#papa burd storytimes

[visionofnoxus]

Fight Me owo

Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Comments, reactions, feedback etc appreciated. As always.

The gloved hand pushed close the heavy double doors of the office. The General looked down the hallway in the direction of his personal quarters. The torchlight illuminated the tall stone hallway, yet shadows were aplenty as midnight grew close. Hearing the lock click, Swain started down the path towards his own quarters and the well earned rest.

The silence of the nightly caste was soothing to the tired mind of the Grand General, the man having spent the entire day working either in his office or in meetings with military officials and public servants alike… His steps slowed down to a halt, ears perking up as the tired mind caught up with the realization. The night patrols. He could not hear the paces of reinforced boots on the stone floors somewhere. Or anywhere at all. A deep sight escaped the man’s lips, the demonic arcana beginning to wake up within him.

And in an instant, the attack came like a lightning strike, a long kunai aimed straight at his heart. Unfortunately for the assassin, Swain’s schedule had included today an attendance at drill fields and his breastplate was still on, the dagger finding no purchase and recoiling away from the dark iron.

The general’s closed eyelids parted, revealing a deep crimson hue. His vision now enhanced, he spotted the would be killer, hiding on the shadows at the ceiling. The lithe young woman was in the process of preparing a second kunai, this time aiming for neck. But Swain would not permit her to finish, extending a hand and blasting at her with a bolt of sorcerous lightning.

Nimble and fast, the woman dodged by dropping down, dashing forward the very second her feet met the stone. The general took a step back and slashed with his hand, an enormous blood-colored claw launching towards the kunoichi like a wall of blades. A tiniest change in the approach vector and the rushing assassin leapt at the wall, springing from there to strike at the Noxian.

The kunai and kama alike extended like the paws of a tiger, Akali’s form resembling that graceful predator as she dived for him. Desperate to avoid the fatal hit, Swain himself stepped forth, choosing to meet the attack before the Ionian’s blades could fall down on him. The move was unexpected, the woman’s eyes widening ever so slightly as she attempted to pull her blades in for the kill in time, but the split second of time she had was too short to make correction, the two crashing into one another. Akali’s momentum sent both parties rolling down the hallway in a mess of bodies and steel.

As they tumbled, the Ionian dropped the kama, clutching just the dagger and grasping Swain’s armor for balance, preparing to strike the second they slowed. But Swain’s back hit the ground and she attempted to bring down the blade, the general’s hand seized her wrist, the demonic claw closing around her neck with a near crushing pressure. The combatants’ eyes met, both panting from exertion as they stared at the stale mate.

She might be able to overpower his hand and sink the dagger in his neck, but at the same time he’d crush her windpipe and, as the warm feeling flowing down her neck suggested, would slice it open as well. The claw clearly was like a blade as well. “Is it worth the risk?” the Noxian asked from underneath her, his voice was cold, but lacking active hostility. Gritting her teeth behind the mask, Akali swore silently.

[visionofnoxus]

// An interesting idea. I may just take you up on that offer. Thank you for the story!

Invite me

Leave a “Invite Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character asking another character to join them.

“Dear General... er, no... Dear Jericho Swain... seems a bit less formal.” Jhin puts a pen to his tongue, deciding how to form a proper greeting for his little letter. A sluggish three minutes have gone by and he felt each one like a wave. While he does like a slow show, a slow start was simply something he didn’t pride himself in suffering through.

He idly begins to draw a few petals on the margin of the paper, finding it easier to scribble than to format a proper opening. He takes his thumb and smudges the inked petals to the right, smearing them to the side with a sort of roughness.

The ink leaves a stain on his skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind it as he pricks his mind for what to include in the body of the letter. He doesn’t want to make it sound like some sort of trap, because it isn’t.

“... I would request that you come to my property when you’ve free time. You won’t be troubled by any authorities or my countrymen up in the mountains where I live. You will simply need to provide your location when you arrive and I will guide you to the crag I call home...” He writes, preventing himself from writing in cursive due to him wanting to keep things casual.

His mind wanders once more as it trails off into a different train of thought, wondering what sort of trouble would bloom if Swain were to actually accept his invitation. It excites him terribly and he picks up the pace of his writing at the realization. 

“... i’d like to speak on your apparent power. Do not think that such rumors have been contained inside of Noxus. Perhaps in return I can also provide you with a few pointers on how the fuel that drives my performances works. I think you’d do well to take interest, as I believe you’d be at a loss when trying to find someone with my kind of flare.”

He pauses, rereading his own writing to ensure he can find satisfaction in it. Once he settles on it being acceptable, he signs the bottom of his letter and rolls it up, tying it with a crimson band. He gets his ‘common clothes’ on, what he deems to be a normal outfit for a man of Ionia, and quickly rushes out onto the road to deliver his invitation.

[visionofnoxus]

[ "Fight me" / or / "Tell Me" ] I'll let you choose, dear ♥

Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours [be it a love confession, a secret, feel free to specify.]

A sound to go with the reading. As always, I welcome feedback.

Jericho Swain laid in his bed. It was large four poster bed, as wide as it was long, each of the four posts a marvelous display of carpentry with details paying homage to Noxus on the onyx colored wood. The mattress was covered with finest linen, the bedsheets expensive shuriman cotton, dyed in colors of midnight black and decorated with vibrant emerald green thread forming shapes of raven’s wings. The man’s head rested against a large pillow, it too covered with expensive cotton and embroidery.

He laid motionless, staring at the shadow shrouded ceiling of the tall bedchamber, listening intently. A slow, deep inhale through nose had his toned chest raise, then a moment of holding breath until with a long and even exhale, the man let his lungs empty out completely. A brief pause, and he’d start anew. His body felt warm underneath the covers, and it might had been a bit too warm, were it not for the cooler body clutching his right side. A petite form of a pale woman laid against him, Swain’s senses feeling every soft curve of her body through the silken chemise she wore to bed.

Emilia’s stretched out arm reached to cling gently on his shoulder, her fair face resting against his chest as she slept. The gentle curve of her breasts and the flat stomach were resting against his side, one of her beautiful long legs climbing on his waist and laying between his legs as she hugged him in her asleep. Swain listened intently, felt with all his senses and even then, he could just barely make out her breath, or feel the tiny motions of her chest rising and falling with inhales and exhales. The woman laid still, as if having turned into a fair statue, rather than a person asleep. But sleeping she was, Swain was certain of it, for he’d been like this for hours already, just listening to the woman rest in his arms.

“Emilia” Swain said quietly. It wasn’t a whisper, nor was it meant to stir her either. It was a quiet uttering of the woman’s name. A desire to give a breath to the name of the lady sharing his bed here and now, to enjoy the sound of her name on his lips. He paused for a while, listening on her again. There was no change, her silent breathing carrying on undisturbed.

The Tactician stared at the ceiling, just letting all of this be drawn to his mind, to create a perfect memory of this place, this feeling and her. Pouring all his intellect and ability into it, the man memorized everything about them. For he knew these moments were rare beyond counting and that one day they’d not even be possible anymore. His hand slid underneath the back of her chemise, fingers gently drawing shapes on her soft skin of her back. A melancholic smile was permitted on the man’s face as he tilted his head to inhale the scent of her hair. “I am in love with a deceitful witch” He whispered to the sleeping woman. Leaning back, he added: “And am grateful for it”.

[visionofnoxus]

“Fight Me” >:3

Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Feedback, reactions, thoughts are, as always, greatly appreciated.

The Grand General strode forward, combing mentally through his findings. The heavy greatcoat was wrapped tightly around him, the cool and misty night of Bilgewater having a surprisingly chilling effect even on a hardened veteran like Swain. He’d be happy to raise the anchor at the earliest light.

As he rounded yet another corner, approaching the docks where the Noxian’s ship was, a shiver traveled down his spine. The man didn’t quite know what caused it, but his body knew the tell and reacted instinctively, Swain hurling himself sideways suddenly, crashing into the wall of the building. The flying jagged blade missed the center of his back, instead merely cutting open the side of his arm, the thick coat offering virtually no protection.

Hissing in pain, the general spun on his heels, seeing the harpoon return to the wielder who crouched at the corner, the milky eyes glowing dimly as the would-be-assassin reassessed the situation. “I thought we had no need for this?” Swain mused dryly, his expression a scowl despite the seemingly calm tone. Unmoving and emotionless, Pyke answered: “Plan changed”.

Ever the talker, the general thought, lifting his arm and shooting a blast of crimson lightning at the assassin. To neither ones’ surprise, Pyke dodged it, hurling his dagger at Swain again while charging, attempting to close in the distance. The Noxian was not armed with anything else than magic. It was the assassin’s best bet to finish him off in melee, or retreat.

His prey would not give in easy though. The old man showcased surprising nimbleness in dodging and simultaneously extended his claw out again. Another crackling arcana blast echoed in the alleyway, scalding Pyke’s shoulder, but he’d been through worse and shrugged it off. With a sharp tug the dagger returned to his hand, the distance between two reduced to mere few steps, the blade angling to be sunk straight into Swain’s heart. Just before it would connect though, the voices in the Ripper’s head screamed out a warning. 

In his mind, the situation progressed in slow motion, as if they’d been underwater. More sensing than seeing, the assassin realized the Noxian’s other hand was coming towards him with hand angled like a blade. What was worse, the hand glowed in crimson, it’s fingertips like teeth of a trident, intent on spearing him. This wasn’t just a mage!

