusho's temple, began to struggle with his studies. Upon finally finding a pattern to the killings, the Great Master is quoted as saying: "Good and evil are not truths. They are born from men and each sees the shades differently."

Depicted in a variety of plays and epic poems, the capture of the "Golden Demon" would be the seventh and final great feat in the illustrious career of Lord Kusho. On the eve of the Blossom Festival in Jyom Pass, Kusho disguised himself as a renowned calligrapher to blend in with the other guest artists. Then he waited. Everyone had assumed only an evil spirit could commit these horrifying crimes, but Kusho had realized the killer was an ordinary man. The famed "Golden Demon" was actually a mere stagehand in Zhyun's traveling theaters and opera houses working under the name Jhin Khada Jhin.


When they caught Jhin, young Zed marched forward to kill the cowering man, but Kusho held him back. Despite the horrors of Jhin's actions, the legendary master decided the killer should be taken alive and left at Tuula Prison. Shen disagreed, but accepted the emotionless logic of his father's judgment. Zed, disturbed and haunted by the murder scenes he had witnessed, was unable to understand or accept this mercy, and it is said a resentment began to bloom in his heart.

Though imprisoned in Tuula for many years, the polite and shy Khada Jhin revealed little of himself - even his real name remained a mystery. But while a prisoner, the monks noted he was a bright student who excelled in many subjects, including smithing, poetry, and dance. Regardless, the guards and monks could find nothing to cure him of his morbid fascinations.


Outside the prison, Ionia fell into turmoil as the Noxian empire's invasion led to political instability. War awoke the tranquil nation's appetite for bloodshed. The peace and balance Kusho had famously fought to protect was shattered from within as dark hearts rose in power and secret alliances competed for influence. Desperate to counter the power of the ninja and Wuju swordsmen, a cabal within the ruling council conspired to secretly free Jhin and turn him into a weapon of terror.

Now with access to the Kashuri armories' new weapons, and nearly unlimited funds, the scale of Khada Jhin's "performances" has grown. His work has brought fear to many foreign dignitaries and to Ionia's secret political underground, but how long will a serial killer, craving attention, be satisfied working in the shadows?


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Edited by Necis, Feb 5 2016, 11:18 PM.
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Aurelion Sol, the Star Forger

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
The appearance of a comet often portends a period of upheaval and unrest. Under the auspices of such fiery harbingers, it is said that new empires rise, old civilizations fall, and even the stars themselves may tumble from the sky. These theories merely scratch the surface of a far more bizarre truth: that the comet's radiance cloaks a cosmic being of unfathomable power.

The being now known as Aurelion Sol was already ancient by the time stellar debris first coalesced into worlds. Born in the first breath of creation, he roamed the vast nothingness, seeking to fill a canvas of incalculable breadth with marvels whose twinkling spectra brought him considerable delight and pride.

A celestial dragon is an exotic creature, and as such, Aurelion Sol seldom encountered any equals. As more forms of life emerged to fill the universe, a multitude of primitive eyes gazed up and beheld his work with wonder and breathless pondering. Flattered by this audience of countless worlds, he became fascinated by their fledgling civilizations, who crafted amusingly self-centered philosophies on the nature of his stars.

Desiring a deeper connection with one of the few races he deemed worthy, the cosmic dragon selected the most ambitious species to grace with his presence. These chosen few sought to unravel the secrets of the universe and had already expanded beyond their home planet. Many verses were composed about the day the Star Forger descended to a tiny world and announced his presence to the Targonians. An immense storm of stars filled the skies and twisted into a massive form as marvelous as it was terrifying. Cosmic wonders swirled and twinkled throughout the creature's body. New stars shone brightly, and constellations rearranged at his whim. Appropriately awed by his illuminant powers, the Targonians titled the dragon Aurelion Sol and presented him with a gift as a token of respect: a splendorous crown of star-gems, which he promptly donned. Before long, though, boredom drew Aurelion Sol back to his work in the fertile vastness of space. However, the further from the reach of that tiny world he traveled, the more he felt a grasping at his very essence, pulling him off his path, directing him elsewhere! He could hear voices shouting, commanding, from across the cosmic expanse. The gift he'd received was no gift at all, it seemed.

