Enjoy some words ~ I can't wait to start refining this. Some parts are unclear, and others are complete digressions altogether, but (care)^-1.
Morgana held in her delicate hands a basket of freshly baked goods that had been specially prepared for the Champions. Both Katarina and Talon thanked her, and proceeded to start devouring the food with little to no concern for etiquette.
‘My, it seems that you haven’t eaten in ages, what is the cause of your hunger?’ she asked. Talon looked at Katarina with an expression of concern. Morgana was a well-known champion in the League, but her dealings with the Noxian High Command were on a strict need to know basis. Talon had more often than not given her the benefit of the doubt when it came to divulging political and military matters that were, in most cases, meant to be shared only between officials, but he trusted Morgana far more than most. Katarina ran her index finger across the ring of her cup of coffee, and turned her head towards Morgana.
‘Well, we’ve been busy with a mission,’ she said. ‘Up all night, practically. Haven’t had any rest.’
‘Well now, then perhaps these treats will be better received than I anticipated,’ Morgana said with a smile. Talon tore into a sweet roll, not realizing how much of a mess he was making, and Katarina sipped casually on her coffee, the beige glass mug was warm to the touch. As the skies had darkened from clouds and rain, Morgana took to lighting candles all around the bakery, filling the space with a pleasant fragrance. After all the candles had been lit, Morgana turned to face the spacious hearth located between two large gilded windows obscured by black drapes. She raised her hand and with a few simple gestures conjured a brilliant purple flame. The flame seemed to dance and sway from the manipulations of her fingertips, and in an instant she projected it to the hearth, causing the piles of kindling within to burst into flame. The fire flickered purple for several moments before returning to its natural orange and red state, though the edges of the flame still contained hints of purple, as though Morgana’s magic had some unexplained residual effect. As the afternoon dragged on, the three champions shared coffee and multiple slices of Isomalt’s Peccable Pecan Pie, one of Morgana’s better known culinary masterpieces. Srillex was becoming more comfortable serving and other standard operational procedures, so Morgana did not mind leaving him to tend to customers as she socialized. Without revealing specifics, Katarina informed Morgana of the recent mission. Morgana was aghast that necromancy had been used against the Noxian people, as such an act was strictly forbidden.
‘Don’t worry about your shop. The threats have been reported outside of town for the most part,’ said Katarina. ‘However, it might be wise to keep an eye out. If you notice any suspicious activity, please let me know.’
‘Unauthorized necromancy? Near Noxus?’ Morgana mused. It was known that certain acts of necromancy were permitted within the city-states of Noxus and Zaun, as such magic had been used to reanimate the Undead Champion, Scion, and Urgot, the Headsman’s Pride. These champions had been revered for their services to Noxus, and it was deemed appropriate to allow them to continue their services within the League, even in death. Since then, Valorian politics had shifted to be extremely wary of necromantic rituals, as it was known that if wielded by the wrong hands, untold havoc would be wrought. Katarina discreet enough to not indicate the nature of the acts, nor did she explain in much detail locations of the incidents. In truth, the Noxian High command was still in the dark with regard to pinning an identity to the one responsible for the attacks. All that was known was that a Summoner within the league, presumably acting on the motivation to undermine Noxus and her allies, was practicing the forbidden art in secret.
The rain outside began to pelt on the window panes and seeped into the bakery from beneath the floorboards, causing Morgana to become distressed. ‘Oh Srillex,’ she said, ‘please get to work on cleaning up this mess! My customers will not appreciate having a wet floor within my bakery.’ The creature obeyed diligently and retrieved a small pale from the back room, as well as a mop that was at least three times his height. Morgana returned to the front counter and made preparations for the afternoon rush as the workday drew to a close. Katarina and Talon had been given keys to upstairs rooms to stay for the night. Not wanting to brave the less than agreeable weather, they accepted the generous offer. The weary champions retreated to their quarters, and proceeded to sleep the rest of the day away. Talon practically dove into the soft, freshly laid sheets. The sound of raindrops and shuffling feet from below faded together in a blur of cacophony, as the surrounding world drifted away from him.
Talon awoke to a frigid draft brought upon by early morning winds. Something was wrong. He shot up and glanced around the small room. He could hear nothing aside from the whistle of the wind. His window was wide open, and so was the door to his room. He shifted sideways and rolled out of bed, mind still recovering from the fog of a deep sleep. The first thing he notices was an antique lacquered nightstand that had fallen to the ground, its contents in disarray across the hardwood. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his sore eyes, stood up, and scanned the area. Something was definitely wrong. He wondered over to the door, still not hearing sound from below or anywhere else. The hallway was empty, devoid of presence. Katarina’s door was also wide open, so he walked through it. He peeled back the large white blanket of her bed, but he was not there. All that was left was the scent of her perfume. The bed was still warm. He called for her, but there was no response. With his heavy boots thudding across the hardwood he walked over to the top of the staircase, and observed that the entire bakery was empty. He considered for a moment that he was dreaming, but immediately dismissed the thought. This was no dream. His counterparts had gone missing. The old steps groaned as he raced down them. He took note of the fact that the bakery entrance had been boarded shut. Nothing could explain this abrupt absence of the two Champions. Talon wondered how long he’d been sleeping for, and could not understand what was going on. His mind raced. He approached the front door and attempted to drive it open with his shoulder. It wouldn’t budge and inch. The sound of falling plates crashing to the ground into bits and pieces could be heard from the back room, and Talon immediately raced over to see what was going on. Amid a pile of cooking supplies and other miscellaneous debris, there was Srillex, his black, orb-like eyes wide with fright. Talon stood there and eyed the creature cautiously, not knowing how to react. Srillex pointed to the front door, and made a sad expression. ‘What happened here?’ asked Talon. The tiny creature replied with a whimper before scampering around the room as though he’d been spooked by some unseen spectre. ‘What’s going on?’ The cold draft from outside filled the bakery, the wind whistling with a foreboding howl that caused Talon to shiver. He strode over to the coat rack and retrieved from it his grey overcloak, and noticed that it had been cleared out. He was beginning to feel trapped. Srillex then appeared next to Talon, and within his grasp was a small piece of folded paper. It was a note. The creature extended his small arm towards Talon, note in hand. He took this curious note and began to read it.
Talon, there is not much time. We were unable to wake you due to the immediacy of what took place. There is a match requesting our presence where we are to be summoned upon the Fields of Justice. Surely you will understand. – Morgana.
