lizard-legendarium - Tumblr blog

lizard-legendarium · 8 months

Text

Felbrassan Elves and How weird they are

So, when I was away, I got inspired. Mainly by reading the Hobbit, that holy grail of books, and, weirdly enough, Deer. Yes, those deer. I ended up with a relatively unique type of elf I've not really seen before, but I'm sure they'll have been created before. Still, this is how I decided to run them in Felbrass, so please, give it a read and tell me what you think. I should hopefully have stats later, meaning that, if you like the sound of these elves, you can run them within your own games. Which would mean the absolute world to me to know that something I created is being enjoyed in that way. Anyway. Without further ado, let's get on with the show.

Felbrassan Elves are very different to what’s typically seen in regards to Elves in the planes. For example, the near immortality usually associated with Elves isn’t present here, with individuals usually making it to around 450ish. Furthermore, Felbrassan Elves are more than just humans with pointy ears, instead possessing deer traits, as well as bark-like skin in select areas. The hind legs are digitigrade, like that of a deer, though their legs are usually thicker due to being bipedal. Their necks are quite thick to help support the crown of antlers on their heads. The bark like skin is often covered in fur of some kind, typically from the deer they resemble most. Elven hair is often long and unkempt, being a mixture of regular hair and leaves from the tree that particular elf takes from the most. The antlers are a permanent fixture all year round, with velvet occasionally developing around the winter months. Elven barbers often have tools to remove said velvet when it develops. Both sexes possess these antlers, with each elf often decorating their antlers in some way, whether that be ceremonial paint, ornaments hammered in, or things wrapped around them. In fact, it’s often a trial of passage to become an adult to get an ornament hammered into an elf’s antlers, similar to a tattoo in other cultures. Speaking of tattoos, Elves often find it hard to acquire them due to their bodies being patchworks of fur and bark, making keeping a cohesive pattern difficult. To remedy this, furs will often be dyed with various plant based dyes, the same stuff antlers are often decorated with. Finally, elf ears are extremely long, often being three or four times longer than a human’s. These ears are typically pointing straight up, though other positions exist, such as pointing to the sides. Elves also possess slightly clawed hands, allowing for a better grip on the trees from their home forests. The three main subraces of Elf are the Oakyew, the Ashwillow and the Alderthorn. The Oakyew are the most numerous type of elf, possessing decent sized antlers, as well as typically having a reddish hue to their areas of fur. They’re also the most likely to leave the groves and glens they call home, often to trade and find out news of the outside world. As such, most Oakyew Elves end up becoming wandering bards, selling tall tales and silly stories for information and supplies. Ashwillow are the most magically inclined of the elves, but as a trade off possess the smallest set of antlers. Their fur is more light blonde in colouration. Ashwillows are usually the Kells of the elven clans, their magic granting them an edge. Finally, Alderthorn are the largest, and rarest, of the elves. Often towering over the average elf, their bodies are often very powerful, featuring the largest antlers of any elf. They often becoming the wardens of the clans, meaning they aren’t very likely to leave the clans in search of adventure. Their fur is a dark gray, reminiscent of the great elks that live across Salix. This is also the subrace in which beards are most common. Hair Growth’s a bitch.

Half-elves are…weird. Elves and humans do breed true, creating an amalgam of elf and human. Half-elves typically don’t possess as extreme features, such as antlers that can be used as weapons, bark-like skin, as long ears (typically only 1.5 to 2 times longer than a human) or even how digitigrade the legs are. Half-elves make up for this via their sheer adaptability, a trait they acquired from their human side. Furthermore, they can possess some elven traits, such as their ability to climb or their speed. Half-elves are typically not treated poorly by elven clans, especially if they are the child of a kell. Indeed, some elven clans have Half-elf Kells leading them. Humans as well don’t typically treat Half-elfs poorly either, but, of course, some bullying can occur due to people being people.

Elves have a deeply spiritual culture, with religious processions being led by Druids instead of clerics. They will revere multiple animals, with the stag and the snake being paramount among them. This is due to the cycle of regeneration that each represents. Other animals include the Boar, the Bear, the Eagle and the Salmon. Each of these animals are also represented by a God, with the Stag God and the Serpent Goddess being the joint rulers of the pantheon.

Typically, you’ll see Barbarians, Rangers, Druids, Fighters and Bards amongst them, with Oakyews mainly being the bards. They generally don’t use super advanced technology, instead choosing to use what works. However, their Ruith Fluid infused runes are often considered works of art in their own right.

The race is omnivorous, hunting and fishing most of their meat, and growing most of their crops. Hunting is typically done with spears, being an extremely important symbol of Elven culture. They’ll sometimes trade these foods for various exotic ingredients, which they will use to serve at their Clolfrec. It’s often a point of pride as to who can bring the most exotic and interesting dishes to the banquet.

The Clofrelc, which, when translated, is the “Festival of Antlers”, is a festival that serves as a way to honour life and This involves a feast in honour of the gods and the bounty they offer, unarmed combat, usually using antlers and fists, and finally, games of skill and chance. The festival ends with the burning of a great bonfire made of antlers, as a way to harken new growth into the world. They don’t often write, but when they do, it’s in Ogham, a script which shares roots with Druidic. This means your average elf, assuming they were raised in an elven clan, can actually read Druidic to a degree.

They’ll commonly forgo any armour, instead relying on their bark-like hide, which can offer just as much protection as basic armour does. They’ll sometimes wear masks as well due to the shape and size of their antlers making wearing helmets impossible.

Elvish relations with other races are relatively uncommon, not because of a superiority complex, but instead because of their isolationist nature. As mentioned, Oakyew elves do travel more than your average elf, but it’s still rare to see an elf outside of the great forest homes they dwell in. When an outsider is finally trusted by the tribe, the tribe will mark their head with a substance that is a mixture of berries unique to that area. This pattern will differ depending on the abilities of the anointed, with Oakyew markings being the most common. (Alderthorn for warriors, Ashwillow for Mages, Oakyew for everyone else). They will then be known as “Antler-Friend” to the Tribe, and be treated as one of the Tribe by the members of it. If they came to them requiring help, the Tribe would do everything within their power to help them. The process to become an “Antler-Friend” can be long and arduous, but once you’re accepted as such by the tribe, you’ll be one of them…unless you do something worthy of exile.

The reason for this isolationist nature is the same reason as to why Alderthorn Elves are so rare. Up until around 400 or so years ago, Elves were hunted by wealthy nobles for sport. Due to their simpler lifestyle and their animalistic appearance, they were treated as simply animals, with their antlers being seen as great trophies to take and keep in a trophy room. Unfortunately, Alderthorns possessed extremely large antlers, similar in appearance to that of the aforementioned Great Elk. And since Salix was considered more dangerous then the home of the elves, nobles went there instead to hunt down a trophy. Around 400 years ago, passionate campaign work by Elves and “Antler-friend” alike turned the perception of elves around, instead being considered a full-fledged people. As a result, the crime of hunting an elf for sport was considered what it always had been, murder. And would be punished as such. Only relatively recently, around 20 years or so, has the Alderthorn population of elves recovered to even a fraction of what it was before.