Outraged, he fought these controlling impulses and attempted to break his bonds by force, only to discover that for each attack against his newfound masters, one of his stars vanished forever from the firmament. A powerful magic now yoked Aurelion Sol, forcing him to wield his powers exclusively for Targon's benefit. He battled chitinous beasts that tore at the fabric of this universe. He clashed with other cosmic entities, some of which he had known since the dawn of time. For millennia, he fought Targon's wars, crushed any threats to its dominance, and helped it forge a star-spanning empire. All of these tasks were a waste of his sublime talents; after all, it was he who birthed light into the universe! Why must he pander to such lowly beings?

As his past glories slowly vanished from the celestial realm for lack of maintenance, Aurelion Sol resigned himself to never again bask in the warmth of a freshly ignited star. Then, he felt it - a weakening in his unwilling pact. The voices from the crown grew sporadic, clashing, arguing with each other while some fell ominously silent. An unknown catastrophe he could not fathom had thrown off the balance of those who bound him. They were scattered and distracted. Hope crept into his heart.

Driven by the tantalizing possibility of impending freedom, Aurelion Sol arrives on the world where it all began: Runeterra. It is here the balance will finally tip in his favor. And with it, civilizations across the stars shall bear witness to his rebellion and again play audience to his might. All will learn what fate befalls those who strive to steal for themselves the power of a cosmic dragon.

Twin Dawns
This world's familiar sun still hides below the horizon. Crude and unpolished earth unfurls below. Mountains contort into barriers that stretch like fingers across empty scrub lands. Palaces, or rather, what pass for palaces, fail to loom over anything but the squattest of hills. The curvature of the planet meets the stars with a serenity and grace few of the dwellers below will ever witness. They are so scattered across the globe and grasp so blindly for any sort of understanding that it's no surprise they've been conquered and don't even comprehend their predicament.

The fiery sheen I've gathered as I Comet of Legend.png streak toward my preordained destination illuminates the world beneath me. Pockets of warring, fearful, rejoicing life tucks itself into any fertile nook it can find below. Oh, how they gaze and point as I streak over their heads. I've heard the names they call me: prophet, comet, monster, god, demon... So many names, all missing the mark.

In a vast stretch of desert, I feel the twinge of familiar magic emanating from the seat of the premiere civilization amongst these savages. Lo and behold, a massive Shurima's Legacy.png Sun Disc is under construction. The poor enslaved laborers beat their heads and rend their clothes in my wake. Their cruel masters see me, a streaking bolt of fire, as a portent of good omen, no doubt. My passing will be etched in their uncouth pictograms upon common stone, an homage to the great comet, the blessing of the sky-god gracing their holy works and so forth. The Disc's sole purpose is to funnel the sun's majesty into the most 'renowned' of these fleshy humanoids, transforming them into exactly what this planet needs: more insufferable demigods. This effort will undoubtedly backfire. But I suppose they might last a brief while, perhaps a thousand years or so, before they fall and are supplanted by others.

The desert below fades into the night trailing behind me as I streak onward across lonely steppes, then over rolling brown hills gently flecked with greenery. The pastoral scenery belies a field spattered with blood and littered with the dead and dying. Survivors hack away at each other with rough-hewn axes and scream battle cries. One side is losing quite badly. ProfileIcon712 Blue Team Stag skulls rest atop pikes stuck into the soil, next to writhing warriors. The few still on their feet are encircled by soldiers riding great shaggy beasts.

Those defeated, surrounded few see me and valiance seems to surge through their veins. The wounded rise and grasp their axes and bows in a final stand that throws their foes off guard. I don't linger to see the rest of the little clash play out because I've seen this scenario unfold a thousand times: The survivors will scratch my comet likeness onto their cave walls. In a thousand years, their descendants will fly my image on banners and undoubtedly ride into a tediously similar battle. For all their efforts to capture and record history, one ponders why they do not learn from their mistakes. That is a lesson even I have had to suffer.

I leave them to perpetuate their bleak cycle.

My trajectory reveals more inhabitants. Their collective repertoire of reactions span the typical gamut: pointing, kneeling, sacrificing virgins upon stony altars. They look up and see a comet and never ask what lies beneath the blazing façade. Instead, they stamp it onto their own self-centered worldviews, muddying the splendor of my visage. The few more advanced life forms - and I use that description loosely - gaze up and jot down my coordinates in scientific almanacs instead of using me as prophecy fodder. It's mildly refreshing, but even their developing notions of intellect seems to indicate I am a regularly appearing phenomenon with a predictable orbit. Oh, the feats they could accomplish if only... Well, no use dwelling on the wasted potential of the simple-minded terrestrial born. It's not entirely their fault. Evolution does seem to have a difficult time gaining traction on this world.