After reading the note, Talon’s hand trembled with frustration. He was fighting to understand why his services had not been required at the time of summoning, and with that, he got up, and proceeded to lift the locks on the door and head out into the rain-ridden streets. He sheathed his visage beneath the large grey overcloak, and pushed his way through the concentrated masses of people, who were altogether exhibiting downtrodden expressions respective of the atrocious weather. Talon didn’t care about the weather, as he found the rain most often to be comforting. The streets were awash with filth. Shopkeepers opened their doors and dumped raw waste onto the streets, disregarding all safety regulations. Had a Noxian guard been near enough to witness such a barbaric act, there might have been dealt a harsh punishment. The streets of Noxus were in no way as bad as those of Zaun, where the waste of theoretic hextech experimentation ran rampant through the sewers, soon to be harvested and converted to shimmer, a highly addictive narcotic that, when applied to this skin, conveys the emotions of the user via fluorescent light. The drug was known to cause irreversible skin and muscle degradation, and long term use had been associated with many irresponsible deaths. Talon was headed to Zaun, and he was sure that whatever awaited him there would provide answers. He didn’t bother to pack his belongings, nor did he alert the High Command of his departure. Katarina would have done the same for him. He had come to develop a mutual understanding with her, he cared for her, and to know that she was in some kind of threatening situation caused him great distress. The Noxian night drew upon the sky above a sinister darkness that was shrouded by cloud drift and rolling thunder. The rain fell at an ever increasing rate, and all around the city washed away in floods of precipitation that had not been seen in weeks or even months. The political uprising within the High Command was on everyone’s lips, and not one shred of new evidence surrounding the rogue Summoner had been discovered. He was still out and causing havoc within the rural graveyards, and the hasty departure to Zaun would most certainly not bode well with Swain and his associates. Talon didn’t care. He needed to leave the city with all due haste, and nothing was going to stop him. Swain’s forces were more than capable of supressing the undead threat along the city borders, and a small part of Talon considered that it had all be an elaborate deception for the purposes of concealing the true nature of the experiments. Perhaps Swain himself was responsible for the malicious activity, and it had all be part of some undercover testing program that had gone awry. Send in the Crimson Elite to investigate, they’ll make your problems disappear. None of it made sense. Conspirators in Zaun would of most certainly paid top dollar to allow for necromantic experimentation to take place unhindered, and it was not unlike them to do so. Deep within the underground waste factories and bizarre centers of medical experimentation, Zaun possessed within its hextech-reinforced walls a litany of dark secrets that kept the shrouded world of forbidden magic thriving.
And the pathways leading out of the city were as foreboding as ever. An unexplainable buzz of activity centered around the actions of everyone Talon passed by. People everywhere were discussing the events that had taken place no less than mere hours ago. These people were not in a mode that most was most commonly exhibited, but a panicked state, a state that only came about during times when major political unrest was about to take place. Talon stopped to consider that his actions would be met with severe reprimanding upon his return, but he didn’t care anymore. Katarina was more important to him than he cared to let on, and he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of this entire necromantic fiasco, and would have even taken it up with both the Noxian and Zaun authorities to consider banning the practice altogether, but in their eyes he was a lowly assassin, another Du Couteau pawn to be used in the practices of the league for the purposes of resolving political conflicts untreatable with conventional diplomacy. General Du Couteau had been adamant in his resolve to incorporate the League into everyday political affairs, and this line of thinking had been met with harsh opposition by all sides. The power struggles that took place over the delegation tables and legislative bodies had been legendary, but none of that mattered now. The five rune wars that ravaged Valoran were cast aside like an open wound that couldn’t be fixed, and in light of the creation of the Institute of War, detractors had harped down to feed off the tissue decay.
The blue flames of Noxian streetlights lit the rain-soaked streets, a blur of neon steel reflected in water waves. The city boarders were closed, and the guards patrolled in force. No matter, thought Talon, he knew the right way to slip past them. He took off down an alleyway, kicked through a mouldy mount of cardboard boxes, and slashed through puddles and other collections of forgotten waste. Cases of rotten food were lined up on ledges against the wall like drinking bottles. Talon crossed the threshold of civilized living and entered the Noxian slums, a place that few League champions went. Many years ago, this place had been his home, and being back here in the twilight of night, with rain soaked memories streaming down the uneven dirt roadways, brought upon a sting of nostalgia. He fought to find a steady grip as his footing became loose under the muddy walkway, and he almost fell several times. There wasn’t a soul to be found out on a night like this. Makeshift window panes and unhinged doorways rattled and thumped at the assault of howling winds. To have stable living conditions here was somewhat of an advanced luxury that few were capable of obtaining. Talon happened by an old beggar dressed in tattered robes and a black head band, staring sullenly at the soaked floor. He appeared despondent, berift of hope, and Talon had been there, he was there now. Nothing at all would of made him see otherwise. This was his time to break through the military blockage, to find the right path, and never before had he wanted to take care of the alternative. Finding the right path took altogether a more difficult situation that was not even a specialisation needed for stealth.
Katarina ducked for cover as high-speed projectiles seared over her head. It was difficult for her to get a grasp of the situation, but she knew that her assailants were hiding for cover within a patch of long grass no further than twelve feet in front of her. From within deep cover, Luxanna unleashed a prismatic beam of focused energy, searing the tops of plants, leaving behind a blackened trail of charcoal bits.
‘I’ll get you yet, Katarina!’ exclaimed Lux. She was preparing in her silk-gloved hands another concentrated blast of light. Her mind became focused like a photon passing through a crystalline prism, the energy bouncing of perfectly formed structures of subatomic particles. Her eyes grew dark as the infusion of magic was reconciled from a stranded state, bundled into fragments of power capable of being manipulated by one who could envisage the invisible forces underlying the magic. Katarina was at first blinded by the encroaching wave of brilliant heat. The balls of heated energy flew over the water silently, their reflection poised to imitate the light of the sun. Katarina retreated from her position as the beams decimated the long-grass patch, and she dove into a forward front flip before executing a swift side-step maneuver that brought her mere inches away from Lux’s face. The mage was shocked, and did not react in time. With a smile, Katarina unleashed her daggers and brought them down with the same striking force that had earned her the title of The Sinister Blade. Lux flinched, tried to dodge, but was too late. The blade plunged deep inside of her, and she had no magic to summon to her defence. Katarina grunted as she ripped free the blood soaked weapons, and Lux was nearly toppled over from the brutal wound.
‘I told you once, Lux’ said Katarina, ‘your blood has slaked my blades once more, and it’s now time to finish this.’ With a wicked grin, no, a bloodthirsty smile, Katarina pulled back her right arm as far as it would go, her blade glinting brilliantly from the water-reflected sunlight. Lux tried to speak, but the words escaped her. Her breathing fell short. Splashes of water accompanied the dull thud of her body breaking the ankle-length water, followed by a stream of bursting bubbles that came from her mouth.