With a grim determination, Swain punched forward, preparing to receive the strike and kill the assailant at the same time, his unnatural healing saving him from the deadly hit. But just as the two fighters’ weapons were about to taste each others’ flesh, Pyke’s form shifted. Like a watery mist, it dissipated, Swain’s fatal strike punching through the fog while he spun around on his heels, staring at the assassin who now stood behind him.

The combat paused, the two just staring at one another, the dimly glowing whites of the Bloodharbor Ripper meeting with the crimson colored orbs of the Grand General. A series of blows had been exchanged, but neither had been able to secure the quick victory they’d hoped. Clutching his dagger in front of him at the ready, Pyke spoke first, his garbled voice carrying to Swain’s ears: “Fight over. Both die if continued”.

The man’s covering form might had led some to believe he was afraid, but Swain knew better, recognizing the validity of the other’s statement. Additionally, the Ripper’s current pose brought to his mind a cornered animal. And there was no more dangerous opponent than a trained killer who felt desperate. “Agreed. Leave me alone and I won’t pursue” The general promised. “Deal” Came a gargled response. Just like before, the man just shifted into a fog, disappearing from sight with some unnatural talent of his.

Listening and feeling around with his senses for awhile, Swain waited until he felt the other one was truly gone. Straightening up, the general’s eyes went at the torn sleeve and the wound. “The Bloodharbor Ripper hmm?”. Noxus might yet have use for a man such as Pyke. But could he be hired?

[visionofnoxus]

✂ - for my muse to snap at yours as a result of a bad mood (Viiribus)

// This one was painful to produce. A complete blank when I began writing it, but I think it turned out good?

The heavy steps and clattering of the plate armor heralded the approach of The Hand. The two trifarians flanking the doors to the Grand General’s office took a glance at one another, weighing their options. As Darius rounded the corner, reaching the doors, one of the soldiers decided to act. “General Darius” He started, stepping forward as the other one knocked on Swain’s door, informing the Master Tactician of the arrival of Darius. “Hmm?” The Hand grunted, his attention moving to the the soldier. “Sir, Grand General is… Tense today. You may want to be cautious” the trifarian warned, receiving a scoff from the general. “I know how to deal with general Swain, soldier. Just do your duty”. “Ah.. Yes sir!”. With that the trifarian returned back to his position, the other guard motioning for general to enter.

Entering the large office that Swain managaed the daily activity of the empire from, Darius laid his eyes on the older man sitting behind the desk. A strange sensation overcame him at the sight of Swain, a premonition of sort. His shoulders were hunched, the areas around his eyes slightly red, as if due to lack of sleep? The Hand of Noxus had to admit he did not know much of Swain’s health, but the man appeared exhausted… There may have been some merit to the warning of the soldier.

“… Grand General?” he said with a hint of caution. No response. Yeah. An issue. “Swain?” Darius called again, advancing through the office, the other man finally reacting. Looking up from between the stacks of papers, the tactician looked older than The Hand could recall seeing him in years. “Yes Darius, what is it?” Swain asked, his voice tight like the rope of a loaded catapult, about to unleash destruction on the poor fool on the receiving end. Caution was required. 

The larger man crossed his hands over his chest, deciding to get on with the topic and get out of here. Swain would sort whatever this was out on his own, or ask for help if needed. “The minotaurs have been brought down to tolerable levels and I am gathering a force to move north. I’ll leave most of the actual legion behind since this campaign shouldn’t be too challe…” He fell silent mid sentence. The Tactician’s eyes were unfocused, staring on the table surface without seeing anything. What the fuck? Knowing damn well he should just leave, Darius chose against it. The Grand General was unwell and the seat of Might would be damned before he’d leave the capitol behind with their leader in this state.

“Swain. What is going on?” He questioned firmly, stepping right across from the man, leaning over the desk. The older man snapped out of whatever dreamworld he’d been in moments prior. “Campaign won’t need proper legionnaires yes. A good chance to bloody some new troops…” His bloodshot eyes focused, the Tactician just noticing Darius’ proximity. “Don’t press me, general, I’ve had a foul couple of days” he growled a warning. “Carry out your duties as I carry out mine. I believe you had a campaign to lead”. The tone that ordered the end of this conversation was not unclear in slightest, but Darius wasn’t done, and he was not going to have Swain pull rank on him in this situation. “You can’t order me, I’m a Trifarix just like you. Now spit it out, what the hell is going on?”. And that was the spark straight into the black powder keg. The Grand General of Noxus blew up in manner so loud and unbecoming of him that The Hand was grateful only the two legionnaires outside were within earshot.

“EVERYTHING! Enemies on every god forsaken front and all the allies are either incompetent or impotent!” Swain raged, shooting up from his chair, stacks of paper flying across the room as his clawed hand tossed the files all over the place. “While you spent a week hunting that minotaur pack on Ironpeak mountains, that traitorous thief Gangplank sunk three of our frigates meant for Ionian garrisons! Meanwhile Piltover’s sheriff managed to intercept the weapon shipment we’d had ordered from Zaunites and the whole political shitstorm that’ll stirr will have me working for weeks. And as a cherry on top, that blood sucking leech Vladimir and his little cabal of sorcerers apparently drained a bunch of peasants as a practice. Nothing too bad there right? Except one of those peasants was actually general Vargas’ only son!” The grand general strode past Darius, the man listening in shock at the unloading in process. “What was the general’s kid doing with commoners?” he questioned, well aware of disgustingly elite he sounded, but asking away none the less. “I don’t know! Maybe there was a girl, maybe he was buying drugs. At the end of the day he died and now I have to cover up for the drained corpse”. Swain spun on his heels, closing the distance between the two. “I. Have. To. Cover. For that hemomancer. Void take him!” Swain shouted, finally running out of steam, for now. A silence took over, the grand general huffing and puffing, simmering with rage, exhaustion and desperation, the Hand of Noxus weighing the options. At the end of the day, he knew there was only one option and it frankly saying filled him with dread. “Swain” he started. “Hmm?”. “Take a day off”.

The old man stared at him, the tired eyes posing the inevitable question that Darius had to agree with partially. Are you mad? Grand General didn’t have days off. The Empire required endless maintenance, as proven by the papers now scattered all across the office. “Take a day off Swain. I will handle… This” Darius motioned at the mess around them. Stepping over to the still stunned Master Tactician, he grasped the man’s shoulder, spinning Grand General on his heels once more, guiding him towards the door on the side of the office, an access corridor to Swain’s personal quarters. “You need rest. I don’t know what you do with your free time. Start with a long nap. We talk tomorrow. Now go”. Opening the door, he pushed the exhausted man through it gently, shutting the door after without so much as another word. 

Focusing his attention on the Grand General’s office and the mess all around, the Hand of Noxus sighed. Marching behind the table, he removed his armor and sat down, pulling towards him the first stack of documents. “Valet!”. “Sir..?” Came the answer from the door, one of the trifarian legionnaires peaking their head in, clearly confused. Fixing an unrelenting, commanding gaze at the soldier, Darius spoke out, initiating his plan. “Something urgent has come up that requires Grand General’s attention. He will be unavailable for the rest of the day. I will be attending in his place. Get someone to reorganize this mess and show me grand general’s schedule for the rest of the day”. After an ever so brief pause, contemplating the immediate future ahead he added: “And bring ale. Dissmissed”. As the door shut, Darius took one more glance at the papers in front of him. “Fuck”.

[visionofnoxus]

// Thank you. Once again it seems like our stories might be by accident interconnected.

Call Me

DRABBLES

Ahri used to think she knew loneliness. It was an idea and a feeling she thought she had grown to know by now, considering how she outlived everyone she ever encountered. She also never thought she’d get to the point where the pain was too immense that crying out someone’s name, countless of times, would deem her throat sore, immobilize her for days at an end, and devastate her to the extent where she’d fail to find peace even in the activities she used to enjoy before.

Time heals all wounds.

But did it?

All she could do now was to wait, relying on the sole idea created by the very same things that she used to feat upon and that ultimately dragged her into this pit. And over time she succeeded in swallowing her emotions and containing what little was left of her spirits to survive, yet she knew from the exhaustion every morning that she was still chasing him in her dreams, yearning to jump into the sea and swim until the depths would claim her, still calling out.

But the world was changing, and she had to adapt. Though Ahri kept herself hidden in the depths of the forest, the winds whispered of the shifting tides, and it was time to re-emerge and integrate into the society. She witnessed the final confrontation, how the land was finally released of the shackles brought here by the Noxians, and she breathed in the fresh air of peace the deal brought, but there were other indicators that hinted as to how long she had spent in self-isolating. They spoke now of Grand General Swain, and thus she could rejoice with the rest over the idea of how Boram Darkwill was no more, but her real happiness lay deeper.

But this news bore a new light.

Even if that meant having her world turn upside down, throw it into spiralling chaos, did it even matter when she began devising a new plan?

The voice inside her head and her heart began calling out Swain’s name even louder than before, but this time it was not to reflect on their shared memories and emotions; it was filled with determination and a need to learn the truth.

Her curiosity was reignited.

Ahri’s eyes were on the horizon when she moved forward.

Do you hear me

When I call for you?

Can you feel me coming?

[visionofnoxus]

There is always a choice. The Truth is no exception.

// A vision. A nightmare. A man crippled and left to die faces a choice.