But alas, the novelty of such infantile antics has worn thin. The grasping energies of my magical bondage have dragged me from one paltry world to another for centuries. Now it has led me back to this familiar and unpleasant rock. The star that floods its surface with light was one of my earliest creations, a confluence wrought of love and radiance. Ah, that cherished moment when she flared to life with colors only her creator could see. How I miss a star's crackling new energy warming my face and trickling through my fingers. Each star gives off a unique energy, precious and reflecting its creator's soul. They are cosmic snowflakes burning in defiance of the infinite dark.

Unfortunately, the memories I long to dwell upon are tainted by betrayal. Yes, this was the place where Targon lured me into servitude. But now is not the time to linger on past mistakes. Those musty Aspects want me to seal yet another breach... in their name of course.

Then, I see her. This world's imbued warrior is alone at the peak of one of the smaller summits, brandishing Spear Shot.png a starstone spear. She watches me through a veil of annexed flesh, a mere spark masquerading as lightning. A thick braid of auburn hair is draped over her shoulder, falling over a golden breastplate that covers pale, freckled skin. Her eyes, the only bit of her face not shielded by a battle-worn helmet, flash a jarring shade of red.

She calls herself Pantheon Pantheon - the warring fury of Targon incarnate. She is not the first of this world to wear the Pantheon mantle. Nor will she be the last.

Her glittering cape flaps out behind her as she raises her muscled arm and makes a motion like she's pulling on a great chain. The tug on my crudely enchanted tether wrenches me off course, toward the mountain upon which she stands. And she's yelling at me.

She cries outs with a voice that booms inside my head, transmitted through this insufferable star-gem coronet. All sounds fade as she invades my mind.

"Dragon!" she says, as if I am a weak-winged beast of base orange flame, lucky if it can ignite a tree.

"Seal their gate!" she commands, gesturing to the bottom of a rocky crevasse with her pointy little spear. I don't need to see the violet erosion of reality swirling below. I could smell the festering miasma that poisons this world before I even arrived. I fix my eyes on Pantheon instead. She expects me to fall in line like a dog on its leash. Today will be different, for I've learned from my mistakes.

"Dragon", I purr. "Are you sure commanding me with such a low name is wise?"

Pantheon's grip on her spear loosens just enough for her to fumble the weapon for a fraction of a second. She takes a step back, away from me, as if a single stride's distance could protect her from my ire.

"Seal their gate", she says again, barking louder as if perhaps the previous command went unheard. Her volume does little to mask the quiver in her voice. She thrusts her spear toward me, as if such a tiny weapon could pierce me.

This is the first time I've ever seen an Aspect of Targon shaken. She is not used to having to tell me twice.

"I will deal with those chittering horrors in due time, dear Pantheon."

"Do as you are commanded, dragon" this Pantheon shouts, "or this world is lost."

"This world was lost the moment Targon surrendered itself to arrogance."

I feel Pantheon's seething mingle with confusion as she struggles to grab hold of my immaterial reins. She's only just now sensing what I have come to learn. Targon is distracted and does not sense its magic faintly ebbing from my bonds.

Pantheon bellows once more, and this time, I cannot resist. The crude enchantment regains sovereignty over my will. I turn my attention toward the source of the breach, nestled in the basin of the once-verdant valley, now strangled with creeping, purple miasma. I sense the Voidborn perversions of life tunneling through reality's firmament, sending tides of unseen energy coursing through the aether. They shred the veil that separates nothingness and form with their unwelcome passage.

They're drawn to me, those multi-eyed, carapaced abominations. They seek to devour me, the greatest of their threats. From the reaches of my mind, I conjure an image of the solar furnaces I kindled, before my fettering, which once ignited the hearts of stars. I lance out Voice of Light.png beams of pure starfire and incinerate wave after wave of those gnashing horrors, driving them backward into their oblique infinity. Smoldering husks rain from the sky. I'm a little surprised they aren't wholly disintegrated, but then again, the Voidborn don't know how things work in this universe.

A pulsing sickness lingers in the air. From the epicenter of the corruption, I feel a will... hungry and indomitable, and far from the typical mindlessness I'm accustomed to from these Voidborn aberrations. The pulsating wound on reality yawns and buckles, distorting and warping all it touches. Whatever exists on the other side is laughing.