Katarina stood over the still body, her eyes wide with glee. She felt herself become invigorated with the excitement of the kill, a feeling that she was all too familiar with. She craved it. It satisfied within her a chemical addiction that few activities could evoke. Before she had time to revel in the kill, it became apparent that Warwick had caught her scent. Deep within the dense jungles ahead of her, the Wolf champion leapt forward, bloodlust blazing in his bright red eyes. He strode upon thickly muscled legs that propelled him forward with a frightening alacrity. Little did Katarina know, the beast had watched the whole ordeal go down, and he was hungry for her blood. Katarina, still savoring the recently administered kill, caught sight of the beast moving towards her. The water beneath her feet splashed as she maneuvered to take him on. Without taking into account the recently acquired advantages that Warwick had obtained, Katarina, being the headstrong assassin she was, charged directly into him without concern for her own life. The beast let loose a vicious howl before returning to his forward stride. Katarina braced for impact, and had very little time to react. The onslaught of devastating attacks that accompanied Warwick’s charge were vicious enough to rend most creatures limb from limb. Katarina was deft enough to avoid the brunt of the attack, but no sooner had she dodged his first barrage of attacks than Warwick extended his grasp to reach her. With one well-placed swipe, Warwick’s claws raked through her frail leather armor, the skin underneath, tearing flesh, unable to provide suitable resistance against the brutality. Sharp tendrils of pain spiked through her projected nervous system, sending her reeling. Blood flowed freely from the open wounds, and she was shaking on the ground. Warwick stood over top of her, cackling loudly, the sinister laugh travelling across the waterway with sound-waves of pure malicious intent. Nothing could have been done to prevent the attack. Katarina had dispatched Lux without restraint, and in her blind haze of murderous intentions, she was unable to free from her transfixed mind the sight of her attacker, bearing down on her with an unrestrained force that was unthinkable. Katarina had no time to process; her evasive maneuvers were not enough to impede that with was inevitable. The sun glimmered magnificently in the discordant waves across the swamp surface, blue waves, beams of light being scattered like shrapnel fragments from an exploding bomb. The blood the flowed openly from her wounds mixed with the perfectly reflected water. There were no options to consider other than withdrawing her life essence from the psychological bond that had interfaced with the Summoner responsible for providing a direct neural link, connecting her every action and fiber of her experience manipulated by the unseen force that made her a willing puppet. The Summoner responsible for Katarina’s actions felt a slight disturbance in the connection, the rippling pain, and fought to subdue it. Her mind was filled with stabbing icicles, clutches of bristling adamantine hooks weaving through spindles of tissue with little to no effort. It was a guttural experience to be responsible for the death of your Champion, and the time spent waiting for the ritual of continuance to take place felt like the echoes of eternity calling back to you from the void, a black, malign place inhabited by stygian specters hungering for the psychic energies of individuals lacking mental fortitude. This is how it had always been, and would always continue to be. The resolution of political conflicts could never be transitioned in such a way as to take part on an open battlefield, the throes of battle were obsolete, the untold glory and carnage once sought by bloodthirsty mages in the rune wars so long ago, decimating the Valorian earth, untold destruction, bringing with them pillars of flame so radiant that the extermination of life had been imminent. There was within a small garden, where multiple carrots did grow, and Garen could be seen in a spot of rain suspended off a fern in the distance. It was night now, and Katarina was there. So was Malzahar, and even Teemo. He was standing near opaque mushrooms filled with poison from the Kumungu jungle, a mixture designed for maximum potency. Patches of long-grass swirled together in a borderless mesh of earthen pastels, and the little Yordle hid there, his canvas scout-hat bobbing above the overgrowth as the other champions passed by unaware. Garen gave a brief scan of the area as he recollected his senses. Lux was nowhere to be found. Charcoal dust from the dead stumps of miscellaneous plants peppered the sodden earth. Rising winds swept northward a howling chill that rattled tree branches bare. Not a whisper of doubt would dare cross Demacian lips. They were stalwart Champions of the League, impenetrable to the effects of a heedless ambition, as was most often the case with the Noxian dogs. Garen brandished his steel from a crisp scabbard of bejewelled gold inscriptions decreeing unwavering Demacian loyalty. Lux’s death would be avenged, and Garen would make sure of it. The preparation for full scale combat was in order, and there was nowhere left to hide. Out in the open, the opposing Champions faced one another at the same moment that noonday sunlight burst through the clouds. On one side, you had the steadfast, the unyielding, and the just, on the other, you had the unrelenting, the, strong sinister. Before even the first blow was dealt, an overbearing calm presided over the area.
Summoner Vandrik did not try and hide the fact that he was experiencing some distress. His summoning abilities were unquestionable, and no one doubted the fact that he was capable of unleashing havoc against the enemy team. To his credit, the mage had an illustrious and prolific record on the Fields of Justice, and so he had seen many dedicated years to the Institute of War. The final call for the summoning to take place was called, and the group of mages dropped their discussion immediately. The summoning circle upon which they stood was inscribed with words of protection and power, to both stabilize and strengthen the bond between Summoner and Champion. The Summoners stood evenly around the stone circle as the ritual took place. Elder Summoner Belsted initiated the ritual by calling forth an arcane torrent of magical energy accessible only to the most advanced Summoners. From this torrent he withdrew the raw magical energy needed to initiate the summoning ritual. His fingertips sparked blue from the subtle manipulations that only a master spellcaster could make, and when he uttered the invocations of channelling, the other summoners became attuned to the flow that would soon link them to their respective champions. Vandrik became absorbed by the invisible forces of binding flaring blue within the space of his mind, a willing procedure allowing his conscious will to be projected into the essence of another. At the moment of binding, the surrounding environment blurred away with blinding motion, replaced by a vibrating warp tunnel of deviously curved ovals and rippling purple sheets of interspatial fabric. Novice summoners were delegated the task of enhancing these tunnels by empowering them with protective barriers, rune-shields, glowing fluorescent orange across an endless sea of magical energy. This was a place where time could move in either direction, depending on the tidal currents of the maelstrom that existed in the center of this extra-dimensional plane of magic, a curious place uninhabited by organic forms. At the final moment of connection, Vandrik happened upon the willing consciousness of Katarina, his thoughts melding with hers, in concert with her will, so that he might impose his directional guidance upon it. While in this state, the Summoner was unable to cast direct spells on his own accord, and could not speak. His being was all but entwined with Katarina’s, there thoughts becoming a complex exchange of energy that impossible to break. For Summoners and Champions alike, this all-too-familiar transference of thought patterns initiated a dynamic process whereby transient linkages between thought and action were formed. Jaded as those familiar with the ritual may have been, every experience with it varied slightly, and part of it depended on the Champions’ prior affiliation with the Summoner he or she was connecting to. Summoners less acquainted with their target Champions experienced a slightly more turbulent interface affected by minor disturbances in the mental link. More experienced connections allowed for the determination of either party to be strengthened, regardless of whatever consequences might have occurred. Katarina stood upon the summoning platform, her fingers flexed through her crimson hair. The wind on Summoner’s Rift picked up and carried with it the forgotten remnants of leaves from dead trees that hid within nearby encasements of artificial containment.
She took two steps from the location from which she had entered the field of justice, a place of untold potency with regard to the outcome of all matters political. And it did not matter in the least about what nature the issue under consideration might portend, even as League detractors had once falsely claimed otherwise. To register with priority a sense of satisfaction upon the Fields of Justice, it was expected of a Summoner to be both deft of mind and spirit. The flexibility of one’s will was reliant on excessive mental agility, so nights spent in taverns prior to League matches were highly discouraged. Katarina eyed her Noxian teammates with a committed gaze. Her status within the High Command did not have the same technical jurisdiction here, but she was viewed as a leader all the same. Warwick was the first to meet her gaze, as the other three were still in a state of interfacing with their summoners.
‘Wonderful, miss. Where do you want me?’ said the Bloodhunter.
‘Alright Warwick, here’s what we’re going to do.’ Katarina withdrew her map. She made bright red markings with a quill upon the page. The plan she set in motion was absorbed by Warwick as he considered the plan of attack. Without time to waste, the Bloodhunter bounded off up the top lane, rushing forward with a ridiculous speed. Underneath his clawed limbs he pounded the earth relentlessly, seeking only to go to the location that Katarina had specified. Her words resonated with him, sat with him in earnest of their underlying importance, as if no other words could even match the same level of potency. She conveyed with her words a sense of unlimited aspiration, a motivational wall of importance that could not be interfered with. It was at times like these that beams of transcendence penetrated the visual sphere of the crystal screen projectors broadcasting in all the homes of Valorian spectators anxiously observing the actions taking place. In every home from the far eastern reaches of Ionia to the heart of Noxus and the hazardous waste dumps of Zaun. From school teachers to shop merchants, members of governance and of military, enthusiasm for Champion versus Champion combat taking place upon the Fields of Justice was tantamount to fanaticism. Most people chose a local Champion to support, but it was not support for foreign champions was not altogether unknown. However, it was known that the support of non-local champions was to be handled with a certain level of discreetness.