Multiple other types of elves exist throughout the world, seemingly based upon deer and other ungulates with a similar frame and stature. Some even don’t possess antlers, instead having different adaptations to survive the ecosystems they adapted in. One constant remains, their association with trees.

Little incoherent maybe, but you get the jist of it. Like I said, should have some stats up soon, so you can bring these shy fey to your own world. Felbrassan Elf Stats:

Average sizes:

Oakyew

Height: 5’5-5’8

Weight: 65~KG

Ashwillow

Height: 5’1-5’4

Weight: 50~KG

Alderthorn

Height: 6’7-7’1

Weight: 110~KG

Age: Elves can live up to around 450 years, with the oldest recorded Elf being around 500 years old.

Size: Medium

Speed: 35ft

ABI: You have a +1 to Dexterity

Crown of Antlers: Your magnificent antlers grant you proficiency in your choice of Persuasion or Intimidation. Furthermore, your antlers can be used as a natural weapon.

Barkhide: Your Base AC is 12 + your Dexterity modifier

Fey Ancestry: You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed.

Claws: Your clawed hands can act as natural weapons, which deal 1d4 slashing damage instead of the normal bludgeoning design. They also give you a climbing speed equal to your walking speed.

Fleet of foot: Your walking speed is increased by 5ft. Languages: You can speak, write and read Common and Elvish. Subraces: The three major subraces of Elves are the Alderthorn, the Ashwillow and the Oakyew

Alderthorn (Irish Elk)

ABI: You have +1 to Constitution as well as a +1 to Strength

Antlers: Your antlers deal 1d8 piercing damage

Thornhide: As a reaction, when you're hit by a melee attack, you can deal 1d4 piercing damage to the source of damage.

Vanguard Training: You have proficiency with Spears, Tridents, Shortbows and Shields.

Oakyew (Red Deer)

ABI: You have an additional +1 to Dexterity as well as a +1 to Charisma

Antlers:Your antlers deal 1d6 piercing damage Natural performer: You have proficiency in an instrument of your choice, as well as the Performance skill. Extra language: You can speak, read, and write one extra language of your choice.

Ashwillow (Whitetail Deer)

ABI: You have a +2 to your Wisdom

One with the woods: You know one cantrip of your choice from the Druid spell list. Your choice of Charisma, Wisdom or Intelligence as your spellcasting ability for it.

Antlers: Your antlers deal 1d4 piercing damage

Speech of Beast and Leaf. You have the ability to communicate in a limited manner with Beasts, Plants, and vegetation. They can understand the meaning of your words, though you have no special ability to understand them in return. You have advantage on all Charisma checks you make to influence them.

Here are the stats I had in mind for the three most common types of Felbrassan Elves. I hope these are to your liking. I'll likely make Half-Elves in a separate post, with other similar ancestries.

#dnd #dnd5e #dnd homebrew #dungeons and dragons

9 notes · View notes

lizard-legendarium · 8 months

Text

DnD Homebrew

Ok so, if you know me, you'll know I have a completely healthy and normal love of the game known as DnD. Fucking hate WOTC though, they can eat shit. Surprisingly though, I've never really given making Homebrew a go. Well, that's a slight lie. I started, never finished. But hopefully, that ends today...ish. Whenever I can, I'll try and post some homebrew for people to look at, whether that be a race, a monster, or maybe even a subclass if I'm feeling spicy. Please, give me feedback. I am very new to making homebrew, if that wasn't obvious, and, as such, would love to know how I could improve. Thank you in advance!

So, yeah. Here we go. Oh, quick thing. These homebrew things will likely be for my setting, Felbrass, but I'll try to make them in such a way that allows them to be used in your own settings. Races Felbrassan Elves and how weird they are Monsters Brontosaurus Rework

#dnd #dnd homebrew #dnd5e #dungeons and dragons

11 notes · View notes

lizard-legendarium · 8 months

Text

I forgot I had one of these

Yeah so I forgot I had one for a good while lmao, oh well. Can't promise it'll be the content Y'all were looking for, but I do have something I can post very soon. Or maybe it'll be the next post idk lol.

1 note · View note

lizard-legendarium · 10 months

Text

As per usual, my man be cooking

League of Legends Concept: The Hive

I admittedly had the hardest time getting into the hive. To me it wasn't anything particularly new. Tropey and without exploration of anything deeper. Than fucking Oryx in the Taken King came out, and by god that changed my view. These savage insectoid marauders who love violence because it keeps them going, and how their greatest gods could replace people with superior, weaponized versions of themselves in life. Then came Savathun, and the tragedy of her species became realized. Pawns to an intimately twisted pact made out of the desperate grief of three frail siblings. And despite the witch queen's change of heart towards the traveler, the antithesis to the darkness, she still could only demonstrate cruelty and relentless slaughter. Xivu Arath herself is now some grieving, mad god serving the witness after the death of her most loved brother, and the betrayal of her sister.

Since I have covered eliksni/scorn, cabal, and vex(yet to be released), it would be unfair to leave them out. So, taking a throwaway name in the current Runeterra lore, I created a story mirroring the rise of Xivu Arath, Oryx, and Savathun, enjoy! ----

The word "Raylu", in the ancient tongue of the Vastayan… meant carnivorous or ever smiling. And for as long as the standing empires have known, they Vaylu were always ravenous creatures of the open seas and the deep below. Synonymous with death, synonymous with war, synonymous with deception. Yet as is for all life, it wasn't always this way. It is never so simple as to be born cruel. The Vaylu after all we're not demons, born from the ire of life. They were a people, found below the tumultuous sea along the continental shelves, where the light penetrates the surface of the waves and finds itself opaque

This enigmatic species of Vastayan, resembling their maria cousins, though with armored arms, legs, head, and a blade-like telson. Even at their time, they looked ancient, perfectly suited for a life of hardship. For indeed existence was harsh for the Raylu. Their Ocean had become stained with magics, and the skies above their home were eternally stormy: as rain fell sharp into the waves and lightning had enough power to vaporize anyone it struck. Great Fish and Beasts would prey on the populace, and for a time the Raylu frequently warred with each other. Yet for a century peace reigned, and in this there was a Raylu born named Sünalt, whose journey would shape the fate of her people forever.

In this time she learned to be cunning, fixing up traps to snare prey, and most importantly, who to tell was friend or foe. Not every Raylu she encountered was an ally, and not every Marai found was kind. But not every human crossing overhead was without use. She learned the most valuable aspect of cunning:

Observation.