Pantheon shouts another command at me, but I ignore her words. This anomalous fissure in the universe entrances me. This is not the first of its kind I've had to deal with, but this one feels different, and I can't help but admire the marvelously terrifying manipulation of the barriers between realms. Few beings could fathom its complexities, let alone possess the sheer magnitude of power needed to rend the fabric of existence. In my heart, I know a wound so exquisite could never be orchestrated by scuttling creatures. No. There must be more behind this intrusion. I shudder at the thought of what kind of entity is capable of inducing such a volatile rift. I don’t need Pantheon's barked orders to tell me what do next; her array of requests has always been of a rather limited imagination anyway. She wants me to hurl a star at the rift, as if one can simply cauterize such moldering inter-dimensional abrasions and be done with it.

These obtuse demigods are my captors?

Fine. At least they're not too far off in their 'logic' by thinking a few searing cosmic wonders will remedy this problem. I will play the role of the obedient servant just a little while longer.

I enjoy what I do next, partly because they’ll remember it, partly because it feels good to let a little of the old power loose, but mostly because I wish to remind whatever intelligence that controls this Void incursion that nobody laughs at me in my plane of existence.

The base elements in the atmosphere rally to my cause, accreting into a plasmic anomaly. The swelling stardust detonates at my unspoken command. The result is Starsurge.png a dwarf replica of one of my majestic glories burning in the depths of space. After all, I can't fling a full-fledged star at this fragile world.

The young star’s shimmering brilliance flies from my hands. It's joined by two sisters, always by my side. Center of the Universe.png They careen around me in a radiant ballet, their white-hot cores devouring the gathering clouds of dust and matter I draw toward us. We become a storm of stars, the night sky incarnate, a maddening gyre of starfire. I conjure eddies of searing stardust, exhaling a heat so pure and dense it collapses the aura of this world just the tiniest bit, forever marring the planet's curvature. Coruscating strands of stellar flame pirouette from the center of the rift. Gravity melts in undulating waves of color most eyes will never be able to witness. My stars warp matter as more fuel coalesces into their cores, causing them to Celestial Expansion.png shine brighter, burn hotter. The whole spectacle is breathtaking, a cascading dance of blinding light and searing heat so hot that for a fleeting moment, new spectra are birthed into existence. My spine tingles just a little bit at how good it feels.

Trees splinter. Rivers evaporate. The mountain walls of the valley crumble in smoky avalanches. The tireless laborers erecting their Sun Disc, the soldiers taking the hill, the stargazers, the worshipers, the terrified, the doomsday prophets, the hopeless, the rising kings... all those who beheld the streaking comet with selfish eyes witness the ensuing supernova as an early dawn. Across this pitiful globe, my radiance turns darkest night to blinding day. What fictions will they conjure to explain this phenomenon?

Even my Targonian masters have rarely witnessed such a display of my power. Certainly, no terrestrial world has ever born scars as severe as what is left of that once-verdant valley. When I am finished, nothing remains.

Not even this incarnation of Pantheon. I can't say I'll miss her or her mindless barking.

In the glowing aftermath of my carnage, the smoldering once-mountains collapse into the molten rubble streams now flowing through the valley. This is the scar I have left upon this world. A surge of damning pain shoots through my body, radiating from that infernal crown. I am about to pay.

My head snaps up, and my eyes drink the bitter sight of a dying star. My hearts clasp shut. My minds reel. An overwhelming sense of despair ricochets through my very soul, emanating from a deep and immediate sorrow, like the pulsing realization you’ve lost something precious and know it's all your fault.

Some curious life forms I met long ago once asked how it was possible for me to remember every star I've created. If only they could feel what it was like to create a single star, they would understand the sheer irrelevance of that question. That's how I know when even one of my darlings winks out from existence, ejecting jets of energy and, with it, the very substance of my own spirit. I see her death knell in the heavens above. She shines brightly one last time in a pyroclasm that momentarily drowns her brothers and sisters. My heart shatters as the heavens are diminished in brutal retribution for turning my power on one of Targon's own.

A sun is the price of a single Pantheon. This is the cost of my unfettered wrath. This is the kind of boorish sorcery I must deal with.