Warwick trampled over the piles of makeshift cover before him. Branches snapped underfoot. Rigid plants and bamboo sticks mixed with rocks were pushed away like weightless debris when subjected to the forceful strength of the Noxian werewolf. He neared the top tower and eyed solid concrete structure with contentment.
‘I don’t think this will be a wise spot to commit to an engagement,’ said Lux. In a moment of consideration, her countenance belied concern, as it was more often the case that she conveyed an indefatigable sense of joy regarded as being quite infectious. She eyed the mysterious reflections of bright sunlight coming from the forward tower, inching forward, quiet yet precise, the white fabric of her demur Demacian outfit comfortably ruffling from jungle gusts. Luminosity accompanied her articulate hand gesture, directed ahead swallowed by darkness. Trees parted, and bundles of mist wheezed from the foliage. Within the densest parts of dark, there could be seen the shimmering outline of a bipedal figure. Lux was taken aback by the sight. It might have been a stealthed Champion, and she was unsure of this. The form moved, light bending properties coiling the plants and root systems deflected modestly, but it was noticeable nonetheless. She knew someone was there.
Talon’s stealth could have been more effective. Lux stood frozen before his concealed position, the gold outline of her modern Demacian attire glimmering with the same sheen as her fawn tresses. She seemed to take notice of his movements, but he was not quite sure. The Lady of Luminosity was known to be deceiving in her ways, and Talon knew that if he made a false move, she would be onto him. He stepped cautiously through a tangled mess of ferns and held his blade poised to strike. Lux was walking forward now, her head tilted. In her left hand a crystalline baton crackled with pent up magical energy. It rattled in her hand from the tension within, and it took no small amount of energy to keep it under containment. Lux eyed her potential victim with glee. ‘Not so fast, Noxian!’ she cried aloud. Talon felt familiar rush of fight-or-flight, sensory perceptions dominated by the apogee of an adrenaline rush.
And that’s how it happened. Lux darted ahead and took aim at the assassin with her baton, and conjured a prismatic shield for herself. From deep in the woodlands he saw her, and he didn’t even care that she had taken notice of him. The ripples on the water became bridges with the light emanating from her baton, and it was difficult to ignore. Talon looked up with a smirk, seeing that he could get an upper hand in the situation, he leapt forward with a dash that passed by so swiftly as to kick particles of dirt up around it. The mage crossed his path and, with a smile, unleashed a blast that caused the water in the surrounding lake to evaporate with a sizzle.
‘You’re mine,’ Talon said. He slashed forward with his right arm, attempting to slash with precision, but Lux was deft to avoid the attack, causing to Talon to fall forward and cut nothing but air. When he sprang forward once more, she was unable to dodge, and took a deep gash on her side. Talon retracted the weapon, looking, satisfied. The Demacian champion was wounded, but far from giving up. She fired back at him a prismatic burst that rocked the foundations of his footing. He slumped back to the ground, falling face first into a pool of running water filling his mouth as he delved into the muck. She grinned, and summoned from her fingertips a crackling vortex of concentrated photonic energy. With a blinding flash, a column of pure white drew forward like a train. The air surrounding the beam broke apart into blurry waves that screamed under the intense heat. Talon was stricken in his side, and the force of the attack knocked him the ground. He looked up at Lux, face winced in pain, and with but a moment before the darkness overtook him, noticed her smile. There were times when, without warning, a Champion would remain dead on the field for a duration of time before being re-summoned, or returned to their Summoner in a physical form for the process to begin all over again. It was not possible for the summoning to take place in a short amount of time, which is why Champion deaths were so taxing.
Lux took a bow as the Demacian supports erupted with praise. From all across Demacia, those in support of the events felt the sweep of jubilation. Children, parents, and citizens alike reacted to the events in either a form of dismay or excitements.
The scenery washed away in a haze of light. Talon fell to the ground, defeated, and his body returned to the Summoner’s platform in a cloud of electrified mist. As he lay there, the ritual to re-summon him was already taking place, as the magisters fought to re-establish a stable portal though which Talon would resume fighting. Summoner Rek met eyes with Talon in such a way as to convey a sense of disturbance, as though one had let down the other, and it was not a glance that any Champion liked to receive. In an instant Rek stepped forward and prepared once more the arcane ritual. Talon got to his feet, the residual pain from Lux’s overpowering attack still spiking through his system. He took deep breaths to shake of the weariness that accompanied League death, a residual pain that experienced Champions were all too familiar with. Between Summoner and champion there were few words exchanged. Each one knew what the other was capable of, and it was a bond strengthened only by familiarity. Novice as she was, Summoner Rek knew Talon’s mind well enough to execute fairly diverse actions without a conflict of interest. This was in spite of the fact that Talon was not known to be among the most receptive of Champions. It took a special mind to acclimate to a Champion, to device the inner workings of the thought process transmitted through invisible fields of inter-dimensional magic.
Swain took the field with his trademark bird cawing at the wind. He was not about the let Garen out of his sight. The heavily armoured Demacian was treading heavily up the middle lane, followed by a great purple mass of blue-robed minions. It was as if he carried with him all the splendor and might of Demacia, and his intent was to uphold that might by carving a swath of destruction shining like wicked defiance in the face of Noxian opposition. The High General stepped out from the patch of shade cast upon the ground by the guardian turret at his back. He scanned the Demacian with a calculated gaze, monitoring for the best time to strike. Unlike Garen, Swain was well versed in all matters tactical, and would on a whim change the course of a battle. Such a grim display of steel wits was well regarded in the League, as it far more creative a strategy than brute force along. There was little that could be done to interrupt the summoning process once it had been initiated. Tendrils of psionic force split through the center of the summoning platform, revealing a cascade of light that shone far brighter than the braziers of blue flame surrounding the platform. It was difficult to take note of the searing light as it reverberated through the Institute of war. Acts of summoning took no small amount of concentration. Summoner Rek attuned her mind once more with the tidal stream, tying in her experienced spell craft with Talon’s psyche. The void was cold, barren, bereft of sentience. Only an experienced rift walker could navigate the bleak planes of elemental energy, the basis of existence. This was place accessible to not mere mortals but the enlightened. In the blink of an eye, Talons nostrils filled with the fresh air of Summoner’s Rift once again. He looked over the landscape and began to sprint forward, intent on getting back into the fight as quickly as possible, taking off down the bottom lane as the Noxian onlookers cheered for his return.
In the top of the map, there was a heated battle going on between Galio and Katarina. The red haired assassin crept up on the winged beast, feeling the same unrestrained bloodlust as she’d felt when fighting Lux. The Sentinel pushed aside a feeling of doubt when he saw the enemy Champion. He was aware of Katarina’s superior combat tactics, but at the same time he had developed a proficiency at avoiding them. In fact, he was able to circumvent them by making his body as rigid as possible, to the extent that Katarina’s blades could not pierce his flesh. As she charged forward, screaming a tribute to Noxus that caused Galio to cringe, he focused his vision on the running target, making sure to anticipate movement. A rapid fire burst of focused light erupted from the tips of his irises, sending dual yellow beams of heated energy directly towards Katarina. She was unable to dodge the lasers, and when she was struck in the shoulder, the burning heat snapped her back with the force of a whip crack. Brushing off the attack, Katarina reached for a throwing dagger and let one fly, slicing through the wind with a whistle. The ardent defender narrowly avoided the weapon, and went over to assault her with his thickly muscled arms. Better things could have been done to intervene with the gargoyle champion, but Galio was already preparing another attack of the same intensity. Katarina thought otherwise. She leapt through the air with her arms extended, hair flowing freely in the wind, and daggers held firmly. Galio tried to conjure a spherical disk of forced gust, stirring with it mounds of swirling leaves and dust.