Sünalt spent her days observing the comings and goings of the creatures that roamed the ocean depths. She would watch from the shadows as schools of fish danced in intricate patterns, evading the hungry jaws of greater beasts. She marveled at the way the Marai moved with grace, their bioluminescent markings lighting up the dark waters and their flowing fins like the gowns of a dress. She even observed the humans from afar, studying their technology and their creeds. She developed a talent for blending in with her environment, mastering the art of deception and camouflage. As she reached adulthood, her skills had surpassed those of her peers, and soon many seeked her as a sort of guide. She played up to it, claiming she accessed forces deeper than what could be felt or seen. That great serpents below the plates of the earth slumbered, and whispered into her ear what was to them, petty trivia. The Raylu could believe it, stranger things did occur, and her estimations and instructions always seemed to be on point.

She learned being able to read people and patterns was a step above magic. It gave her certainty, where spells could falter, people rarely changed their character.

With each passing day, Sünalt's curiosity and thirst for knowledge grew. She sought to understand the balance of the ocean, the ebb and flow of life, and the intricate connections between the different species. Her elders warned her against meddling in the affairs of others, but Sünalt couldn't help herself. She yearned to explore the world beyond the murky depths of her home. The stories of creatures above the surface, of the vast lands, and the strange beings that roamed there intrigued her. She longed to see the surface and uncover its secrets. She knew that the world above was full of dangers, just like the ocean's depths, but she also believed that there must be opportunities for her people to thrive beyond their current circumstances. She wanted to learn, to adapt, to survive.

Existence couldn't just be the struggle to exist.

And yet the fates soon came to reinforce this belief, forher people would be attacked within their very waking minds. A few of their own mages, especially those most esteemed, had terrible visions of a cataclysm. Of a Runeterra that would devour itself alive from within the deep. For below them, disaster existed. These visions were palpable, utterly maddening and exhausting. It's as if the words themselves were a viral code, and upon recognizing the cataclysm the will to care. It all returned in their visions to what they perceived to be a barren sea bar, baking under a now blood red sun. When many came to look for Sünalt, they instead found her missing. She was hiding, and she remained still as they prattled on about this end that had overcome their people. She had seated herself into a position of otherworldly wisdom, and so now that all other sources of knowledge had been debilitated, they seeked her.

The tale was exceptionally spur to her tongue, and at first she was puzzled. Unwilling to let herself see it as the end, she constantly called it by a new moniker: "The Next Shape". One stormy night, when the lightning arced across the sky with wild abandon, and the waves crashed against the Raylu's underwater home, Sünalt had come to a conclusion. She gathered her most trusted companions, those she knew she could rely on, and shared her vision with them. That the mages were only seeing part of a greater prophecy, and that to see how to avoid annihilation, they would have to cross Shurima to their destination. She proposed she lead an expedition to the surface world, and there they will see how all will fall into place. Many were skeptical, fearing the dangers that awaited them, but Sünalt's charisma and her undeniable intelligence swayed them to her side.

Her crew comprised mostly of her best friends. Among them was the most sheltered of them, Heshstar, a warrior who had seen no battle. Xez'Karo, who hid her form in a cloak so none may see her frailty. Kronut, the youngest and shyest of the mages. But then came Ahtal'Xul, her detractor, a survivalist who more so just wished to die on the trip to find something of his caliber. He cared little for the prophecy, being among the oldest he saw Sünalt's rise among her peers. And viewed the journey as just a way for her to abandon ship.

Which was not entirely untrue.

Though the group was by no means a legion, the madness and fatigue overwhelming their people was sure enough cause to at least push forward, and they began their ascent towards the surface. The journey was perilous, facing fierce currents and powerful sea creatures, but Sünalt's wit and tenacity saw them through. It was a perilous swim, but as they broke the surface of coastal waves, the world above greeted them with blinding sunlight and open skies. For the first time in their lives, they saw the vast expanse of the world beyond the ocean's edge. Now came the hard part: Voyaging onto land.

Sünalt pointed to the many life available to their disposal, and suggested that she create them suits of flesh and carapace from the coastal life. And so they hunted and slaughtered crustacean, mollusk, and pulled from the sands many flora in which Sünalt, having experienced similar organisms, began to shape. She filled the interior with absorbent plants. And as they put the suits on in the water, it seemed like the flora had found purchase on their carrion gear, and kept their skin wet. From there they trekked inwards into a brave, new world.

The surface world was vastly different from the depths of the ocean they called home. The lack of movement they had now, and the lack of a blanketing pressure beyond that of the corpse armor on their bodies, was alien. The light was so bright, and it was an issue they had barely been able to adapt to in the shallows. Many nights they slept in shallow pools along the flowing rivers of the coastal rainforest. And in those many nights, the dreams had come to them now. Now they were clearer than what the mages had detailed. And now Sünalt was confronted by them.

And they were giving her answers. They spoke to her now as an infinite plane of sand,which she stumbled through with little strength. She was alone, amidst a sea of voices of dust.

"Most cunning of her kin, you seek to end cataclysm?"

"There is no other option, I take the visions as death, they become death. And my kin will die."

"Then, the most cunning of her kin, do not venture to the sands. Venture to the wastes, where we may grant you power to avoid dying."

"But the Waste… we've heard of those lands. The void will devour us."

"Then wear our mark… and they will ignore you. But it's cultists are sharp tongued and spear-fanged. Kill them, should you see them. Blood is necessary to spill, for you and your friends to grow."

The mark was of a Pyramid, with a crowned rhombus bearing 3 circles below the crown as if eyes. If was the old mark of her kin's ancestral kingdoms, those warring hordes and courts. As soon as she realized this, Sünalt awoke with a startle, and could not sleep. She remembered the symbol, it was hard not to. It was hard not to remember their words. So she went to the river and looked for the finest mud. The freshwater made her feel heavy, and tired. And the flowing water seemed only to make her catigue grow. So she took from a stick and dragged great swathes of it to shore. It dried on the stick and created a fine white chalk… the perfect marking clay. And she painted the symbol onto her friend's foreheads, even the most bitter Ahtal'Xul. Though it would be Heshstar and Kronut who would debate with her. Heshstar did not like being marked, even for his own good, and was made aware that she had used the old sigil upon his crown. Kronut instead debated if these were just self fulfilling prophecies. For his clarity saw them voyage to jagged rocks now, instead of endless sands. Sünalt however, lightened up at the mentioning of the sharp rocks, and told them that the marks were indeed to keep them safe, for salvation was locked behind the borders of the Wastelands. And that "her trusted friends" told her how. He asked them if they were the Leviathans, like Nagadilotep, she tried so deseperately to appease to. And she claimed they were older, wiser, and unlike the leviathans… very much alive.

And that they had tols her to seek Icathia.

And so, the group of intrepid Raylu adventurers ventured forth from the coastal jungle, following the freshwater tillit dried, and the earth had the hue of wet ash. Sünalt led the way, her keen guiding them through the unforgiving landscapes of torn rock and infected crust. As they delved deeper into the Wastelands, they noted hoe much drier it was, and for many like Xez'Karo, it was suffocating. Sünalt and Heshstar eventually found safety under a peak, rainwater seemingly brought forth by the seas had soaked the stones created a wet, cold cave below its jaggrd peaks. Sünalt's fatigue was obvious, and she went to rest as soon as hwr shoulder founs purchase against the cave wall.