It was a nightmare he found himself in. He stood on a hill outside Noxus’ capitol, the Immortal Bastion. He looked above at the dark clouds hanging above his beloved city. Lowering his gaze he let it sweep around at the gargantuan fortifications that no fortress in the world could rival. But then he looked even lower and his heart and soul froze. The open moors and plains stretching around this beacon of strength and resolve were littered with corpses. Turning on his heels, looking around, he saw the true extent of the devastation. Legionnaires in their prized black iron armor, their militias in leather and other improvised gear. The crimson banners laid trampled in the mud and blood, forgotten and worthless, the bodies of their bearers just food for ravens to feast upon. 

He looked at the carnage, unable to avert his gaze as he began noticing others in the mass. Shuriman raiders and traders. Northern barbarians in their hides and leathers. The ionians in silks and cloth robes. Even demacians in their gleaming pristine armors. The moors were filled with corpses. All the dead and slain laying wasted and forgotten with nobody to remember or revere their memory. 

Suddenly he stood in the midst of them, climbing over the piles of bodies and treading in mud and blood, looking around with dread and anguish gripping his heart. Men, women and children. Soldiers and civilians alike, littered the fields in unfathomable numbers, all of them dead because of Noxus. Their lives given and taken in it’s name. He pressed on towards the large gatehouse that granted access inside the walls, the twin towers of Immortal Bastion beckoning him towards themselves. 

The dead began to draw memories and recognition from Swain as he approached the city. There were now familiar faces among the fallen. Vanquished enemy commanders and champions at first. Civilians who’d become collateral in his wars. Necessary sacrifices, he could recall telling himself back then. Fellow commanders and their troops who’d died in duty serving alongside him. Then soldiers from his own legion who’d perished under his command. This road of death was pawed with people who’d died during his life and whose deaths he’d been related to in a manner or another. 

As he approached the gate, Swain began recognizing the faces from his youth. His frantic running slowed down to a walk, hesitant and unwilling to carry on, yet the legs did as they pleased, bringing him closer to the gates. The dead were now from his childhood. From his teenage years. Men and women dressed in expensive clothes, the noble elite of Noxus. Traitors. His eyes spied the emblem of a rose on a cloak, another flower worn as a pin on the breast of a jacket. These first sacrifices were now heralding the end of the path littered in blood as Swain’s steps brought past the gate, the large plaza opening in front of him, the sight ruled over by the gallows to the side. On the platform hung two bodies, swaying in the wind that he could not feel. The first true sacrifice to the ideal Swain had dedicated himself to. 

The two words he wanted to say stuck to his throat, his voice unable to address it all. He had made his choice back then, and they had both died in shame, hung alongside so many others as their matron burned on stake. The sound beating wings broke his concentration. Jericho wrestled his eyes off his parents to look to the side, at the promenade leading deeper into the city and towards the Immortal Bastion. Six eyes stared at him, burning red and reflecting a mind not belonging to this world. They stared at him in challenge, daring him to make a choice. He saw now the destruction for what it was. The carnage and bloodshed. It was pointless. Built on a lie and made to serve a master that did not care for all those who had died, just like that master did not care how many more would be sacrificed to see their desires brought to fruition. 

What will you do, Jericho Swain?

The blood colored eyes questioned him, a shadowy silhouette forming around them. It’s shape was inhumane and alien. The sound of hundreds of wings flapping filled the plaza, Swain struggling to remain standing, staring down the entity as countless dark wings surrounded him and the creature alike, the two standing in the eye of the storm. In the distance, the Immortal Bastion stood. The seat of the traitor. The true monster. “It is all a lie” he answered over the deafening sound of the storm of ravens.

So it was. What will you do with that lie?

The eyes closed and disappeared from sight and suddenly Swain noticed how all the ravens that flew around were staring at him, their beady red eyes staring with that same strange intelligence. Then they came for him, and he disappeared into the storm of midnight black.

[visionofnoxus]

✿ (If you're still accepting these)

// And here we go. Hope you like it!

The muffled voices from behind the sturdy doors leading into his office peaked Swain curiosity. Putting down the quill and perking his ears, he attempted to piece together what the commotion was about. He didn’t have to ponder for long however, as the commotion announced itself while making a flashy entry.

The double doors swung open, clanging against the walls as the Crimson Reaper himself made his appearance, that familiar unsettling grin stretched across his face. A panicked trifarian legionnaire, one of the two posted outside doors was panicking and tailing the hemomancer, asking him to leave, telling how one could not just barge into the Grand General’s office like they owned the place and so on. That line of reasoning was shown to be somewhat lacking as the hemomancer had just done exactly that. 

Staring at the ancient sorcerer striding towards him, Swain sighed quietly. “Leave, sergeant. And make sure that no one else has the chance to repeat marques Vladimir’s… Flashy entrance”. The poor soldier turned pale at his calm order, bowing and practically running out of the office, leaving the two warlocks alone. “Jericho Swain, How are you feeling?” Vladimir said with mockingly sweet tone. 

Swain suppressed a groan. This meeting would no doubt be at the very least a verbal fencing match. Ignoring the pleasantries, he moved on. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today, Vladimir?” He replied in cool tone, narrowing his eyes at the man. “It must be something very important to bring you into my office in such a… Rushed fashion”. The tone of the sentence did poor work of masking the obvious criticism with feigned worry. 

“Ah but it is. And this is not a matter that could ever be solved with a message. No, such an important task required a bit of a personal touch. A certain presence” The hemomancer waved his finger at the general, annoying Swain more by each the second. He knew he was being played here, but towards end? “What is this important matter then?” He repeated the question, this time remarkably more straightforward.

“Ah but I already said it” the other man answered cryptically, Grand General furrowing his brows in confusion. Sighing melodramatically, the nobleman did not explain further, instead closing the distance between himself and Swain. Stepping right on the opposite side of the general’s massive work desk, he eyed the mortal with an evaluating gaze. Scanned the man through and through, even leaning forward as if to get a closer look. Finally he nodded. “Yes. I suppose all is fine”. That elicited a groan from the object of his curiosity. “What do you mean? Explain yourself Vladimir. Now” Swain ordered, his usually everlasting patience worn out in matter of minutes by the infuriating blood sucker. 

Taking an eye contact, the leech finally explained properly, smiling with a brazen glee. “Oh but I had to confirm you were in good health. You are the Grand General of Noxus after all”. Swain felt his mind blank. His eyes showed the open confusion, the realization trickling in slowly as the other man spoke on: “Following that little spar of ours, I had to make sure that you were alright. After all, you did get your feathers ruffled quite a bit no? I’d never forgive myself if…” That was as far as Vladimir got with his last insult, Swain shooting up from his seat with unnatural speed. The demonic left hand grasped hemomancer by the neck, pulling him over the table the socialite had still been leaning on, paper stacks flying in the air and scattering in all directions. With all the brute strength the Grand General was able to muster and even borrowing some from his demonic ally, Swain smashed Vladimir against the floor, choking the lithe man with enough strength to dent iron. It wasn’t enough to meaningfully harm the hemomancer though, and despite the obvious pain and discomfort of the attack, Vladimir’s smile never waned. 

Wheezing laughter escaped his lips as Swain hissed at him. “You disturb my staff. Barge into my office and disrupt my work. You sass me to my face and play with words instead of speaking out. And now it turns out it was a childish joke!?”. The man was livid, but the hemomancer just smiled. “Ah, but it was LeBlanc who urged me to come see you, to clean the air a little. And here I am”. Even now, the insufferable creature taunted him, twisting what had no doubt been a bit more complicated set of instructions into a taunt to try Swain’s nerves with. 

Shouting with anger and frustration, Swain stood up, still holding the hemomancer. With a single massive swing he hurled the other man across the office, sending the offending fool crashing towards the very doors he’d barged through earlier. It was only adding to the annoyance of the Grand General when by some miracle Vladimir regained control, falling on the floor with a cat-like grace and step as light as a feather. Truly inhumane looking movement, as if the hemomancer had flown for a second there. Bowing sarcastically to Swain, he spoke his farewell: “It was wonderful to talk with you Swain, maybe we should make this regular?”. “Get. Out” the general spat, his eyes the glowing with color of blood. And for once, the Crimson Reaper understood to just leave. He’d seen that look that Swain just gave him, and it had nearly ended him not too far in the history. Turning on his heels, Vladimir left, leaving the Grand General simmering with rage.

[visionofnoxus]

☠ - for my muse to try and kill or attack yours. ( uwu honestly feel free for a reverse if you want. )

// Here we go. Hope you enjoy. I also think you might guess just what had Swain deciding to take such a... Drastic approach. The straw that broke the camel’s back so to say.

“A spar, my dear general?” Vladimir asked, his voice a mix of confusion and delight at the prospect. Smiling like a Cheshire cat, he circled Swain like a shark sensing a dinner. “It’d be my honor of course... But you do realize there is the potential issue of... Accidents?”. “I take complete responsibility for any injury inflicted on my form” The general said reassuringly, his face the image of understanding. Were it not for the hemomancer’s vanity, this would had rung the alarm bell. Loudly.

The two entered the arena that the nobility sometimes used for spars or honour duels. The ground was sand, pillars on the edge of the arena marking the border which one had to stay inside of to be counted victor. There were no audience, but Vladimir found that to be very much alright. Usually the adoration his movements invoked was something he’d cherish, but in this case... Well it might be better if there were no witnesses to sustain the... plausible deniability. “On your mark, Grand General” He bowed mockingly, grin stretching from ear to ear. 