‘Well, we’ve been busy with a mission,’ she said. ‘Up all night, practically. Haven’t had any rest.’
‘Well now, then perhaps these treats will be better received than I anticipated,’ Morgana said with a smile. Talon tore into a sweet roll, not realizing how much of a mess he was making, and Katarina sipped casually on her coffee, the beige glass mug was warm to the touch. As the skies had darkened from clouds and rain, Morgana took to lighting candles all around the bakery, filling the space with a pleasant fragrance. After all the candles had been lit, Morgana turned to face the spacious hearth located between two large gilded windows obscured by black drapes. She raised her hand and with a few simple gestures conjured a brilliant purple flame. The flame seemed to dance and sway from the manipulations of her fingertips, and in an instant she projected it to the hearth, causing the piles of kindling within to burst into flame. The fire flickered purple for several moments before returning to its natural orange and red state, though the edges of the flame still contained hints of purple, as though Morgana’s magic had some unexplained residual effect. As the afternoon dragged on, the three champions shared coffee and multiple slices of Isomalt’s Peccable Pecan Pie, one of Morgana’s better known culinary masterpieces. Srillex was becoming more comfortable serving and other standard operational procedures, so Morgana did not mind leaving him to tend to customers as she socialized. Without revealing specifics, Katarina informed Morgana of the recent mission. Morgana was aghast that necromancy had been used against the Noxian people, as such an act was strictly forbidden.
‘Don’t worry about your shop. The threats have been reported outside of town for the most part,’ said Katarina. ‘However, it might be wise to keep an eye out. If you notice any suspicious activity, please let me know.’
‘Unauthorized necromancy? Near Noxus?’ Morgana mused. It was known that certain acts of necromancy were permitted within the city-states of Noxus and Zaun, as such magic had been used to reanimate the Undead Champion, Scion, and Urgot, the Headsman’s Pride. These champions had been revered for their services to Noxus, and it was deemed appropriate to allow them to continue their services within the League, even in death. Since then, Valorian politics had shifted to be extremely wary of necromantic rituals, as it was known that if wielded by the wrong hands, untold havoc would be wrought. Katarina discreet enough to not indicate the nature of the acts, nor did she explain in much detail locations of the incidents. In truth, the Noxian High command was still in the dark with regard to pinning an identity to the one responsible for the attacks. All that was known was that a Summoner within the league, presumably acting on the motivation to undermine Noxus and her allies, was practicing the forbidden art in secret.
The rain outside began to pelt on the window panes and seeped into the bakery from beneath the floorboards, causing Morgana to become distressed. ‘Oh Srillex,’ she said, ‘please get to work on cleaning up this mess! My customers will not appreciate having a wet floor within my bakery.’ The creature obeyed diligently and retrieved a small pale from the back room, as well as a mop that was at least three times his height. Morgana returned to the front counter and made preparations for the afternoon rush as the workday drew to a close. Katarina and Talon had been given keys to upstairs rooms to stay for the night. Not wanting to brave the less than agreeable weather, they accepted the generous offer. The weary champions retreated to their quarters, and proceeded to sleep the rest of the day away. Talon practically dove into the soft, freshly laid sheets. The sound of raindrops and shuffling feet from below faded together in a blur of cacophony, as the surrounding world drifted away from him.
Talon awoke to a frigid draft brought upon by early morning winds. Something was wrong. He shot up and glanced around the small room. He could hear nothing aside from the whistle of the wind. His window was wide open, and so was the door to his room. He shifted sideways and rolled out of bed, mind still recovering from the fog of a deep sleep. The first thing he notices was an antique lacquered nightstand that had fallen to the ground, its contents in disarray across the hardwood. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his sore eyes, stood up, and scanned the area. Something was definitely wrong. He wondered over to the door, still not hearing sound from below or anywhere else. The hallway was empty, devoid of presence. Katarina’s door was also wide open, so he walked through it. He peeled back the large white blanket of her bed, but he was not there. All that was left was the scent of her perfume. The bed was still warm. He called for her, but there was no response. With his heavy boots thudding across the hardwood he walked over to the top of the staircase, and observed that the entire bakery was empty. He considered for a moment that he was dreaming, but immediately dismissed the thought. This was no dream. His counterparts had gone missing. The old steps groaned as he raced down them. He took note of the fact that the bakery entrance had been boarded shut. Nothing could explain this abrupt absence of the two Champions. Talon wondered how long he’d been sleeping for, and could not understand what was going on. His mind raced. He approached the front door and attempted to drive it open with his shoulder. It wouldn’t budge and inch. The sound of falling plates crashing to the ground into bits and pieces could be heard from the back room, and Talon immediately raced over to see what was going on. Amid a pile of cooking supplies and other miscellaneous debris, there was Srillex, his black, orb-like eyes wide with fright. Talon stood there and eyed the creature cautiously, not knowing how to react. Srillex pointed to the front door, and made a sad expression. ‘What happened here?’ asked Talon. The tiny creature replied with a whimper before scampering around the room as though he’d been spooked by some unseen spectre. ‘What’s going on?’ The cold draft from outside filled the bakery, the wind whistling with a foreboding howl that caused Talon to shiver. He strode over to the coat rack and retrieved from it his grey overcloak, and noticed that it had been cleared out. He was beginning to feel trapped. Srillex then appeared next to Talon, and within his grasp was a small piece of folded paper. It was a note. The creature extended his small arm towards Talon, note in hand. He took this curious note and began to read it.
Talon, there is not much time. We were unable to wake you due to the immediacy of what took place. There is a match requesting our presence where we are to be summoned upon the Fields of Justice. Surely you will understand. – Morgana.
After reading the note, Talon’s hand trembled with frustration. He was fighting to understand why his services had not been required at the time of summoning, and with that, he got up, and proceeded to lift the locks on the door and head out into the rain-ridden streets. He sheathed his visage beneath the large grey overcloak, and pushed his way through the concentrated masses of people, who were altogether exhibiting downtrodden expressions respective of the atrocious weather. Talon didn’t care about the weather, as he found the rain most often to be comforting. The streets were awash with filth. Shopkeepers opened their doors and dumped raw waste onto the streets, disregarding all safety regulations. Had a Noxian guard been near enough to witness such a barbaric act, there might have been dealt a harsh punishment. The streets of Noxus were in no way as bad as those of Zaun, where the waste of theoretic hextech experimentation ran rampant through the sewers, soon to be harvested and converted to shimmer, a highly addictive narcotic that, when applied to this skin, conveys the emotions of the user via fluorescent light. The drug was known to cause irreversible skin and muscle degradation, and long term use had been associated with many irresponsible deaths. Talon was headed to Zaun, and he was sure that whatever awaited him there would provide answers. He didn’t bother to pack his belongings, nor did he alert the High Command of his departure. Katarina would have done the same for him. He had come to develop a mutual understanding with her, he cared for her, and to know that she was in some kind of threatening situation caused him great distress. The Noxian night drew upon the sky above a sinister darkness that was shrouded by cloud drift and rolling thunder. The rain fell at an ever increasing rate, and all around the city washed away in floods of precipitation that had not been seen in weeks or even months. The political uprising within the High Command was on everyone’s lips, and not one shred of new evidence surrounding the rogue Summoner had been discovered. He was still out and causing havoc within the rural graveyards, and the hasty departure to Zaun would most certainly not bode well with Swain and his associates. Talon didn’t care. He needed to leave the city with all due haste, and nothing was going to stop him. Swain’s forces were more than capable of supressing the undead threat along the city borders, and a small part of Talon considered that it had all be an elaborate deception for the purposes of concealing the true nature of the experiments. Perhaps Swain himself was responsible for the malicious activity, and it had all be part of some undercover testing program that had gone awry. Send in the Crimson Elite to investigate, they’ll make your problems disappear. None of it made sense. Conspirators in Zaun would of most certainly paid top dollar to allow for necromantic experimentation to take place unhindered, and it was not unlike them to do so. Deep within the underground waste factories and bizarre centers of medical experimentation, Zaun possessed within its hextech-reinforced walls a litany of dark secrets that kept the shrouded world of forbidden magic thriving.