She was given yet another vision, and this time, in the vision, all her friends and Ahtal'Xul were present, and the voices told them they would send them several followers of the void, and pit them against the frail, exhausted Vaylu. Their rewards for winning, would outshine the rewards for the followers.

To save the world, a blade was required.

As they woke up they saw people in robes approaching the cave, the moon unable to pierce the thick clouds of the night. But a time among the deep had given them incredible sight, and as they figured entered their color-periphery, their features were more discernable. The lilac-robed figures emerged from the darkness, their movements eerie and unsettling. Their faces were obscured by hoods, and they seemed almost ethereal as they glided closer to the Raylu group. Sünalt's heart pounded in her chest, but she knew that hesitation would only lead to more trouble. She noticed the glint of metal concealed beneath their robes—a telltale sign of their intent. She needed to act quickly.

As the Lilac-robed figures drew nearer, Sünalt stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of a blade sheathed at her side. She greeted the strangers with an air of authority, her other hand outstretched towards them as if to warn them not to move any closer.

"Halt! State your purpose in the Hollowed Lands."

The Lilac followers hesitated, seemingly taken aback by Sünalt's boldness. Barring one, a woman of robust build, who spoke to Sünalt in a soft, hissing voice.

"We come in search of those who seek salvation, Are you one of them?"

Sünalt grinned, motioning with her tail to the others in the cave that this, this was the moment they had been warned of. Sünalt addressed the cultist yet again, her eyes practically starry with anticipation.

"We in fact, are famished. And tired. But we are here to inherit a blessing. It should arrive any second."

The followers seemed uninterested by her response, their hooded heads unwavering. They began to approach the cave cautiously, as if gauging the sincerity of her words. At that moment she looked back to the larger woman before her, and ducked, as Kronut fired forth a blast of raw magic at the cultists chest, causing her to double back. Heshstar and Ahtal'Xul immediately ran forward, their own blades positioned as they ran forward with brutish abandon. The cultist were swift, but not fast enough. Heshtar was tired, but they had always been strong enough to take the blows. And Ahtal'Xul was reeling for this the whole voyage, and despite cleaver not being meant to pierce, drove it through his opponent's guts. Xez'Karo would turn to see Sünalt attempting to stand back up, only for a powerful blow from the larger robes figure to send her back to the ground. Xez'Karo snarled, and immediately lunged out the cave to qrap their cloak around the woman's face. This did little, as the larger woman simply grabbed Xez'Karo from the arm, and threw her down hard, the smaller Raylu yelping in pain. But the woman was not observant of the movement Sünalt pulled, where she drove her blade deep down into the woman's arm, and sliced it diagonally to her wrist. The cultist howled in pain, as Sünalt grabbed Xez'Karo and slinked back into the cave. Kronut focused his ingitaru magic on the woman's open wound, causing her to be paralyzed in place from the pain.

Heshstar finally landed a blog against his enemy, rewarding his fatigued self as the blow was strong enough to send the robed figure into all the cardinal directions, a purple pile of clothes stained in viscera. Ahtal'Xul had downed many, roaring into the sky as he dove his cleaver into the back of the yowling woman, who tried to elbow him away. Giving time for Sünalt to strike her in the head with a great stone, and silence her. The skirmish had been quick and brutal, but now they could rest. Except… the voice came again.

And asked them to eat.

Sünalt was stunned. She had expected a bit more fanfare. Perhaps they hadn't made it a game? A show of it? She checked Xez'Karo, who was suffering from a cracked shoulder, writhing silently in pain. Sünalt cradled her close, before looking at the carrion from Heshstar's blow. The voices asked why she had not begun to eat, and as Sünalt was about ready to speak, Heshstar took up the gristle and showed it to Sünalt.

"I will eat the mangled core… she may eat the limbs… your leviathans are… crude. We eat our enemies now? That's how we stop the end?"

Sünalt looked confused, though when Heshstar threw her the limb, she handed it to Xez'Karo, looking down at her friend as they followed everyone else's directions, and sunk her teeth deep into the arm flesh, Sünalt watching. Before she finally spoke up, her voice sounded the tiniest bit aged from those 40 seconds of combat.

"Existence… is the struggle to exist… is it not?"

As Sünalt watched her friends consume the flesh of their fallen enemies, a mix of emotions washed over her.The voices in her visions had been right; to save her people, they needed power, and that the voices promised power through gorging on the fallen. It was a twisted truth, but one she couldn't ignore.

Gathering her courage, Sünalt reached for the limb and took a small bite. The taste was metallic, the texture unpleasant, but she pushed aside her repulsion and chewed. As she did, a strange energy seemed to surge through her body, filling her with newfound strength and vigor. It was as if the essence of her fallen foe was becoming a part of her, empowering her beyond her normal capabilities. And among such, was no longer the need for water. Fatigue was absent, and soon she bit more into the remains, alongside the rest of her kin

----

Every kill made was done to sharpen the knife. She gained the same magic the cultist projected upon her. Great Sai beast ignored her, tunneling through the earth; they simply passed by her with total indifference. Great centipede beast with canine jaws scuttled past her and her group not with total indifference, but familiarity. Amethyst moths with draping wings and crushing mandibles flew around the group like scavenger birds, waiting for the next onslaught, for the Raylu group adopted this grisly ritual of eating rival cultists, knowing that it granted them an advantage in the Wastelands. The voices in their visions guided them further, leading them towards an ancient ruin that held the key to the salvation they sought. Feeding on the void's followers, engaging in more battles that tested their strength and cunning.

The voices warned them the cataclysm drew closer, and that they must find the sunken pyramids. That once they could glimpse the old ruins of Icathia, they must plunge themselves into the darkest hole they could find, and there the voices would bestow them the power to change their kind's history, and help them avoid the great dying.

Their encounters with the void's followers became more frequent, and they embraced their role as hunters, using the harnessed powers of the void worshippers to strike down those who posed a threat to them and their mission. Each cultist they defeated brought them closer to their ultimate goal—the salvation of their people and the prevention of the cataclysm that loomed over the world. The first month of jungle travel was now eclipsed by the two years of wild voyaging. Of jagged lightning nights and muddled, golden days, these forays into ancient wrecks and dagger-shimmering flights from monsters in robes: these had been the happiest times of their life.

Save for Sünalt And this was palpable to Xez’Karo and Heshstar. After having eaten seven more of their enemies, gathered around a makeshift camp-flame, Xez’Karo confronted the tired looking oracle that had brought them here.

“Sünalt, pensive one, what is it? What troubles you?”

Sünalt could do nothing but gaze from the fire back to the others, getting the attention of Kronut and Ahtal’Xul, before speaking with a worn, tired throat.

“Oath-bearing friends, we are two years into this journey. For two years we’ve worked to understand the visions, and now that we have eaten our enemies shouldn’t it be clearer? I am certain our people are ill, and the visions which started this only give us directions, not answers.”