“How very thoughtful of you” came the answer with a tone colder than the harshest winter chill. And on that very second, as the final syllable left Swain’s lips, the immortal finally understood the situation, his eyes shooting up to see the first spell being conjured.

Throwing himself into a fall on his back, showcasing the kind of agility no mortal could showcase and defying all laws of gravity, Vladimir dodged a wave of crimson arcane lightning, recovering to a standing position instantly. While not deadly to someone of his might, those bolts would had seared his flesh into a crisp. Anyone else would had been cooked instantly. Drawing out an orb of blood on the tip of his claws, Vlad narrowed his eyes. So be it, Swain. He thought grimly, starting to draw his power out in magnitude not required of him in years.

But the hemomancer’s initial lightheartedness put him in a disadvantage. For while his power was only now gathering, Swain had made sure to prepare every trick in his arsenal before even issuing the invitation. Another bolt of lightning lashed out from the now exposed demonic arm, the hemomancer spinning behind one of the stone pillars, hearing and feeling how pieces of stone cracked and shattered at the strength of the spell. Clicking his tongue, the mage spun out in the open, the orb of blood yielding three sharp needles made of blood, and with a wave of a hand, they shot out with the speed rivaling that of a crossbow bolt. 

It was Swain’s turn to dodge, but he lacked the same agility that his opponent possessed, one of the shots lodging itself on his shoulder, digging deep, rending at the mortal’s flesh. “Hah!” The hemomancer barked a laugh, drawing on the open wound, the grunt of pain Swain let out the sweetest, long awaited musical piece to his ear. Cursing under his breath, the man cast a spell as if tossing a punch and Vladimir was forced back on the back foot, dodging the claw-like arcana blast thrown his way. “Ah but I know of this one!” He exclaimed, having studied the general’s tactics and indeed, the very moment the spell passed him, it had halted advance, recalling with twice the velocity. But by the time it reached where Vlad had moments earlier been, he had already moved to the side, shooting another set of needle sharp shots into Swain, the self satisfaction evident on his face as this time two spells found their mark, the general collapsing on his knees, catching his fall with those two crimson arms. “Time to draw you ou...” Wait. Two red hands? 

And on that moment the second arcana claw struck at Vladimir from behind, rending the coat and breaking the skin, inflicting catastrophic laceration wounds on him that would had spelled instant death for any normal sorcerer. Howling with pain and rage as he fell on his knees as well, the hemomancer poured his magic to mending the damage. Vlad glared at Swain who was knelt down on the other side of field, the mortal’s eyes filled with demonic sorcery, his form covered with the aura of the creature. The hemomancer could make out the outline of transparent wings, but for now it was nothing but that, image. Swain was in the process of entering full transformation, unleashing everything his primordial ally could bring to bear. Looking back at it, Vlad would eventually find it flattering, the unmistakable proof the leader of Noxus intended to slay him with all the might the old raven could gather. But right now the image brought forward another fragment of his past. Another creature with large dark wings and power far above that of mortal sorcerers. 

Howling with rage and fear at this memory, he tapped into his own might, conjuring a spell to finish off his enemy. One way or another, this fight would be settled with the next exchange. 

“STOP! BOTH OF YOU STOP!” A crystal clear voice of a woman shouted, it’s strength further enhanced by magic. An image flashed in front of both combatants: a pale woman clad in cape and elegant dress, her dark make up accentuating the gold colored eyes glaring at them. “STOP! Swain, Vladimir, reel it in at once!”. Both combatants blinked, their focus broken, and in that instant a series of golden chains wrapped around both their wrists, LeBlanc’s spells weaving wards and suppression spells around both of them as she emerged from shadows, daring to come within the range of the two sorcerers. She stepped between the two, her usual smile gone as she scolded them: “Your fight has drawn the attention of every spell caster in Immortal Bastion. The guards are 30 seconds away from that door” She pointed one manicured finger at the double doors leading into the hall. “Gather yourselves. Quickly before we have a civil war in the city”. With that and and a snap of her fingers, the barriers of magic fell, the chains disappearing into the air. The Deceiver once more wore the coy smile she always had, stepping outside the arena and conjuring an elegant arm chair with a flick of a wrist, taking seat as if she’d been observing the fight. The two combatants glared at one another, but knew what must be done.

As the doors sprung open, the trifarians charging in with Darius on their heels, they arrived to the sight of Swain and Vladimir offering each other a courteous bow, thanking each other for excellent spar, the Matron of Black Rose clapping with a quiet but satisfied smile at the no doubt wondrous magical duel.

[visionofnoxus]

// a piece to add to my collection.

Join Me

Drabble MeLeave a “Join Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving your character an offer [be it a proposal for an alliance, asking them to join them in an activity (you can get dirty if you want), feel free to specify.]

The Grand General never got to where he was by staying still.  Nasus knew Swain was watching Shurima very closely, especially given the fact the final confrontation with Xerath had gone in Azir’s favor.  All that remained of the Magus was main stone of his sarcophagus and the chains that held his ethereal form together.  And Nasus make certain that nobody would find them again.

Just because they defeated their biggest enemy didn’t mean they were clear yet.  There was lots of work to be done- and places to reclaim.

His initial thought was to deal with the Void first.  Things were definitely getting worse and while his daughter was making impressive progress with the xer’sai, it wasn’t enough to stop their spread.

The Grand General had invited Nasus out to Noxus, a massive surprise to the Curator.  And, instead of having Azir flat out turn it down, he suggested neutral territory- a port called Stonewall that fell just outside either of their borders.  Without ties to either Noxus, Shurima, or Demacia, Nasus figured it was the best placed for all of them to get the most neutral footing.

Didn’t mean he didn’t have allies there.

Keep reading

[visionofnoxus]

✿ or ❀ maybe both, you choose uwu

✿ - to grab my muse by the throat and pin them to a wall/table/floor/etc

// And another long one. Please do comment. Feedback is warmly welcomed.

“And thus it is with great reluctance, that we cannot permit the Demacian Navy to cross through our city to gain access on eastern seas. Nor will the City Council permit any kind of military presence of the kingdom within the City of Piltover. With that, these negotiations are concluded”. 

The sound of the hammer on the wood might as well have been a gunshot, as far as Jarvan IV was concerned. As if on slow motion, he let his eyes take in the conference room and the faces around the long table. Tianna Crownguard was standing up from her seat, the tight line of her mouth starting to open in what would no doubt be short and sharp retort of the Piltovian officials’ decision. Luxanna Crownguard, Tianna’s niece, had a sad expression on her face, no doubt well aware of the ramifications of these negotiations going sour. And that nothing her aunt would say would help right now. 

His eyes carried on the the couple of Piltover’s officials, ignoring the bureaucrats and halting momentarily at the Sheriff of the city, who’s young face was a carefully constructed image of calm. The king-in-making wondered if she truly felt nothing at this outcome, for she no doubt knew just as well as the demacians, that so much of the city’s underside, Zaun, took orders from Noxus and provided aid to the vile expansionist nation. This decision would only further escalate that power dynamic, allowing the Noxians to strengthen their grip across the world.

And then finally, his eyes carried him to the third party present in the negotiations, the sound of High Marshall’s slashing rebuke filling the background. Two trifarian legionnaires stood behind their patrons, large and intimidating like dark gargoyles. Then there were the two delegates. One was wrapped in cloak, a mask concealing the wearer’s identity. And so it had been that the other person had conducted all talks throughout the week long meeting, but prince had no doubt the “Seat of Guile” had certainly had their say as well. And that communication had been done through…

Jarvan’s eyes fell on the Grand General, who sat still in his chair, perfectly calm and expression as neutral as they came. His eyes were coolly observing as the Crownguard berated the Piltovians for being corrupt and for not thinking of the consequences for their very own city this choice would bring. His dress uniform was spotless, the feather shaped polets of the great coat glimmering in the light of the room. Nothing could give out the satisfaction the old crow must had been feeling right now, having succeeded in blocking Demacia’s attempt to expand their presence on the world. 

A wave of anger and frustration surged in Jarvan, but he smart enough and owned the discipline to suppress it. It wouldn’t do for him to lose his temper. The Noxian delegation stood up to make their exit, starting to circle the table to leave. Knowing nothing could be done, the demacia’s ruler motioned for his people to do the same, cutting Tianna’s rant short, though leaving the Piltovian bureaucrats flustered with shame. As he stepped towards the doorway, Jarvan’s eyes met with Swain’s during this brief eye contact, he saw it. For but a tiniest moment, the old crow smiled, his lips wording the sentence Jarvan deciphered in his head: vain effort, boy. 

Nobody had time to react on what happened next. In a blink, the young royalty had closed up the distance. The trifarians had not even reached for their weapons yet, his own bodyguard Xin had barely began to reach forward to grab him and Lux was only starting to shout something. Tianna was already going for a sword on her hip while the Piltovian sheriff was shouting at the high marshall to stop moving. Jarvan did not care however about any of this. With a strength befitting a warrior in his prime, he hoisted the grand general of Noxus in the air by the throat, slamming the back of the old crow against the door frame so hard it shook. “YOU” He bellowed, having lost his cool at the insolence and nerve of this man. The misery and horror that the Grand General would bring to the world and his kingdom was a crime enough, but to then taunt it in their face! 