And the pathways leading out of the city were as foreboding as ever. An unexplainable buzz of activity centered around the actions of everyone Talon passed by. People everywhere were discussing the events that had taken place no less than mere hours ago. These people were not in a mode that most was most commonly exhibited, but a panicked state, a state that only came about during times when major political unrest was about to take place. Talon stopped to consider that his actions would be met with severe reprimanding upon his return, but he didn’t care anymore. Katarina was more important to him than he cared to let on, and he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of this entire necromantic fiasco, and would have even taken it up with both the Noxian and Zaun authorities to consider banning the practice altogether, but in their eyes he was a lowly assassin, another Du Couteau pawn to be used in the practices of the league for the purposes of resolving political conflicts untreatable with conventional diplomacy. General Du Couteau had been adamant in his resolve to incorporate the League into everyday political affairs, and this line of thinking had been met with harsh opposition by all sides. The power struggles that took place over the delegation tables and legislative bodies had been legendary, but none of that mattered now. The five rune wars that ravaged Valoran were cast aside like an open wound that couldn’t be fixed, and in light of the creation of the Institute of War, detractors had harped down to feed off the tissue decay.
The blue flames of Noxian streetlights lit the rain-soaked streets, a blur of neon steel reflected in water waves. The city boarders were closed, and the guards patrolled in force. No matter, thought Talon, he knew the right way to slip past them. He took off down an alleyway, kicked through a mouldy mount of cardboard boxes, and slashed through puddles and other collections of forgotten waste. Cases of rotten food were lined up on ledges against the wall like drinking bottles. Talon crossed the threshold of civilized living and entered the Noxian slums, a place that few League champions went. Many years ago, this place had been his home, and being back here in the twilight of night, with rain soaked memories streaming down the uneven dirt roadways, brought upon a sting of nostalgia. He fought to find a steady grip as his footing became loose under the muddy walkway, and he almost fell several times. There wasn’t a soul to be found out on a night like this. Makeshift window panes and unhinged doorways rattled and thumped at the assault of howling winds. To have stable living conditions here was somewhat of an advanced luxury that few were capable of obtaining. Talon happened by an old beggar dressed in tattered robes and a black head band, staring sullenly at the soaked floor. He appeared despondent, berift of hope, and Talon had been there, he was there now. Nothing at all would of made him see otherwise. This was his time to break through the military blockage, to find the right path, and never before had he wanted to take care of the alternative. Finding the right path took altogether a more difficult situation that was not even a specialisation needed for stealth.
Katarina ducked for cover as high-speed projectiles seared over her head. It was difficult for her to get a grasp of the situation, but she knew that her assailants were hiding for cover within a patch of long grass no further than twelve feet in front of her. From within deep cover, Luxanna unleashed a prismatic beam of focused energy, searing the tops of plants, leaving behind a blackened trail of charcoal bits.
‘I’ll get you yet, Katarina!’ exclaimed Lux. She was preparing in her silk-gloved hands another concentrated blast of light. Her mind became focused like a photon passing through a crystalline prism, the energy bouncing of perfectly formed structures of subatomic particles. Her eyes grew dark as the infusion of magic was reconciled from a stranded state, bundled into fragments of power capable of being manipulated by one who could envisage the invisible forces underlying the magic. Katarina was at first blinded by the encroaching wave of brilliant heat. The balls of heated energy flew over the water silently, their reflection poised to imitate the light of the sun. Katarina retreated from her position as the beams decimated the long-grass patch, and she dove into a forward front flip before executing a swift side-step maneuver that brought her mere inches away from Lux’s face. The mage was shocked, and did not react in time. With a smile, Katarina unleashed her daggers and brought them down with the same striking force that had earned her the title of The Sinister Blade. Lux flinched, tried to dodge, but was too late. The blade plunged deep inside of her, and she had no magic to summon to her defence. Katarina grunted as she ripped free the blood soaked weapons, and Lux was nearly toppled over from the brutal wound.
‘I told you once, Lux’ said Katarina, ‘your blood has slaked my blades once more, and it’s now time to finish this.’ With a wicked grin, no, a bloodthirsty smile, Katarina pulled back her right arm as far as it would go, her blade glinting brilliantly from the water-reflected sunlight. Lux tried to speak, but the words escaped her. Her breathing fell short. Splashes of water accompanied the dull thud of her body breaking the ankle-length water, followed by a stream of bursting bubbles that came from her mouth.