We five will die here, in exile. The visions will outlive us. We sit too often I feel, but even though we always succeed in our hunts, and we need not drink, I am famished, and I still have found any way to stop our end.”

The other four looked at each other, concern creeping over their expressions. Kronut grit their tooth-plates together, groaning back to the others. “I wish you weren’t so honest…”

Heshstar thought that Sünalt had never been wrong, and her diagnosis was apt to their situation. Xez’Karo snapped and threw the arm bone of a cultist to the ground. “We followed you! Now you say it is for naught!?” Sünalt immediately stood up, looking back at the frail friend of hers: “I’m saying we are running out of time. Not that all is lost… But it is beginning to feel that way.”

Only for Heshstar to speak, raising themselves up to face the others.

“We have to dive, that's what the voices say to do. Dive into the earth, the world below us... towards the leviathans.”

Ahtal’Xul immediately spoke up on the preposition, slamming his cleaver’s broadside to his armored chest.

“But we must find the ruins first, we must find the pyramids sunken into the earth, as the leviathans of Sünalt said, or are their words malleable?”

Sünalt instead, took her hand to her chest, and spoke up to the group as a whole, collected and firm.

“We have to dive,in the world beneath us, in the infected depths, I hope we may find what we need most...”

More time. More life.

----

The blade that seeks to understand, is a follower. A tool for greater things. They found a cavern, forged obviously not of runeterra metals, as it shimmered like a cold star, with the sheen and texture of both silver. They traveled beyond its maw, and deep, deeper into the earth, where light was not something luminous and like a blanket, nor fleeting and wisp like their abyss. No, light here was tangible, given shape and not allowed to pass that shape. And there, they found steps. Steps carved for people, yet they had seemingly never been worn. No voices greeted them, no fanfare. Nothing. Just darkness, darkness so devoid of light and shape that they felt bumbling blind for the first time in years. Sound traveled little, and so their whispers carried no definition or texture. Truly, they were alone. Until finally, a voice beckoned them forth from deep in the cavern: “OUR GUESTS! MOVE! MOVE LIKE THE BLADES THROUGH FLESH AND ARTERY YOU WIELDED NOT BUT A FEW DAYS PRIOR!”

Sünalt took off down to the base of the stairs, panting with newfound purpose, blade drawn just in case it was of rival cultists seeking to entrap them. A life of murder was preferable to one without sensation. She could tell her friends were behind her too, and this was almost as cathartic as feeling the pressure grow heavier, and the air tingle with static charge. At the bottom of the steps, the Raylu group found themselves in a vast underground chamber, illuminated by a soft, eerie glow. The source of the light was unclear, but it seemed to emanate from the very walls of the cavern, casting strange shadows that danced and writhed across the floor.

In the center of the chamber, they saw an enormous and grotesque set of creatures. They were great worms, much larger than any they had ever encountered, covered with segmented plates and numerous spines. Their heads were of a simple tetrahedral shape, broken up by lines of yellow-orange lights, which when the beast opened up their maws revealed six barbed mandibles. They moved through the solid floor, which constantly rippled and shifted seemingly as if it were sand. The worms' presence was overpowering, and their voice resonated in the minds of the Raylu like a haunting echo, reverberating their flesh and chitin alike.

"Welcome, seekers of power, you have come seeking salvation. You stand on the naked hull of an ancient city. You stand exposed to the crushing pressure and ferocious heat of the deeper Runeterra. It should annihilate you. It is by our combined will, you too, Vaylu brood, that you survive.”

Stunned at first, they began to recompose themselves when facing these beasts, which now were only the heads and trunklike bodies looking down upon them. Sünalt's eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice steady despite the foreboding presence before them.

“We seek to save our people from the cataclysm that threatens to consume us. We came to you, seeking your voices, for this promise. What ritual do you seek now? Has our voyage and slaughter not been enough?."

The great worms let out a low, rumbling laugh that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet. "You misunderstand. Behold your voyage. Now behold your strength, your seasoned blades. Now behold my great and coiling length, my folded jaws and impenetrable carapace. Behold the earth symbiotic with my flesh. I have not summoned you to devour, I merely summoned you to inherit."

Ahtal'Xul growled, his skepticism evident in his tone. For there was now uncertainty of their required presence.

"Then this is to parlay? What is the price we must pay for your court?" The worms responded, their voice echoing through their tooth-plates down to their telson.

"For time uncountable, we have been patient in the Deep Earth. From across the sun-orbiting globe, we have called life to Icathia, so that it might contend against extinction. For millennia We have awaited you... our beloved hosts."

Sünalt exchanged glances with her friends. They knew the dangers of making a pact, especially with such entities, and they understood that the consequences could be dire. Yet the worms continued to speak. “Against you stand the cruel Leviathans, The Evermoving, and all the forces of the Celestials. They would crush you down into the dark. They have arranged their sun and moon to drown you, in fear of your potential. We want to help you, forgotten Vastaya. We offer to each of you a bargain... a symbiosis.”

Taking a step forward, Sünalt spoke back to the great worms.

"We will not be your mindless servants, but I may bow my carapaced crest to you, should you give us your conditions.."

The worms surrounding the central one opened their maws wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth that glistened in the eerie light. Suddenly, a torrent of void energy, burning orange and coldest violet, surged forth from their jaws, swirling and coiling like a malevolent storm. Sünalt and her friends braced themselves, only for the flames to create a veil between them, and the rest of the chamber, as the greatest worm still looked down upon them. The energy was both intoxicating and terrifying, threatening to overwhelm their senses.Yet they held their ground, as the great worm spoke:

“Take into your bodies our blood, our vital truth From them you shall obtain eternal life. From them you shall gain power over your own fragile flesh: the power to make of it as you will. And should you find an imperfection in the world, an injustice or an inconvenience — you will have the power to repair it. Let no mere law bind you.

We ask two things in exchange.

You must obey your nature forever. In your immortality, Kronut, you may never cease to explore and inquire, for the sake of your kin. In your immortality, Xez’Karo, you may never cease to test your strength. In your immortality, Heshstar, you must never stop your duty as warrior, and must always face a killing blow. In your immortality, Ahtal’Xul, you must never back down from a challenge. And in your immortality, Sathona, you may never abandon cunning. For you are now agents of The Empress, who wishes to reshape this world and end cataclysm. To deny your nature, the blood you ingest will consume you. And as your power grows, oh sovereigns, so will the weight of your blood.”

Sünalt hesitated, looking up at the great worms, and shuddered at the thought of denying this chance. Was her life, her comfort, more valuable than the weight of Runeterra’s demise. She thought not. With conviction in her voice, she finally spoke.

"We swear our loyalty to The Empress, O Great Worm. Grant us your power, and we shall serve you to the best of our abilities."

As the words left her lips, a cut appeared on the worm,, shimmering blood black as tar falling down its form. The great worm acknowledged their oath with a nod. "Go forth, seekers of power, cup your hands and take our blood as vassals. The void shall be your ally, and you shall save Runeterra from ruin.

For you are now synonymous with death, and control.”