“… Not me, but we” Swain answered cryptically, Jarvan taking tiniest bit of satisfaction at the clear struggle it took the old man to breathe and form the words. “We have won. And you have failed today, young prince” The Tactician taunted, the royalty feeling Xin’s arm on his shoulder, pulling at him and telling him to lower the Grand General before blood would be spilled. For once it would be drawn here, countless would suffer. And with great regret, for he’d wished nothing else than to crush this man, Jarvan lowered the noxian on the ground, inhaling through his nose to calm his nerves. Recollecting himself, he gave his reply: “You’ve succeeded in yet another scheme. But I promise you Swain, one day this empire you’ve built with deceit and destruction will crumble. And while you grasp at straws to hold it together, our kingdom will still stand. Just as it stood before you”. Turning around, he made his exit, the rest of the delegation following. 

The Grand General stood still as they left, looking after them while motioning for his guard to remain still. “We shall see, Jarvan the Fourth. We shall see...”.

[visionofnoxus]

☮ - for Swain to kill someone trying to verbally hurt Lillithe ❀ - to grab Lillithe by the jaw and force her to meet Swain’s gaze and be possessive~ (suggested setting: High command War Room meeting or High Class Social Event ) || ~♱💒🥀💒♱~ asked as @crucifix-and-the-rosary

// And here we go. I tried my hand at it. Hopefully you find it a nice read. I need to interract more with your muse to get a proper feel for her and Swain. Please do comment. Crucifix-and-the-rosary

It had been years since the last time Noxian High Command had truly assembled. It was rare nowadays, as the empire had withdrawn within itself with the ascension of the new Grand General some ten years ago. After Darkwill’s death, the ever expanding offensives in all directions had seized or at the very least been scaled down severely. Noxus had turned from raiding and conquest to instead solidifying it’s existing areas and building infrastructure that had fallen to ruin or had not even existed in the first place. The Trifarix had taken the highest executive power in the empire and it now mandated the progress in form, pace as well as who exactly was overseeing that particular project. 

As such, this group of generals, admirals, warlords and most prominent people of political, commercial and social background rarely gathered en masse anymore. There were no projects so large and complicated, so multifaceted that the High Command would had been needed to be called into session. Which made it all the more intriguing that Grand General had now called for the assembly. Rumors were floating around the gathering’s purpose. Some spoke of a new attempt at the invasion of Ionia, that the Grand General desired to correct the mistakes of the past and bring the island nation finally to heel. Others said that Noxus desired to expand their holdings in Shurima, to destroy the fledgling empire of sand before it could reassert itself. But what of Demacia? And wasn’t this meeting obviously about the situation in Freljold? The most daring guesses were that the Grand General intended to slaughter the High Command and declare himself the Tyrant of Noxus. Rumors were aplenty and any theory one could come up with, someone else had already guessed while downing a tankard of ale.

On the day of the meeting, all those influential people who had the necessary pull arrived to the Immortal Bastion. Some arrived alone, others with hordes of retainers. They all climbed the countless staircases high into the gargantuan fortress’ depths, each group eventually reaching the enormous double doors leading into the High Command’s chamber. The doors were made of black iron, the craftsmanship alien to even the eyes of most talented smiths. The ominous slabs of metal seemed like they’d just been willed into the form of doors, with no help of hammer or fire. Flanking that door on both sides stood Trifarian Legionnaires, draped in cloaks of crimson and onyx colored cloth. Their helms concealed their faces, their weapons glimmered with arcane. Through these doors, passage was only for High Command, the retainers having to remain outside. As was always the case, some did not accept it at first. Personal safety, the need of an adviser, absolutely necessary have a scribe with them… Excuses were plenty. The guards were threatened, attempted to bribe, their identity was questioned. But none who were not of High Command entered. The few who truly did not understand the message were cut down without a second thought, their blood spilling on the dark marble floor.

The inside of the chamber was a large circular room with a grey marble floor. Four tall pillars, eerily similar to the doors in that they seemed to just be singular piece of black iron, reached far into the ceiling that could not be seen, the darkness lurking above the attendees. An enormous table made of smoothed granite circled the room’s edges in the shape of a horseshoe and a map depicting the whole world had been carved into the stone at the center of the chamber. High back chairs carved of onyx were placed around the table for the members to sit down on. There were not enough seats for all, not even third of the entirety of the members, but precious few dared to take a seat. It was a statement to sit down in that table. An assertion that you held the strength to keep it and deserved all the attention that the place around this table brought with it from some of the most dangerous individuals in all of Noxus.

Grand General sat at the center of the arch, his position naturally allowing him to survey the entirety of the room and everyone in it. Unsurprisingly Darius sat just few paces to his right, yet the left remained empty. No one moved to take the free seat though, for while there was no official seating order, everyone knew this chair was favored by the Matron of the Black Rose. And she was an individual nobody wanted on their bad side. Standing up, Swain drew the attention of every single soul in the room, the silvery haired man speaking with low voice, yet each word carried effortlessly around the room. He commanded respect with confidence, directing the crowd’s attention with the ease of a practiced orator as he explained Noxus’ current state and their future plans.

Lillithe stood silently at the back, listening to grand general’s voice and dutifully following with her eyes each time he pointed at the map somewhere. The dark clad woman fought to resist nervousness, her fingers switching between toying with her rosary or brushing against the embroidery of the front of her dress. Every now and then, when the Grand General halted his speech to let someone else bring forth their case, she felt the tiniest spark of fear, her eyes scanning crowd and hoping nobody would ask of her opinion. The fact of the matter was that her position as the High Priestess mandated her participation, but she wanted nothing to do with what was being discussed. Wars, troop numbers, natural or magical catastrophes. All she could hear was the death and misery for men, women and children of Noxus, as well as the rest of the world. The idea of actively contributing to that ruin’s creation was appalling to the woman. But should they give the order, she’d follow suit and beg for forgiveness before, during and after. 

“And what of the Kindred’s hags? Couldn’t their matriarch just suck the enemy dry?” She blinked twice, her mind catching up on what had just been said. Turning to face the rude man, Lillithe saw a rough looking admiral, seated on the fringe of the table. There were marks of acidic burns marring his face and he might have been partially blinded judging from the milky white left eye. “Yes you, can’t you just drain ground itself if there is enough life in it?” The man motioned at the map, pointing the location. “And that place is just full of those freaks, the very soil and air feeding them. Why bother with mortars and such if we can just have her strut in there and turn the place into her own little garden of death? Reckon it’d go well with that garb”. While crudely worded and offensive, this proposal earned positive murmurs, Lilith feeling her legs start to tremble. It felt like she was standing on thin ice, her heels causing tiny fractures each passing second by simply being present. These people desired for her to fall into that icy death. No. They wanted her to become that icy death for others.

“I do not recall that location being on potential target list?” Swain’s silken voice cut through the crowd’s debate. Debate that had very quickly been moving towards unpleasant conclusion in the nun’s opinion. The admiral growled back at him boldly: “Yeah it isn’t. Nor was it when we went there the first time. The freaks kept supplying their troops through it anyhow and I had to go and try to deal with it while you were building your fancy trap and Duqual hunted some fishermen on the coast” the admiral said with bitterness and accusation in his voice. “And so you took some of lord Emystan’s zaunite weaponry and decided to try and bomb the village” Swain concluded, his voice dangerously soft, yet lacking any true venom for now. “Marines should fight on water” came the gruff voice of Darius. He’d not been present but knew enough of the situation. And the outcome of the operation could easily be read from admiral’s burn face. “You want revenge. And you wouldn’t even do it yourself” He concluded, the challenge evident in his voice.

But the admiral wasn’t about to let his chance go to waste and the earlier reactions of the crowd must had emboldened him. “This ain’t about revenge Darius! Tis’ bout the fact that this wench” The sailor stood up, pointing an accusing finger at Lillithe who frowned, listening with dread on what might come next. “Has can suck that place drier than a sand dune. We could massacre our enemies with barely any losses. But because she’s part of some damn cult worshiping a bow wielding pillowcase, we don’ do shit”. Everyone could see the Hand of Noxus draw breath, ready to reply in just as crude language, but a motion of hand from Swain cut his action. “I see… Lady Lillithe, would you please come closer?” He asked, the woman blinking few times before nodding. “Of course, general Swain”. For once she felt horrible about her choice of shoes, each click of the heels echoing in the otherwise silent chamber as the tall woman approached her liege, the man standing up from his seat to meet her.

Stopping in front of the man, Lillithe nervously clasped her hands together in front of her, staring straight at the general’s eyes, noting how bronze shade of his irises gave way for unnatural crimson. “I hope you pardon me for laying a hand on you, my lady” He apologized, bringing a hand up to cup the side of her face, the warm, rough fingers meeting with her smooth and cool skin. In almost intimate manner, the grand general moved his fingers to hold her chin, staring intently into her eyes. And then she felt him reach into her mind, soft but determined grip just like his hand’s, tapping into her mind. “Could admiral’s proposal theoretically be carried out?” Swain asked. “Could you drain the life out of the air and soil, as it is constantly being all connected through magic?” His voice was devoid of emotion, not giving away his opinion on the matter. With this prod, she considered the proposal and her mind suddenly took over, conjuring images of death. Nature, animals, the very earth itself dying as she took from it the life, the all connecting magic of the place dooming it to decay as the magic allowed her reach far beyond her normal capacity. Lillithe’s shoulders shook, her lip trembled as she witnessed the dreamlike image flashing in her eyes, her own personal nightmare. And then it was gone, the warm hand of the Grand General moving to cup her cheek again, his free hand wiping away her tears that she’d not even felt forming up. “I see. Thank you. And once more, apologies”. 