Katarina stood over the still body, her eyes wide with glee. She felt herself become invigorated with the excitement of the kill, a feeling that she was all too familiar with. She craved it. It satisfied within her a chemical addiction that few activities could evoke. Before she had time to revel in the kill, it became apparent that Warwick had caught her scent. Deep within the dense jungles ahead of her, the Wolf champion leapt forward, bloodlust blazing in his bright red eyes. He strode upon thickly muscled legs that propelled him forward with a frightening alacrity. Little did Katarina know, the beast had watched the whole ordeal go down, and he was hungry for her blood. Katarina, still savoring the recently administered kill, caught sight of the beast moving towards her. The water beneath her feet splashed as she maneuvered to take him on. Without taking into account the recently acquired advantages that Warwick had obtained, Katarina, being the headstrong assassin she was, charged directly into him without concern for her own life. The beast let loose a vicious howl before returning to his forward stride. Katarina braced for impact, and had very little time to react. The onslaught of devastating attacks that accompanied Warwick’s charge were vicious enough to rend most creatures limb from limb. Katarina was deft enough to avoid the brunt of the attack, but no sooner had she dodged his first barrage of attacks than Warwick extended his grasp to reach her. With one well-placed swipe, Warwick’s claws raked through her frail leather armor, the skin underneath, tearing flesh, unable to provide suitable resistance against the brutality. Sharp tendrils of pain spiked through her projected nervous system, sending her reeling. Blood flowed freely from the open wounds, and she was shaking on the ground. Warwick stood over top of her, cackling loudly, the sinister laugh travelling across the waterway with sound-waves of pure malicious intent. Nothing could have been done to prevent the attack. Katarina had dispatched Lux without restraint, and in her blind haze of murderous intentions, she was unable to free from her transfixed mind the sight of her attacker, bearing down on her with an unrestrained force that was unthinkable. Katarina had no time to process; her evasive maneuvers were not enough to impede that with was inevitable. The sun glimmered magnificently in the discordant waves across the swamp surface, blue waves, beams of light being scattered like shrapnel fragments from an exploding bomb. The blood the flowed openly from her wounds mixed with the perfectly reflected water. There were no options to consider other than withdrawing her life essence from the psychological bond that had interfaced with the Summoner responsible for providing a direct neural link, connecting her every action and fiber of her experience manipulated by the unseen force that made her a willing puppet. The Summoner responsible for Katarina’s actions felt a slight disturbance in the connection, the rippling pain, and fought to subdue it. Her mind was filled with stabbing icicles, clutches of bristling adamantine hooks weaving through spindles of tissue with little to no effort. It was a guttural experience to be responsible for the death of your Champion, and the time spent waiting for the ritual of continuance to take place felt like the echoes of eternity calling back to you from the void, a black, malign place inhabited by stygian specters hungering for the psychic energies of individuals lacking mental fortitude. This is how it had always been, and would always continue to be. The resolution of political conflicts could never be transitioned in such a way as to take part on an open battlefield, the throes of battle were obsolete, the untold glory and carnage once sought by bloodthirsty mages in the rune wars so long ago, decimating the Valorian earth, untold destruction, bringing with them pillars of flame so radiant that the extermination of life had been imminent. There was within a small garden, where multiple carrots did grow, and Garen could be seen in a spot of rain suspended off a fern in the distance. It was night now, and Katarina was there. So was Malzahar, and even Teemo. He was standing near opaque mushrooms filled with poison from the Kumungu jungle, a mixture designed for maximum potency. Patches of long-grass swirled together in a borderless mesh of earthen pastels, and the little Yordle hid there, his canvas scout-hat bobbing above the overgrowth as the other champions passed by unaware. Garen gave a brief scan of the area as he recollected his senses. Lux was nowhere to be found. Charcoal dust from the dead stumps of miscellaneous plants peppered the sodden earth. Rising winds swept northward a howling chill that rattled tree branches bare. Not a whisper of doubt would dare cross Demacian lips. They were stalwart Champions of the League, impenetrable to the effects of a heedless ambition, as was most often the case with the Noxian dogs. Garen brandished his steel from a crisp scabbard of bejewelled gold inscriptions decreeing unwavering Demacian loyalty. Lux’s death would be avenged, and Garen would make sure of it. The preparation for full scale combat was in order, and there was nowhere left to hide. Out in the open, the opposing Champions faced one another at the same moment that noonday sunlight burst through the clouds. On one side, you had the steadfast, the unyielding, and the just, on the other, you had the unrelenting, the, strong sinister. Before even the first blow was dealt, an overbearing calm presided over the area.
Summoner Vandrik did not try and hide the fact that he was experiencing some distress. His summoning abilities were unquestionable, and no one doubted the fact that he was capable of unleashing havoc against the enemy team. To his credit, the mage had an illustrious and prolific record on the Fields of Justice, and so he had seen many dedicated years to the Institute of War. The final call for the summoning to take place was called, and the group of mages dropped their discussion immediately. The summoning circle upon which they stood was inscribed with words of protection and power, to both stabilize and strengthen the bond between Summoner and Champion. The Summoners stood evenly around the stone circle as the ritual took place. Elder Summoner Belsted initiated the ritual by calling forth an arcane torrent of magical energy accessible only to the most advanced Summoners. From this torrent he withdrew the raw magical energy needed to initiate the summoning ritual. His fingertips sparked blue from the subtle manipulations that only a master spellcaster could make, and when he uttered the invocations of channelling, the other summoners became attuned to the flow that would soon link them to their respective champions. Vandrik became absorbed by the invisible forces of binding flaring blue within the space of his mind, a willing procedure allowing his conscious will to be projected into the essence of another. At the moment of binding, the surrounding environment blurred away with blinding motion, replaced by a vibrating warp tunnel of deviously curved ovals and rippling purple sheets of interspatial fabric. Novice summoners were delegated the task of enhancing these tunnels by empowering them with protective barriers, rune-shields, glowing fluorescent orange across an endless sea of magical energy. This was a place where time could move in either direction, depending on the tidal currents of the maelstrom that existed in the center of this extra-dimensional plane of magic, a curious place uninhabited by organic forms. At the final moment of connection, Vandrik happened upon the willing consciousness of Katarina, his thoughts melding with hers, in concert with her will, so that he might impose his directional guidance upon it. While in this state, the Summoner was unable to cast direct spells on his own accord, and could not speak. His being was all but entwined with Katarina’s, there thoughts becoming a complex exchange of energy that impossible to break. For Summoners and Champions alike, this all-too-familiar transference of thought patterns initiated a dynamic process whereby transient linkages between thought and action were formed. Jaded as those familiar with the ritual may have been, every experience with it varied slightly, and part of it depended on the Champions’ prior affiliation with the Summoner he or she was connecting to. Summoners less acquainted with their target Champions experienced a slightly more turbulent interface affected by minor disturbances in the mental link. More experienced connections allowed for the determination of either party to be strengthened, regardless of whatever consequences might have occurred. Katarina stood upon the summoning platform, her fingers flexed through her crimson hair. The wind on Summoner’s Rift picked up and carried with it the forgotten remnants of leaves from dead trees that hid within nearby encasements of artificial containment.
She took two steps from the location from which she had entered the field of justice, a place of untold potency with regard to the outcome of all matters political. And it did not matter in the least about what nature the issue under consideration might portend, even as League detractors had once falsely claimed otherwise. To register with priority a sense of satisfaction upon the Fields of Justice, it was expected of a Summoner to be both deft of mind and spirit. The flexibility of one’s will was reliant on excessive mental agility, so nights spent in taverns prior to League matches were highly discouraged. Katarina eyed her Noxian teammates with a committed gaze. Her status within the High Command did not have the same technical jurisdiction here, but she was viewed as a leader all the same. Warwick was the first to meet her gaze, as the other three were still in a state of interfacing with their summoners.
‘Wonderful, miss. Where do you want me?’ said the Bloodhunter.
‘Alright Warwick, here’s what we’re going to do.’ Katarina withdrew her map. She made bright red markings with a quill upon the page. The plan she set in motion was absorbed by Warwick as he considered the plan of attack. Without time to waste, the Bloodhunter bounded off up the top lane, rushing forward with a ridiculous speed. Underneath his clawed limbs he pounded the earth relentlessly, seeking only to go to the location that Katarina had specified. Her words resonated with him, sat with him in earnest of their underlying importance, as if no other words could even match the same level of potency. She conveyed with her words a sense of unlimited aspiration, a motivational wall of importance that could not be interfered with. It was at times like these that beams of transcendence penetrated the visual sphere of the crystal screen projectors broadcasting in all the homes of Valorian spectators anxiously observing the actions taking place. In every home from the far eastern reaches of Ionia to the heart of Noxus and the hazardous waste dumps of Zaun. From school teachers to shop merchants, members of governance and of military, enthusiasm for Champion versus Champion combat taking place upon the Fields of Justice was tantamount to fanaticism. Most people chose a local Champion to support, but it was not support for foreign champions was not altogether unknown. However, it was known that the support of non-local champions was to be handled with a certain level of discreetness.
Warwick trampled over the piles of makeshift cover before him. Branches snapped underfoot. Rigid plants and bamboo sticks mixed with rocks were pushed away like weightless debris when subjected to the forceful strength of the Noxian werewolf. He neared the top tower and eyed solid concrete structure with contentment.