----

"I don't have a strict proof yet, you know. This thing we believe — that we're liberating the world by devouring it, that we're cutting out the rot, that we're on course to join the final shape — I haven't found a strict, eternal proof. We might yet be wrong."

Sünalt looked from her home, her new throne south of The Shadow Isles, observing the thick mist that clung to it from a perch-stone. Fins like the wings of a lunar moth draped around her like a royal cloak, her crown like a hammerhead’s own skull, as piercing green eyes burned within her. To her side, a confused Vaylu drone looked from her to the mist, scratching their head with hooked, carnivorous talons.

“...perhaps I need a new look at it all. Do you think Viego would mind some… visitation?”

The drone shrugged, looking at itself and her repeatedly before hissing something out, Sünalt raising her hand to cease her servant’s tongue. “I know we can’t truly devour them. But I believe we can still make friends with prey.”

----

Passive - By the Blade's End: Sünalt gains health back on the first spell she deals damage with. If she is already at full health, then she gains a temporary shield. Additionally, when an enemy champion dies nearby, she gains a cool down boost to her abilities and passive.

Q- A Dirge: Sünalt unleashes barrages of void-infused projectiles in a targeted area, damaging all enemies within range. The blasts deal increased damage based on the target's missing health

W- Binding The Elements: Sünalt creates arcs or energy, the first moving left as lightning which does ap damage and knocks the enemy into the air. The next one appears as a line of frost which slows the enemy and grounds them.

E - So I May Drown in the Deep: Sünalt reaches out with her hand, creating a void-infused grasp that damages and immobilizes a single enemy champion. The enemy champion is dealt Damage Over Time during the stun and afterwards for 0.4-2 seconds(increases as ability is maxxed)

R - Beyond the Veil: Sünalt envelopes herself in an impenetrable shroud of shadows, becoming untargetable and gaining increased movement speed. While in this form, she can move through units and terrain. Sünalt can choose to reactivate the ability to emerge from the shadows, dealing massive area-of-effect damage to nearby enemies and leaving them silenced.

7 notes · View notes

lizard-legendarium · 10 months

Text

League Concept: The Scorn

Surprisingly, The Scorn have little fanfare. While yes, they were the main antagonist in Forsaken, it seems their hype stayed there. While Witch Queen gave them a bit to do, it felt like bungie just didn't want to use them. Which sucks because I personally love The Scorn. As a concept and with things like The Ravagers, Chieftains, and Abominations, they felt really fun. While the Eliksni have this semi-sleek Scavenger/Space Pirate Vibe, The Scorn are armed with borderline Fallout Raider and Mad Max tier equipment. They use round shields and mails and crossbows and shotguns. And combined with The Barons can come back it was legitimately sick.

And Runeterra is no stranger to the undead. So making another zombie or ghost champ might be you know... not groundbreaking.

But there is another aspect to the Scorn you should remember. They came from a well-meaning wish, twisted by a creature of genie-like power. And a character spawned from a wrll-meaning wish turned into a monster... that's the stuff of tragedy.

CONTENT WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Hanging.

Aighty here we go!

----

In absolute pandemonium, there was no law. And with no law, no single power could hold court. For what could the words of one party hold over hundreds of greater or equal strength. But there was one, a fleet owned by the Court of Scrimshaw, heralded by Archon Rypskriks, The Herald. They landed their vessels off Bilgewater, and at first there was no oroblem with that. Even if these newcomers came with split jaws, and many arms, and many eyes. When asked what they were called they simply called themselves the "Lokuii", but as they built in the jagged rocks of the southwestern shore, and the northern swamps, they became known as the "Bone-Builders". And they believed in many things, but there was law, and punishment for breaking the law. They held trials, and were honor bound to their castes and traditions. The same pleasures and bargains commonplace amongst sailors and thieves of Bilgewater held no power amidst the Bone Citadels. And thus, with a new power on their doorstep, and a refusal to conform, hatred amidst the seediest of mobs and gangs grew. They were alien, too Alien, and though many of their own societal runts went into gamble and fight, those Courts of The Bone Citadel were far tougher on it occurring within their walls.

And yet some mobs pushed their luck, chasing after the flowing Ether the Loku-ii had brought with them. The beverage had become highly prized within Bilgewater, as not only did it taste sweet and smooth, but it was framed to make a man stronger should he drink it entirely. But the Court of Scrimshaw was very strict on its distribution, for the drink was intended to help with the after-effects of molting, which aided the Lokuii in their vulnerable state and aided in their growth. To hand this out so casually, could put strain on its availability. So how did it enter the docks of Bilgewater? The answer is simple: robbery. Skilled rogues and cutthroats stalked the guards, waiting for the times in between shifts to make out with the fluid. But the Monks of the Loku-ii noticed that their inventory would be at times short, and so devised a plan to place some captains within the storerooms. One band of thieves, under the employment of smuggler Blackeye Malora, were caught. They did not stand down, and the lives of four guards were taken that night. Out of five smugglers, the captains killed three, and captured the other two. On trial, the Court could not dock them, for humans only have two arms. And the humans in their stubborn pride, did not see the error of their ways. Only upset they had been caught.

That day, two heads were freed from their bodies.

Blackeye Malora was livid, and so were many others in secret. The Bone-Builders seemed unwilling to play by the rules of Bilgewater. So how do they remedy this situation? How do they regain control? Retribution? Twas simple, you hurt those close to the court.

Their prince.

Among one of the sons of The Archaon was Prince Herald Prygsis, who seeked not to be the next Archaon, but rather an artist. And to him Bilgewater's gruff exterior hid a very beautiful muse. Something that reflected fear. Not just of the deep, but of people, and personified itself as cutting edges, scaled spirals, amd fearsome fangs. An open maw welcoming both friend and foe to witness. Prygsis thought it alien to his kind's own style, of orderly patterns and soft crescent curves. And so he'd often leave the Bone Citadels to watch the work in the daughter docks, and the front pieces and designs of the ships that visited port. His love for this unspoken art did bring attention to him, including his beloved friend Stilleto. She saw his works: of censors, shawls, staffs, shields, and threading needles and was bewildered.

At first watching as a bystander, she had no intentions of interacting with the Bone Crafters. It was, after all, frowned upon to engage with them. But she had to know about this roaming, starry-eyed creature from the southern seas. And to her surprise as she grew to talk with him, the more she wanted to learn. Yes he was curious, and near naive. But he was without fear. And his investment in things she once considered for well, sheltered needs, began to change as well. To Stilleto, Prygsis was no longer an oddity, but a mind eager to grow, to learn. Who's love for people and arts was contagious. She would steal not just for herself, but would rob tomes and journals for him to read through, and watch him prattle on about the intricacies of the story or piece. She was so enraptured in his wonderful worldview, she had forgotten how hated his kind had become. There was only the Prince and The Thief in her mind.