Swallowing down the clump in her throat, the nun shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive, Grand General. All is for Noxus”. Removing his hand, the man offered tiniest of smiles to her. “An admirable answer, my lady”. With that, he turned around, returning to his seat. Turning his attention to the awaiting admiral, Swain shook his head. “The plan is not feasible. There are too many risks and variables” He stated, a wave of relief washing over the Matriarch. “Nonsense Swain! There’s always risks in war. No pain, no gain! And what risk exactly is there? This witch” The man made an angry motion towards Lillithe. “Is fooling you and..”. “I have made my mind, admiral. And you’ve thrown enough filth around for now” Swain interrupted, his voice velvet smooth but eyes as cold as Freljold’s winds. “What a load of bull! What are you afraid of? That me and my men can’t keep our hands of the pious sister here? Hah!” The Admiral shouted, anger evident in his face at the prospect of not getting his way. “Don’t worry. I promise me and my men don’t touch the witch, we’ll walk this corset clad hag into the valley and let her drain those freaks drier than her whole congregation after mass!”. 

Those were the last words the admiral ever said, as a an arcing crimson bolt of lightning struck him the following second, frying the man alive in an instant. The smoking corpse fell against the table, collapsing sideways onto the floor. The high backed chair made of onyx-like material showed no signs of damage though, the seat as if it had been vacant all along. “Enough” Swain ordered to the now deceased, lowering his left hand back on the table, pulling on a long leather glove to cover the crimson appendage. “The target is not a priority. We can not be sure the ability would work as suggested and sending the Matriarch of the Holy Order of Kindred to an active warzone that we do not control is asking for riots across the empire”. The Grand General let his eyes scan the High Command’s members, daring someone else to challenge him. As no such fool presented themselves, he turned back to look at the map. “Now then…”.

[visionofnoxus]

♛ - for your muse to beat mine until they can’t fight back (@defiant-blade) //if you're still accepting

// Warning: This turned out rather… Brutal. Not anything really bad. But definitely a rough ride. Regardless, I hope you like it and please do give feedback. Defiant-blade

General Swain has returned to Ionia. Such was the rumor. The man who had taken The Placidium and nearly crushed Ionia under his heel had returned. The rumors were spreading like wildfire about his return and the possible reasons. Flocks of ravens had taken fancy with southwestern archipelago. Noxian troops and warships had taken port in the port city of Faelor, the westernmost island of Ionia. One of the few regions still under noxian occupation.

The atmosphere of fear and dread spread over the Ionia, especially so to the province of Navori where Jericho Swain had many times proven his nickname, the Master Tactician, with catastrophic results to the local militia and civilian population alike. 11 years ago, this man had been defeated in combat by a group of resistance fighters, led by a teenage girl Xan Irelia, who’d led a charge against the general’s elites, cutting them apart and winning against the villain in single combat. Ionia had celebrated her victory and the death of Swain. Less than a year after Placidium, the war ended with the battle of Dalu Bay. Irelia personally once again slayed the commander in battle, admiral Duqal, the man responsible for commanding the Noxian navy. It could well be argued she’d put down both men responsible for the near destruction of Ionian lands and people.

The supposed survival of the general Swain and his resurfacing in Noxus as the new Grand General had been largely dismissed as propaganda and lies of the foreigners, but now seeing the warships once more gathering, the noxian legionnaires with three indents of Trifarix in their platemail being sighted, the stories of man’s return were becoming painfully realistic.

Eventually these rumors had landed in the ears of the Blade Dancer herself and after meditating on the matter, weighing her options and duties, Irelia had once more taken up her blades. Now looking over the fortified port city of Faelor, Irelia felt the dark and murky thoughts drifting in her mind. Once again she found herself weighing her options, wondering if what she was doing was for Ionia, or for herself. The Blade Dancer did not consider herself prideful or vain. What she’d done, she’d done for Ionia. And there had been great pain involved along the way. She felt little for the Noxians her blades had cut down, but the war had extracted a heavy toll on Ionians and to her ever lasting shame and sorrow, she’d been forced to cut down some of her countrymen whose fevor had been… Miss guided. 

Navigating her way through the city streets, she sneaked through the city. It was somewhat surprising, seeing such a blend of cultures. The buildings were sturdier and often lacked the attention to small artistic details that so ruled in Ionia, but they were definitely still ionian and not those blocks of stone and iron that the invaders built their fortresses like. The people walking on the streets wore combinations of foreign and ionian clothes, and the civilian population did not avoid the patrolling soldiers despite their intimidating and brutish look. It was all very confusing to Irelia, but she did not stop to consider this, keeping her focus on the task she’d set out to accomplish. A task that might very well be her final pledge of love to her beloved country. Steeling her resolve, she aimed her steps towards the governor’s palace, located in the heart of the city. It would had served her well to maybe observe the city more closely, for above the rooftops and sitting on the ropes from which the street lights hung, blood colored eyes took note of the roguish intruder sticking to the shadows. The fluttering of the ravens’ wings was lost to the soundscape of the night time city.

Governor’s palace was a fortress. High built walls of the foreigners design formed the perimeter for the palace grounds, a more traditional ionian palace sitting at the heart of the fortifications, but even this old palace had undergone changes, it’s lower levels reinforced with steel and stone, the pools of the gardens dug deeper to serve the dual purpose of aesthetics and as a moat. As Irelia scaled the walls silently, she took note of the guards. The palace guards of governor Kalan were accompanied by the heavily armored men dressed in iron and crimson cloth, the three marks on their chest marking their elite status. Slipping past the guards with little effort, the ionian allowed herself a small, joyless smile. She was on the right track. These were surely Swain’s guards.

A half an hour of sneaking and elaborate gymnastics later, she finally climbed up the castle wall, slipping in through a window that the defenders no doubt considered too small for an intruder. Maybe a brutish warrior, but not a silk dancer. Landing gracefully with a roll on the inside, the woman straightened herself up, finally drawing her blades. Not a drop of blood had been spilled so far, but it was from this point on that it would change. Looking at the gleaming, pure blades, the woman felt a shudder travel through her. This was a man she’d thought to defeated and left to die before. This time she wowed to make sure. Sneaking into the castle, she went searching for her foe. 

It was surprisingly easy. Predictable, looking back at it. All the woman had needed to do was observe where the foreign warriors were most well armed and alert. Then it was just a simple matter of dispatching them. Irelia felt a pang of guilt as she withdrew her blades from the last two warriors, the men having collapsed against doorframe of the entryway they’d been set to guard. She cast her saphire colored eyes down to meet the lifeless gaze of the dead trifarian, his earthy brown irises staring back at him without the flicker of life behind them. “I am sorry” She apologized faintly, reaching for the door. For the first time, the Blade Dancer felt sorry for the invaders and it puzzled her. These were the enemy who’d brought destruction and misery to everywhere they went. They’d no doubt committed numerous atrocities just to earn the “right” to stand guard outside Grand General’s room. And yet still… To have their lives ended in such an emotionless and cold manner, the men never seeing their death arrive… She shook her head, the tiniest click of her headdress breaking silence. This was why she’d been a warrior, not an assassin. But it was an assassin her country needed right now. Steeling herself, she pushed open the doors, stepping into the living quarters of her foe. This one at the very least, would see his doom arrive. Just like he’d seen it those years ago. With that thought pristine in her mind, she pushed open the doors.

The room was a large lounge. There were pillows and small tables, pieces of art lined the walls and where there was no picture, the very wallpapers were gorgeous enough for one to lose themselves in the patterns. On the center of room stood a dark figure, the few sources of light from candles illuminating his silvery hair, the man’s shadows reflecting near demonic images on the walls. Irelia felt her mouth dry up, swallowing unconsciously as she stared at the man who looked calmly at his would be killer, the bronze colored eyes assessing her coolly. “Xan Irelia” Came the smooth voice, almost peaceful, yet Irelia’s mind brought up an image of a sharpened blade, beautiful and calm, yet readied to strike. “When you left me for dead, you were but a girl. Now, as we meet again, you are a full grown woman” The foreign general spoke to her, those unnerving eyes never letting go of her own. She tried to say something, but her body felt like it was frozen. Something was off, her intuition screaming out loud at the danger in front of her. Something was different. So very different from the last they’d met. 

Once again the man spoke: “Curious. Last we met you came at me with zeal worth the whole Ionia. You poured all of the pain, suffering and rage into those blades and tore apart my troops, cut me down with frightening ease”. As the man stepped closer, she finally regained control of her body, lifting her arms into the initial stance of her dance. “I’ve come to finish you. That horror will never happen again” She asserted, drawing breath and starting to sink into her dance. “You lack the resolve to challenge me. And while you’ve cherished your victory, I have reforged myself from the defeat”.  

Lifting his left arm up, the very one Irelia had cut, the noxian called forth unnatural sorcery. Streaks of crimson lightning struck out like a tidal wave, Irelia’s eyes widening in shock, the woman instinctively bringing her hands up to protect herself, her blades guarding against the attack. It was for naught however, the sorcery skirting the blades easily, striking her body and eliciting a scream. “I’ve had time to prepare for this” her foe explained in calm manner, as if holding a dinner conversation. Swinging her arm wildly up, Irelia ignored the words, three of her blades launching forward but the man dodged them with a small but precise step, his eyes glowing with crimson. “You are uncertain. You doubt yourself” He accused her, shooting another bolt at her which the Blade Dancer dodged, dashing to the side, recalling her blades and summoning them back, preparing for another offensive.