‘I don’t think this will be a wise spot to commit to an engagement,’ said Lux. In a moment of consideration, her countenance belied concern, as it was more often the case that she conveyed an indefatigable sense of joy regarded as being quite infectious. She eyed the mysterious reflections of bright sunlight coming from the forward tower, inching forward, quiet yet precise, the white fabric of her demur Demacian outfit comfortably ruffling from jungle gusts. Luminosity accompanied her articulate hand gesture, directed ahead swallowed by darkness. Trees parted, and bundles of mist wheezed from the foliage. Within the densest parts of dark, there could be seen the shimmering outline of a bipedal figure. Lux was taken aback by the sight. It might have been a stealthed Champion, and she was unsure of this. The form moved, light bending properties coiling the plants and root systems deflected modestly, but it was noticeable nonetheless. She knew someone was there.
Talon’s stealth could have been more effective. Lux stood frozen before his concealed position, the gold outline of her modern Demacian attire glimmering with the same sheen as her fawn tresses. She seemed to take notice of his movements, but he was not quite sure. The Lady of Luminosity was known to be deceiving in her ways, and Talon knew that if he made a false move, she would be onto him. He stepped cautiously through a tangled mess of ferns and held his blade poised to strike. Lux was walking forward now, her head tilted. In her left hand a crystalline baton crackled with pent up magical energy. It rattled in her hand from the tension within, and it took no small amount of energy to keep it under containment. Lux eyed her potential victim with glee. ‘Not so fast, Noxian!’ she cried aloud. Talon felt familiar rush of fight-or-flight, sensory perceptions dominated by the apogee of an adrenaline rush.
And that’s how it happened. Lux darted ahead and took aim at the assassin with her baton, and conjured a prismatic shield for herself. From deep in the woodlands he saw her, and he didn’t even care that she had taken notice of him. The ripples on the water became bridges with the light emanating from her baton, and it was difficult to ignore. Talon looked up with a smirk, seeing that he could get an upper hand in the situation, he leapt forward with a dash that passed by so swiftly as to kick particles of dirt up around it. The mage crossed his path and, with a smile, unleashed a blast that caused the water in the surrounding lake to evaporate with a sizzle.
‘You’re mine,’ Talon said. He slashed forward with his right arm, attempting to slash with precision, but Lux was deft to avoid the attack, causing to Talon to fall forward and cut nothing but air. When he sprang forward once more, she was unable to dodge, and took a deep gash on her side. Talon retracted the weapon, looking, satisfied. The Demacian champion was wounded, but far from giving up. She fired back at him a prismatic burst that rocked the foundations of his footing. He slumped back to the ground, falling face first into a pool of running water filling his mouth as he delved into the muck. She grinned, and summoned from her fingertips a crackling vortex of concentrated photonic energy. With a blinding flash, a column of pure white drew forward like a train. The air surrounding the beam broke apart into blurry waves that screamed under the intense heat. Talon was stricken in his side, and the force of the attack knocked him the ground. He looked up at Lux, face winced in pain, and with but a moment before the darkness overtook him, noticed her smile. There were times when, without warning, a Champion would remain dead on the field for a duration of time before being re-summoned, or returned to their Summoner in a physical form for the process to begin all over again. It was not possible for the summoning to take place in a short amount of time, which is why Champion deaths were so taxing.
Lux took a bow as the Demacian supports erupted with praise. From all across Demacia, those in support of the events felt the sweep of jubilation. Children, parents, and citizens alike reacted to the events in either a form of dismay or excitements.
The scenery washed away in a haze of light. Talon fell to the ground, defeated, and his body returned to the Summoner’s platform in a cloud of electrified mist. As he lay there, the ritual to re-summon him was already taking place, as the magisters fought to re-establish a stable portal though which Talon would resume fighting. Summoner Rek met eyes with Talon in such a way as to convey a sense of disturbance, as though one had let down the other, and it was not a glance that any Champion liked to receive. In an instant Rek stepped forward and prepared once more the arcane ritual. Talon got to his feet, the residual pain from Lux’s overpowering attack still spiking through his system. He took deep breaths to shake of the weariness that accompanied League death, a residual pain that experienced Champions were all too familiar with. Between Summoner and champion there were few words exchanged. Each one knew what the other was capable of, and it was a bond strengthened only by familiarity. Novice as she was, Summoner Rek knew Talon’s mind well enough to execute fairly diverse actions without a conflict of interest. This was in spite of the fact that Talon was not known to be among the most receptive of Champions. It took a special mind to acclimate to a Champion, to device the inner workings of the thought process transmitted through invisible fields of inter-dimensional magic.
Swain took the field with his trademark bird cawing at the wind. He was not about the let Garen out of his sight. The heavily armoured Demacian was treading heavily up the middle lane, followed by a great purple mass of blue-robed minions. It was as if he carried with him all the splendor and might of Demacia, and his intent was to uphold that might by carving a swath of destruction shining like wicked defiance in the face of Noxian opposition. The High General stepped out from the patch of shade cast upon the ground by the guardian turret at his back. He scanned the Demacian with a calculated gaze, monitoring for the best time to strike. Unlike Garen, Swain was well versed in all matters tactical, and would on a whim change the course of a battle. Such a grim display of steel wits was well regarded in the League, as it far more creative a strategy than brute force along. There was little that could be done to interrupt the summoning process once it had been initiated. Tendrils of psionic force split through the center of the summoning platform, revealing a cascade of light that shone far brighter than the braziers of blue flame surrounding the platform. It was difficult to take note of the searing light as it reverberated through the Institute of war. Acts of summoning took no small amount of concentration. Summoner Rek attuned her mind once more with the tidal stream, tying in her experienced spell craft with Talon’s psyche. The void was cold, barren, bereft of sentience. Only an experienced rift walker could navigate the bleak planes of elemental energy, the basis of existence. This was place accessible to not mere mortals but the enlightened. In the blink of an eye, Talons nostrils filled with the fresh air of Summoner’s Rift once again. He looked over the landscape and began to sprint forward, intent on getting back into the fight as quickly as possible, taking off down the bottom lane as the Noxian onlookers cheered for his return.
In the top of the map, there was a heated battle going on between Galio and Katarina. The red haired assassin crept up on the winged beast, feeling the same unrestrained bloodlust as she’d felt when fighting Lux. The Sentinel pushed aside a feeling of doubt when he saw the enemy Champion. He was aware of Katarina’s superior combat tactics, but at the same time he had developed a proficiency at avoiding them. In fact, he was able to circumvent them by making his body as rigid as possible, to the extent that Katarina’s blades could not pierce his flesh. As she charged forward, screaming a tribute to Noxus that caused Galio to cringe, he focused his vision on the running target, making sure to anticipate movement. A rapid fire burst of focused light erupted from the tips of his irises, sending dual yellow beams of heated energy directly towards Katarina. She was unable to dodge the lasers, and when she was struck in the shoulder, the burning heat snapped her back with the force of a whip crack. Brushing off the attack, Katarina reached for a throwing dagger and let one fly, slicing through the wind with a whistle. The ardent defender narrowly avoided the weapon, and went over to assault her with his thickly muscled arms. Better things could have been done to intervene with the gargoyle champion, but Galio was already preparing another attack of the same intensity. Katarina thought otherwise. She leapt through the air with her arms extended, hair flowing freely in the wind, and daggers held firmly. Galio tried to conjure a spherical disk of forced gust, stirring with it mounds of swirling leaves and dust.
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