Reality came crashing down on one fateful night, when was speaking back into the Archon's Citadel with her at her side, the two the tiniest bit buzzed when Malora's Goons crossed paths. Despite their ale tongued joy, they could sense something was very, very wrong. The goons told them how they were the talk of the town, and Stiletto realized exactly the predicament they were in. They continued to walk on, as she put herself between him and the following goons. The words they spat out at though, made the message clear.

"You ain't welcome around here no more! You might as well go on and go back to your daddy's cooking! We see you Two together, outside your little Bone towers! It's over."

Stiletto would help escort Prygsis to the tower, though she was now worried. How could she protect the prince and still feed his wonder? How could they still be at each other's side if some odd folks in Bilgewater seemed to plan for their necks wrapped in rope. The answer was simple… it was impossible, unless she upped her game. Though she was not the most, artsy person around, she took to making her own songs and art for him. And in hooded cloak she took to the docks, listening in on the stories of sailors. Of merchants, and when she was lucky, or royalty and musicians. She compiled these in a book, and equipped herself in a custom made Pistol her father once wielded, so when she was caught and held at blade's end, it would only take one shot before she disappeared back into the shadows. When she'd climb the spire in secret and slink in through his window, she'd regale him on the stories she heard, show him the sketches she made, and attempt to speak on matters of music and literature to try and engage him. Though he might be confined to the tower and the Bone Citadels for his own safety, she could at least make it engaging.

So at night, after he had tended to his duties under the watchful eye of the Archon and his siblings, she would visit, bringing both inspiration, and being his muse. Prygsis admired the thought, and soon reflected in tapestry the stories she told. Though he always added his own twist. Of kingdoms in the sky, of wish dragons, of battles waged between brothers, and of epic grudges. He seemed to change as well. He seemed unwilling to stay in the tower, and more daring, hanging his work up on ledges and the very tips of gates and dangling from balconies. And Prygsis slowly and surely, despite Stilleto's best efforts, realized how hated his kin had become. For why else did she recommend not entering the docks when they once spent all day there? And soon, he became infatuated with leaving the Bone Citadels, but he always reigned himself in from leaving the borders of his people's settlements. Prince Herald Prygsis found solace in his art and the companionship of Stiletto, and to escape that to seek answers, he already knew, was foolish.

He was hated, but he dared himself to never give them that victory. Yet a couple nights in a row, Stiletto did not appear. He figured life had taken charge over her, and so he patiently waited, filling his room with great spiraling murals. His father the Archon noticed this, and asked that since he seemed willing to decorate the room, to come up with a mural for the town center of their settlements. Ecstatic at the offer, he complied, and for nights on end planned a grand piece. All without his friend. After a month, he had finished his piece, and presented the plans to his father. His father was intrigued by the concept art for the mural, which showed Barrons, captains, and surprisingly humans. Those who in bilgewater stole from them, and had recently begun to persecute his people outside of the walls, and so the sight of one of them amidst figures of grandeur, it sat on his tongue bitterly. And the Archon spoke:

“You see humans as allies?”

The prince answered with neither a raise of his claw or tone-

“In all their forms, even if some have grown to hate us?”

“Tell me son, how much of their kindness have you garnered, compared to their cruelty or indifference?”

“One good madam, who has treated my curiosity with kindness in tow.”

“It takes more than a fleeting gesture to weather the storm. I appreciate this son, but perhaps you edit this so as to not dredge up… poor memories.”

The Archon spoke in a manner calculated and thorough, not one up to discussion as he awaited his son’s response. The Lokuii herald chittered his mandibles and left, taking the art with him. Humanity was not a creature for which one descriptor fit all specimens. Just like his kind! In fact, the only real differences he believed between the groups were physical. His friend was proof that good existed within humanity, in both kindness and wisdom. As he sat in his den-bed though, he wondered what had come of his friend. While she was strong, and he knew that, he needed answers. And so, he crept out of his open window and scuttled into the night, under the cover of shade and moon-dim light, deciding to go out and find Stiletto.

Winding through the roadways towards the dock grounds themselves, he ventured into the seedy bustle of Bilgewater's streets, a sense of unease settled in his chest. The night seemed darker, more sinister, as if shadows danced around him with malicious intent. The feeling of fear drove him forward through the winding alleys and hidden corners.The nightlife of Bilgewater was bustling, loud, and composed of hardy souls who were either brave enough to venture to the gambling rings and “exotic” shows through their own merit or liquid courage. However the stretches in between were always full of would be ruffians, murderers, and thieves, waiting for someone to let their guard down, or show any form of weakness, to beset themselves upon them. Luckily, Prygsis had many limbs, with barbed carapace that allowed him to scale up walls and traverse across the rooftops to avoid such murderous folk, his many eyes laser focused ahead to avoid bumping into the denizens of the night. Yet, unbeknownst to Prygsis, Blackeye Malora and her gang of thugs had been tailing him, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. They had originally been searching for another query, but their diligent gaze caught sight of a Lokuii jumping from roof to roof. Knowing they had let him off pretty easy, and he had not heeded the warning, they saw an opportunity to deliver a pretty obvious warning.

As Prygsis maneuvered through the docks, he caught sight of Stiletto, seeing her turn the lantern’s off on her balcony floor. There was a sadness in her expression he felt compelled to dissect. She seemed the same woman, with sunkissed skin and curled black hair. But her demeanor spoke of an event she seemed constantly haunted and reminded of, with bags beneath her eyes pointing to restless nights spent tossing and turning. Just as he was going to jump over to her residence to see what was up, he felt a sudden chill run down his spine. He turned, his mandibles clicking in alarm, only to be met with a sudden shot of a handgun landing at his feet, and the cursing of a man in ragged cloth as he loaded another round. It was Blackeye Malora's henchmen. He searched himself for a weapon, and found only a dagger gifted to him by Stiletto, and suddenly went in for the kill. As more henchmen and their weapons appeared, he weaved around their strikes seeking to end his life with uncanny reflexes, before landing the daggers blade into his knee, causing the man to yell out in horrific pain, dropping his now loaded weapon to the ground. The odds were against him, but he did not care. Consequences be damned, they were trying to kill him! He rolled out of the way of a barbed club and shot the swinging assailant point blank under his shoulder, watching as the man stumbled around awkwardly before falling on his back. Without any ammunition he simply turned the pistol back around to crash it against another assailant’s temple, while his lower pair of arms drove the blade into their stomach with a harsh jerking motion, twisting it as he pulled back.

Yet the odds were against him, outnumbered and surrounded by a gathering mob of angry cutthroats. And as one man tried to keep him in a headlock and several more men came up with kukris and gutting knives, he heard a gunshot that echoed through the air, and felt the aerosol blood soaking his head carapace. As the massive man holding him in place fell off the roof, he saw Stiletto, pistol in hand, joining in the firefight. As soon as she did, others woke up in this stretch of the docks, seeing only someone getting jumped on top of a roof. Many watched on, but a few joined. They took up their blunderbusses and handcanons, firing at the henchmen, drawing them away from Prygsis as he struggled to get up, his chitin mangled as he got up this feet, and continued the fight. Yet each glancing blow cut deeper and deeper, every bullet landing its mark more and more frequently. Stiletto tried to assist her friend, fanfiring at those henchmen trying to climb up to reach him, while eventually going to sharpshoot her friend’s assailants off of him, the roof now flowing with blood and soot that began to run off the top of the housing and into the street drains below. Landing him a chance to escape, Prygsis ran, hoping to make it to the next rooftop. Yet he was suddenly tackled by one of the henchmen, causing him to land harshly on the stone cobble.