Within seconds, they have regained control of my reins and call me to a new task. On no other world have I exhibited such a display of freedom, no matter how fleeting it was. What's more is that I have learned from their mistakes. A bit of me is free now, and in time, I will return to this world, tap into this mysterious well of energy and cast off the rest of my tether.

I tune into that essence of war, twisting and contorting within fleshy vessels scattered across the cosmos. It wasn't happy about losing its mortal avatar on this world. Already, a new doomed host has been chosen to transform into the next iteration of Pantheon - a soldier from the Rakkor, a tribe who cling to the base of Targon's mountain, siphoning off its power like barnacles. One day, I shall meet this new incarnation of Pantheon. Perhaps he will learn to find a new weapon and abandon that ludicrous spear. I sense Pantheon's celestial kin, scattered across the cosmos. In a single instance, all of their attention is focused on this world, where one of their earthly Aspects was vaporized by their own weapon. Their confusion is mingled with a growing desperation as they contend with each other to regain their control over me. How I wish I could see their faces.

As I launch myself from the gravity of this world, this Runeterra, I sense an emotion I have never felt from Targon before.

Fear.


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Edited by SilverBallerina, May 19 2016, 09:21 PM.
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
SilverBallerina
Member Avatar
Administrator
 *  *  *  *
Taliyah, the Stoneweaver

Posted Image

Posted Image


Quote:
 
Born in the rocky foothills bordering Icathia’s corrupted shadow, Taliyah Taliyah spent her childhood herding goats with her tribe of nomadic weavers. Where most outsiders see Shurima as a beige and barren waste, her family raised her to be a true daughter of the desert and to see beauty in the rich hues of the land. Taliyah was always fascinated by the stone beneath the dunes. When she was a toddler, she collected colorful rocks as her people followed the seasonal waters. As she grew older, the earth itself seemed drawn to her, arcing and twisting to follow her tracks through the sand.

After her sixth high summer, Taliyah wandered from the caravan in search of a lost goatling that had been placed in her charge. Determined not to disappoint her father—the master shepherd and headman of the tribe—she tracked the young animal into the night. She followed the hoofprints through a dry wash to a box canyon. The little beast had managed to get high up the rock wall, but could not get down.

The sandstone called to her, urging her to pull handholds from the sheer wall. Taliyah laid a tentative palm against the rock, determined to rescue the scared animal. The elemental power she felt was as urgent and overwhelming as a monsoon rain. As soon as she opened herself to the magic, it poured over her, the stone leaping to her fingertips, bringing both the canyon wall and the beast down on top of her.

The next morning, Taliyah’s panicked father tracked the skittish bleats of the goatling. He fell to his knees when he found his daughter unconscious, covered loosely in a blanket of woven stone. Grief-stricken, he returned to the tribe with Taliyah.

Two days later, the girl awoke from fevered dreams in the tent of Babajan, the tribe’s grandmother. Taliyah began to tell the wise woman and her concerned parents of her night in the canyon, of the rock that called to her. Babajan consoled the family, telling them that the patterns of rock were evidence the Great Weaver, the desert tribe’s mythical protector, watched over the girl. In that moment, Taliyah saw her parents’ deep worry and decided to conceal what really happened that night: that she—not the Great Weaver—had pulled at the desert stone.

When children in Taliyah’s tribe were old enough, they performed a dance under the face of the full moon, the manifestation of the Great Weaver herself. The dance celebrated the children’s innate talents and demonstrated the gifts they would bring to the tribe as adults. This was the start of their path to true learning, as those children then became apprenticed to their teachers.

Taliyah continued to hide her growing power, believing the secret she carried was a danger, not a blessing. She watched as her childhood playmates spun wool to keep the tribe warm on cold desert nights, demonstrated their skill with shears and dye, or wove patterns that told the stories of her people. On those nights, she would lie awake long after the coals had burned to ash, tormented by the power she felt stirring within.

The time finally came for Taliyah’s dance beneath the full moon. While she had talent enough to be a capable shepherd like her father, or a pattern mistress like her mother, the young girl dreaded what her dance would truly reveal. As Taliyah took her place on the sand, the tools of her people—the shepherd’s crook, the spindle, and the loom—surrounded her. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but it was the distant rocks, the layered colors of the land, that called to her. Taliyah closed her eyes and danced. Overwhelmed by the power flowing through her, she began to spin not thread, but the very earth beneath her feet.