“I know what I must do!” she shouted back at him, hurling her blades forward in a deadly storm of blades similar to one she’d once broken through his ranks with. But it was mere imitation of that force. A crimson colored claw the size of a man rose to meet her attack and struck against them, the blades scattering as the spell struck forward, catching the ionian woman square in the chest. She flew against the wall, vases and paintings destroyed with her body and the crimson claw bashing them. Biting back a scream, she felt the cutting edges and the vile sorcery pin her against the wall, the noxian walking closer. His hand was still extended, the transparent red hand mirroring the enormous claw currently pinning her. “You are but a shadow of yourself miss Xan” the man spoke out, his voice sounding almost disappointed. She lacked the power to answer, feeling the searing pain like hot iron against her skin as the claw pressed her against wall, shocks of pain rocking her body for what little room she had. 

The claw dissipated, Irelia’s legs giving out, the woman starting to fall forward. But her enemy was not intending to give such mercy. Stepping forward with intent, the noxian landed a punch in her gut, the strength of the blow lifting the Blade Dancer on the tips of her toes, air escaping her lungs. “Satisfaction… I admit” the man growled, pulling his hand back, letting the battered form of his enemy fall on the ground. As she hit the wooden floor, the man leveled his hand at her again, another spark of crimson shooting out, this time eliciting an actual scream from the weakened woman. Another spell followed, and then another. Finally, the noxian knelt down, grasping her head, lifting the woman’s head up, the searing pain gripping her scalp at his hold. The blood colored eyes stared into hers and Irelia felt the man.. No. The demon reaching into her very soul, glimpsing at something she could not understand. “Yes… You have not become weak. You are just filled with doubt and hesitation. Lacking a cause”. He let go of her head, the woman falling on the floor without even tiniest attempt at softening her own fall. “And you were correct to doubt yourself. My death would had brought forward exactly that. While my life may yet spare your people” The man stood up, looking down at her bloodied form. “Consider us even, girl”.

[visionofnoxus]

☠

// Here you go. A little peak into the past of both our characters. Maybe headcanon, maybe not?

“Have infantry brace for impact. They will throw themselves on us en masse, attempting to break our ranks” the noxian commander guided his officers, the messengers being deployed immediately. “The pikemen remain immediately behind the outer perimeter. Their infantry is chaff but those horsemen are lightning fast. Should they see an opening, they’ll break through and tear open our lines from behind” The man’s lips drew into a thin line at the thought. “Do not let that happen gentlemen or else these dunes will become our grave”. He cast his eyes on the far side of the battlefield, eyeing the enemy commander, the shuriman’s figure clear as he stood on the chariot, the blue sky as his background. Golden ornaments and colorful clothes made the leader stand out like an eyesore. “How pompous” Swain muttered to himself, glancing at his command staff. 

All of them wore loose robes of mute colors, tightened only around openings to block out the ever shifting sands. Their insignia’s and such were pinned on shoulders of the garbs but other than that, there were little differences between them and the shuriman soldiers. Likewise, the noxian troops, while wearing their armor to battle, had discarded leather and sturdy cloth in favor of local clothing, wearing only scarves of crimson and black to mark their allegiance to their nation. The fact was that while northeners’ weapons and armor bit just as well as before, their clothes, uniforms and most of the infrastructure had no place on the dry wasteland and the burning deserts of Shurima. As such, by the command of colonel Jericho Swain, the warband had refitted itself almost entirely, the heavy infantry the only ones still clad in dark iron, and even they wore light cloth on top of their armors, discarding them just moments before entering the fray, which day did only at the last possible moment to conserve their strength.

Crossing his arms, Swain let his thoughts for a brief moment wander to the next phase. Once this battle was won, the Noxians would have land access to the port city of Nashramae from their garrisons in Tereshni. With that, the empire would be uniting the entirety of northern Shuriman coast. The colonel smiled at the thought. With the entirety of the coast under their rule, Noxus could begin truly expanding southward and in a couple of decades the entirety of Shurima would be added to the empire. And all that stood between the empire and their conquest was some local chieftain controlling the city. “All too easy”.

“Colonel! Colonel Swain!” Came the alarmed shouting of a messenger arriving on horseback, eliciting a frown from the commander. “Take over. Maintain the defensive formation and charge when their offense breaks” He ordered his second-in-command, turning to resolve the new development, whatever it was. 

The courier stared at him, his eyes wide with shock, his voice trembling. “Sir! The rear guard and our reserves too, they are under attack!” He explained, fighting the inner turmoil to relay information quickly. “An enemy has broken through and is charging our command position. Lieutenant Grahan ordered a stalling action to buy time, but it’s tearing through our troops without slowing down”. Swain blinked a few times, confused. “What is the enemy like? Horsemen? Or some local beasts with infantry unit on the trail?” He guessed, trying to understand what was going on. “No sir… a single giant man. And we think he is a mage”. “A single man? A single individual soldier broke through our rear guard?” Swain asked with confusion, receiving a nod. Decisions had to be made fast. The battle had suddenly changed it’s nature and whatever this new development was, it warranted a change in strategy. “Captain, keep up the defense, do not break formation and do not pursue, should the enemy break. I am taking the heavy infantry to a special task”. His second-in-command overseeing the front line looked puzzled, but she was a veteran officer, nodding and not asking questions. “Yes sir”.

A few minutes later, Swain looked upon the backline of his army, annoyance and awe fighting for the main spot in his mind at the sight. It was as they’d said. At the eye of a strange miniature sandstorm, a single enormous man was cleaving his way through the loose formation of infantry surrounding him, advancing in steady jogging pace. The raging wind and sand made it a challenge to approach the figure, the flying sand razor sharp blinding and impeding the defenders. And those who made it through, the strange pole-arm weapon cleaved and swatted aside. “What are you..?” Swain wondered while staring at the hooded figure, motioning for the heavy infantry to discard their robes and prepare. 

Wrapping a scarf around his face in preparation against the storm the warrior would bring, Swain lowered down from his horse. “A halberd” He ordered, taking the offered weapon from his adjutant. The Noxian’s officer’s sword would do little against such a massive foe. The Master Tactician was absolutely convinced the warrior was coming for him. He’d felt the moment his attention had turned towards the colonel on horseback. “Crescent formation on me. We surround him and cripple him. Aim for the legs. Shurimans don’t wear armor there. Once he falls, finish him off” Swain ordered, seeing the storm so very close already, positioning himself at the center of the soldiers. Now then… Let’s see just how mighty you are…

And then the maelstrom of sand, wind and raw violence hit them. The enormous figure leaped through the last of the light infantry, entering the kill field Swain had prepared in stride befitting of any foolish demacian knight. The arcane powered winds struck at the men around Swain but he’d chosen carefully and they resisted the initial impact, moving methodically for the kill. A low growl like that of an angry drakehound reverberated from the warrior, yet this one so much deeper and potent than even the mightiest alphas of the warhounds. And then it struck, the strange staff swirled in the air, sending several armor clad men flying, shattering bones beneath the dark iron plate. From the depths of the hood, a pair of piercing eyes glared at Noxians in primal challenge. The stave came around for another strike, warrior’s reach so long the noxians had yet to attempt even a single strike. Another handful of northerners fell to the sands. First few men managed to step close enough though and brought down their war axes and great swords to cut down the warrior, but it was for naught, their weapons incapable of hurting the shuriman. By some sorcery, his skin was too thick, the blades not finding purchase. And with a mighty kick, both warriors were sent flying, the enemy’s focus turning to Swain, the colonel bracing for the inevitable, knowing he did not stand a chance. He did not know what this was, but there was no power that he commanded that could turn the tide against the warrior. His trap and the strength of his mightiest warriors had not brought him victory. The sheer brute strength and martial prowess had overcome his strategies and guile. Making peace with himself, he whispered: “For Noxus”, preparing for futile charge against the enemy. He’d die like a noxian should, with a weapon in hand. But that devastating blow never came. Years later, Swain still wondered if the creature came to regret it’s choice later on.

“You are the commander of the army. Seize your campaign, Noxian” Came the deep voice from the depths of the hood, the warrior staring down at him, the battle halted yet the sandstorm raging around the two, cutting off the intrusions of the lesser men. “You will find nothing but death, should you press your invasion” It declared, pointing it’s stave at his chest. “Shurima offers no riches or resources your empire desires, only sand, wind and death. Let it’s memory slumber in peace. Let it’s people go about their lives unmolested” It declared. Swain blinked, fighting the tears that the sandstorm was drawing out of him. The Master Tactician felt confusion and outrage at the bold  demand of the warrior, but he couldn’t help but trust it. The conviction with which it spoke was unnerving. It sounded like a promise and a threat. His mind ran calculations. A single warrior like this had undone his plans. If there were more… “If I pull my forces, what of our holdings?” He shouted to the wind, bargaining with the warrior. “I am not a general. Treat those you’ve taken well and you’ll not hear of me. Abuse them, or reach for more, and I’ll raise the very sands of the desert to swallow you and your forces” it promised him. There was no real choice in Swain’s eyes. “So be it Shuriman. Leave and I’ll withdraw. I’ll urge my country to seize the campaign” he promised, the creature staring at him, it’s piercing gaze scanning his very soul for a sign of treachery. When it found none, it nodded. “Remember, Noxian” came the last cryptic words, and with that, it was gone, like a mirage. 

The winds calmed, leaving Swain standing, surrounded by dead and injured, all power leaving his limbs, him dropping the halberd and falling on his knees with sheer exhaustion. The nearby soldiers ran up to him, crouching down. “Colonel, are you alright? Where is the enemy?” They all asked, confused. Wrenching the scarf from his head, Swain gasped for breath, staring up at the bright blue sky and the merciless sun, it’s rays painting the desert in golden hue littered by the fallen and dying. “We are withdrawing. Sound the retreat” He ordered. What a disaster. He’d have to come up with an explanation for High Command.

[visionofnoxus]

✿ - to grab my muse by the throat and pin them to a wall/table/floor/etc

This is a long one so for the sake of everyone’s Dash:

The Grand General strode down the corridor of the mansion, the sound of his steps muffled by the crimson colored carpet. Stopping in front of a large window, he turned his attention outside, scanning the walls that defined the outer perimeter of the near fortress-like manor. The bronze of his eyes yielded way for crimson, the sorcery flaring as the general whispered: “So you’ve come…”. Turning from the large window, he began walking towards the inner courtyard of the Gothic mansion, nimble fingers loosening the leather glove fastened on his left hand, eventually removing it and revealing the clawed hand made of crimson colored arcana.

Just as he removed the glove, the shattering of glass signaled the start of the attack, Swain stepping back with unnatural speed, avoiding just barely a series of three silver bolts that struck harmlessly into the stonewall across from the windows. “Come then, Demacian! See if you can add me to the list!” The noxian taunted, taking cover between the windows. Not two seconds later, a glass panel ten meters behind him shattered, a figure clad in crimson and midnight blue diving through the crystal shards of glass, sending another series of bolts at the Grand General who caught them with his great coat, discarding the cloth immediately after. His eyes now glowing with demonic sorcery, the clawed hand extended, several bolts of dark sorcery launching forward the night hunter, one landing a scratching hit on her leg despite her rolling out of the way. Swain found himself impressed as no sound left the lips of his would-be killer, despite clearly painful hit. Making a lightning fast decision, Swain charged his attacker. He’d have to end this quick or her bolts would end him.

Coming up from the dodge with loaded weapon again, Vayne leveled her hand with her target, firing away with precision that would put most marksmen to shame. But her foe was not a wild animal or a soldier, but a demon. She knew this though. Had known it going in already. Of the tree bolts sent flying just now, one skimmed off the dark iron breastplate the noxian wore. Enchanted no doubt. Second sunk on his shoulder and Vayne felt a tiniest bit of cold satisfaction at the grimace the old man’s face showed. Third one sadly went amiss, the creature managing to crouch to avoid the headshot. It sent another crackling spell in her direction, a bloody claw like the one it’s left hand was, but with an elegant pirouette the hunter dodged, the spell going harmlessly past her.

Knowing she needed to keep the distance, the woman threw herself backwards, rotating her body mid-fall to land on her feet and launching forward, reloading the fourth volley into her crossbow. Then a cold shiver went through her spine, her eyes catching the sight of a blood colored transparent claw in front of her, retracting back towards her like wall of blades. Not having time to properly react, Vayne threw herself wildly to the side, avoiding the deadly grasp ever so slightly and landing face first on the floor. Before she could recover though, she felt the weight of a man tackle her from behind, pinning the woman on the ground. The fall knocked the air out of her lungs but Vayne knew her life was being measured in seconds now. With a sheer muscle memory and strength of will she twisted herself around, clutching a silver tipped bold in her fist, intending to bury it on the jugular of the demonic general. 

Unfortunately her time had ran out, Noxian’s fingers seizing the bold clutching hand while his left hand grasped her neck, the claws cutting into her skin, the vile sorcery immediately running against her skin, the night hunter feeling how the demon drew her vitality into itself, no doubt attempting to purge the poisoning of silver in it’s host’s shoulder. “Seize” came the inhumane growl from the creature. Believing this a distraction to just bring forth the inevitable death, she fought the grasp it had on her hand, Vayne attempting to bring the bolt up to it’s neck, but the grip was stronger than any mortal had the right for. “Seize, night hunter. I am not the enemy you truly seek” The monster spoke again, it’s crimson eyes staring straight into hers and she felt like it was peering into her very soul. 

The sorcery sapped at her strength by the second and as it did, she could see flashes of her life in her eyes. Childhood, her parents, their home… Was she dying? And with horrible realization, she understood. As Vayne’s life was fading, the monster was gleaming her memories, trespassing in her very soul with impunity and looking at her life. With a trembling hand, her free arm managed to pull a silver dagger from her belt, starting to angle it so maybe, just maybe she could shove it underneath the noxian’s plate and end the monster before it finished devouring her life force. And then it spoke for the third time: “Evelynn”. Despite her effort, Vayne felt herself stop at the name. “You are searching for Evelynn”. 

And with that, the claw was removed from her neck, leaving behind the large bruises and laceration marks, but no longer threatening her life. Looking up at the noxian, Vayne blinked furiously, trying to make the black dots disappear from her vision. The crimson glow of the man’s eyes had disappeared, the man getting up from on top of her. “This one’s name is Raum. And it has no love for the one you seek. In fact, we maybe able to help you, Vayne the Night Hunter” Swain said, a quiet smile spreading on his lips.

// Well. Hell. I’ve been wanting to tell this story for years. Now I did. Hope it did your muse justice. Please do comment, give thoughts, emotions, something. That is what keeps me writing. Also, you might wanna read this, Vayne-mun.

[visionofnoxus]

“Get Me”

Leave a “Get Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about one character saving another. Note: This story is a bit rougher.

Feedback appreciated from any whom read it. As always. I love to hear your opinions/thoughts/feelings.

Her lungs burned and head was filled with dull thudding pain that made it hard to think. The left arm ached. The vixen’s usually so graceful and effortless moves had slowed down and become sluggish, the woman stumbling forward instead, occasionally having to support herself against the stone walls of the buildings. Looking over her shoulder, she noted the crossbow shaft sticking out of her shoulder. Another one was lodged into her leg and the vixen knew these two injuries were the source of her weakness. The tips were coated with something. Something nasty that was forcing her body to combat it’s effects, rather than provide power needed for the kumiho to make a hasty escape.

She hissed with rage and despair, drowsily looking for a way out of the maze of stone and iron. The narrow backstreets all looked the same to Ahri, the sturdy noxian stone houses looming over her menacingly. This place was far darker and oppressive than any forest she’d ever been to. One of the silky furred ears perked, catching the sound of her pursuers heavy boots hitting against the cobblestone. “It went that way!”. “Others are closing off the other ends. keep up!”. Forcing herself back on the run, the vixen pushed onward, but understood that ahead laid just more enemies. Unfortunately she had no other choice. Hopefully there was still enough magic left to blast her way through.

Navigating the corridors, Ahri pushed on, her limbs growing heavier with each step. It felt like her body had been cast in lead. Each time she dashed around a corner, there was a prayer uttered that no new enemies would await behind it, forcing her back to the maze and attempt a new path. Sometimes the divine were on her side, but sometimes they were not.

At the end, she found herself facing a stone brick wall and two more crossbow bolts sank into her form. The end of the line. Pain enveloped her whole body. Bloodshot, tired eyes looked at the usually so lush and beautiful tails. They were matted with soot, grime and blood. Suddenly another bolt struck her back, the woman howling in pain. Staggering against the wall, the vixen made her choice, turning to face her pursuers. They’d not take her alive.

The magic that was called forth from within was barely a flicker, but it just might buy enough time for her to get close and tear a few of the soldiers apart with her nails. The iron clad figures with their crimson cloths fanned out in front of Ahri, leveling their weapons at their prey. The closest few began creeping closer, their pole-arms raised cautiously. Then a flutter of wings disturbed the moment, a single, midnight black raven flying straight over the heads of everyone, screeching loud. The soldiers’ forms faltered, the men glancing up at the bird. Ahri did not however. Realizing her chance, she dove forward, pushing the last bits of her magic at the closest soldier, igniting the man while tackling the other.

Her fingers sought to find purchase between the armor plates, the long nails sinking into the mortal’s flesh as the man screamed and attempted to shove her off. The sound of footsteps registered at the corner of the vixen’s mind as she tore into the man, then a wave of pain as something blunt hit her on the back and head, striking at her form while she lacerated the Noxian. Another hard whack and she collapsed, clutching the nearest assailant’s leg, but she lacked the strength to inflict harm anymore.

And yet, no more blows landed on her broken form. Instead screams filled the alleyway. Screams of pain and a raging wind. Screeches of some animal, the beatings of wings and confused and terrified screams of men and women dying. 

The vastaya attempted to look, but her vision was blurry. There was whirling blackness that was swallowing the soldiers, their forms collapsing and being devoured by the dark flurry. The screams died out, but the wind kept on, the darkness in the air shifting around relentlessly. A figure emerged, clad in black but wearing a silver shroud on their head and shoulders. Two piercing red orbs glared at her form and Ahri felt a shudder of fear towards the unnatural creature approaching. And yet she also felt relief, seeing it crouch down over her, removing it’s long coat, placing it to cover her. A voice spoke. Alien, yet familiar. It terrified her and soothed at the same. She could rest now. They were gone and It’d guard her, take her to safety. It’s arms wrapped around her, effortlessly lifting the broken woman just as oblivion claimed her mind at last.