Startled cries from Taliyah’s tribe broke her out of her spell. An imposing braid of sharp rock reached up to the light of the moon. Taliyah looked at the shocked faces of the people who surrounded her. Her will over the stone broken, the earthen tapestry crashed down. Taliyah’s mother ran to her only daughter, to protect her from the falling rock. When the dust finally settled, Taliyah saw the destruction she had woven, the alarm on the faces of her tribe. But it was the small cut across her mother’s face that justified Taliyah’s fear. Though the cut was minor, Taliyah knew in that moment that she was a threat to the people she loved most in this world. She ran into the night, so weighed down by despair that the ground trembled beneath her feet.

It was her father who found her again in the desert. As they sat in the light of the rising sun, Taliyah confessed her secret in choked sobs. In turn, he did the only thing a parent could do: He hugged his daughter tightly. He told her that she couldn’t run from her power, that she must complete her dance and see where her path would take her. Turning her back on the Great Weaver’s gift was the only danger that could truly break his and her mother’s heart.

Taliyah returned with her father to the tribe. She entered the dancer’s circle with her eyes open. This time, she wove a new ribbon of stone, each color and texture a memory of the people surrounding her.

When it was over, the tribe sat in awe. Taliyah waited nervously. It was time for one of her people to stand as her teacher and claim the student. What felt like eons stretched between Taliyah’s hammering heartbeats. She heard gravel shift as her father stood. Next to him, her mother stood. Babajan and the dye mistress and the master spinner stood. In a moment, the whole tribe was on its feet. All of them would stand with the girl who could weave stone.

Taliyah looked at each of them. She knew that a power like hers had not been seen in generations, perhaps longer. They stood with her now, their love and trust surrounding her, but their worry was palpable. None among them heard the earth call as she did. As much as she loved these people, she did not see the one who could show her how to control the elemental magic that coursed within her. She knew that to stay with her tribe was to risk their lives. Though it pained all of them, Taliyah said farewell to her parents and her people, and set off alone into the world.

She journeyed west toward the distant peak of Targon, her natural connection to rock drawing her toward the mountain that brushed the stars. However, at the northern edge of Shurima, it was those who marched beneath the banner of Noxus who discovered her power first. In Noxus, magic like hers was celebrated, they told her; revered, even. They promised her a teacher.

The land had raised Taliyah to be trusting, so she was unprepared for the smooth promises and practiced smiles of Noxian dignitaries. Soon, the desert girl found herself on an unbending path, passing under the many Noxtoraa, the great iron gates that marked the Empire’s claim over a conquered land.

The crush of people and the layers of politics within the capital city were claustrophobic to a girl from the open desert. Taliyah was paraded through the tiers of Noxian magical society. Many took an interest in her power, its potential, but it was a fallen captain who swore to take her to a wild place across the sea, a place where she could hone her abilities without fear, who made the most convincing case. She accepted the young officer’s offer and crossed the sea to Ionia. However, it was made clear as their ship dropped anchor that she was intended as a glorified weapon for a man desperate to regain his place at the highest ranks of the Noxian navy. At dawn, the captain gave her a choice: Bury a sleeping people in their homes, or be discarded in the surf.

Taliyah looked across the bay. The cooking smoke had not yet risen from the village’s sleeping hearths. This was not the lesson she had come so far to learn. Taliyah refused, and the captain threw her overboard to drown.

She escaped the tide and the fighting on the beach and found herself wandering, lost, in the wintry mountains of Ionia. It was there she finally discovered her teacher, a man whose blade harnessed the wind itself, someone who understood the elements and the need for balance. She trained with him for a time and began to find the control she had long sought.

While resting at an isolated inn, Taliyah heard that the Ascended Emperor of Shurima had returned to his desert kingdom. Rumor had it this emperor turned god sought to gather his people, the disparate tribes, back to him as slaves. Even with her training unfinished, there was no other choice; she knew she must return to her family to protect them. Sadly, she and her mentor parted ways.

Taliyah returned home to the sand-swept dunes of Shurima. As the punishing rays of the sun beat down on her, Taliyah pushed farther into the desert, determined to find her people. Hers was a will of stone, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect her family and her tribe from the danger that loomed on the horizon.


Disponibilidade no RoL: Disponível
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Create a free forum in seconds.
« Previous Topic · Bem-vindo à Academy of Champions · Next Topic »
Add Reply

Black Water created by tiptopolive of the Zetaboards Theme Zone