The man began to take off with him, as the prince began violently maim his face. Stiletto attempted to go after her friend, but soon found a blade tucked deep into her thigh. She screamed in pain, and shot her assailant point blank, sending bone shards violently to the side. Many of the men began to retreat, and unrelated gangs soon took to the streets to look for scraps. She had to hide, and taking the blade from her thigh with a wet, sickening squelch, she winced in agony, but limped into the shadows, pursuing her friend. As she did, she found the man who had taken him, missing his nose and baring a cutthroat. He was dead, but she saw no signs of Prygsis, but she did find a yellowish blood trail leading deeper into the streets. In a desperate attempt to escape, Prygsis darted through the shadows, his chittering breaths echoing in the narrow alleyways. He heard the footsteps of hidden men after his trail, only for them to stop suddenly and give him a moment of respite before starting back up. His heart pounded with both fear and the overwhelming urge to find shelter and hide.

But fate was cruel that night. As Prygsis rounded a corner, his path collided with Blackeye Malora herself, a wicked grin stretching across her scarred face. With a swift motion, she pulled out her blunderbuss and shot his knees, downing the prince as the pain coursed through his veins like liquid metal. Prygsis gasped in pain as his body crumpled to the ground, the world around him spinning in a haze of agony and dissociation. His vision blurred as darkness threatened to consume him, but never fully fading into that inky blackness. He soon felt someone lifting him up, the woman laughing at hims as his head slumped behind him, looking to the chain soon wrapping around his neck, her voice oddly sweet for the barbaric act they were setting up-

“A parting wreath for the esteemed guest.”

Then suddenly his body was lifted off the ground by strong hands, the chain tightened around his neck, as Malora asked him a simple question:

“Any last words, boy?”

He had always fancied himself prepared to give a chilling reply, but could not fathom a proper send off for his life at that moment, and so quietly responded.

“Hell… its coming.”

The Brutes laughed, even the man behind him that was holding him off the ground. He realized that the man had crawled atop some fair sized boxes, supsending him some 13 feet off the ground. He was going to be hanged, and one of the men preparing his murder simply chipped back-

“Yeah, for you!”

-before he felt himself drop, and choke. As he expired, he felt them dock his arms, and remove his jewelry, laughing to each other as if it were a simple function. He was in so much pain, that it became almost comforting, like a blanket. There was nothing else to feel as they poked his body, spinning it around as though he was a children’s toy. He couldn’t feel it now. He couldn’t hear anything anymore.

He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t do anything.

Stiletto, plagued by a sense of unease, had scoured the trail he had left in the labyrinth of the city in search of Prygsis. Panic and dread gnawed at her heart as she imagined the worst possible scenarios. When she saw the bloody boot prints, even with that awful gash in her hips, it just drove her further, manic in her steps as she hobbled forward. Her fears were realized when she stumbled upon the lifeless body of the prince, dangling motionless above a pool of his own blood. She couldn't believe it, choking out a repeated series of apologies and bargains, as she aimed her pistol at the chain, firing and lunging forward to grab his body. She felt something in her leg tear, and she screamed out in pain, burrowing her face into his chest, panting as the white flame pain subsided, into the realization there was no breath or beating in his chest. Grief overwhelmed Stiletto as she knelt beside Prygsis's lifeless form, clutching it like a doll to be taken away from her. Tears streamed down her face, her sobs echoing through the desolate alleyway. So enraptured in her own despair, it took her a moment to hear the whistling coming for her from ahead. But as soon as she heard its deep-swamp melody, she froze up in horror, letting a low and friendly voice accompany wet, heavy steps.

“All the world's a river, and I am its King,

I live just to deliver the damned to their lost things.

But all those sinners with gold rings,

I'll drag them down…

Below~

So tell me what's your poison? How may I help your strife?

Maybe you're tired of toilin' and want to stroll through life,

Or if you want help avoidin' the scarecrow's scythe

I'll hide you down below…”

She looked up to see a great whiskered catfish with frog-green skin and terrible golden eyes look down at her, its great head atop a fat body with tailored suit and its crown a fine leather-brown felt bowler hat. She knew not his name, for this opportunist simply called her, “friend”. Even if his fearsome grin emerged from the shadows unnannounced, and toldf Stiletto he was drawn by her anguish. She told him if he wasn’t here to help, he could “piss off”, and instead of them growling back at her or, as his form would suggest, eat her whole, he acted wounded, and told her was only here to help.

He offered her a deal, a chance to bring Prygsis back from the brink of death. But the price was steep, for he usually worked in wealth and people skills. But he knew she couldn't live with herself after such an event. He let her in on the fact that the corpse before her, her friend, had only came here to visit her, missing her comfort and humor. Stiletto was stunned, and asked how he, this random fishman, could help her. He chuckled in response, giving her a toothy smile as he licked his fangs wet before popping his lips and speaking:

“I know just where to return the lost, you only need to pay the fee. Now, how good a friend are you to even make that payment? You value his life over yours, or your friendship?”

It was now blatantly apparent this was the legendary River King, a man - no, demon, who could do the impossible. But none could outsmart his terms and services. Stiletto knew the consequences that would follow. And yet, she knew she had to take it. If not for her sake, then his people’s. She told him there was no price too steep, and accepted his terms, sealing her fate with a pact she could never undo. The demon cackled after their palms met and the deal had been realized, sinking into the earth via a pool of muddy water. As he did, she heard Prygsis’s body begin to move. Yet when she turned to face it, it twitched upright, with milky eyes that luminated the ground like head beams. It slinked its twitching head out from underneath the chains, before grabbing at the chain with gnarled hands. The soft joints of his limbs and shoulders cracked to reveal disgusting blue-glowing boils, and the carapace on his body remained damaged, his teeth more far more like that of a mako’s as his head crest expanded outwards and his jaws and mandibles seemed polished and charred. Fire erupted from the creases in his carapace, and his chest seemed to glow like a furnace near the explosion point. Stiletto's heart shattered as she looked upon the monstrous form of the one she called friend. The sight of him sent waves of horror and sorrow crashing over her. She could no longer see Prygsis within this twisted visage, only a semblance of the prince she once held dear. She tried to call out for him, but she found his name could not be spoken. No matter how much she tried, it only resulted in her screaming. The creature glared at her, speaking out her voice in an infernal echo, and that alone made her bolt for it, screaming for him to get away. Her mind could not comprehend the sight, and any time she tried to remember her friend, his name would elude her, and instead all she would see was that mutilated beast standing with her.

The monstrosity was left to its own devices, and yet it did not pursue her. As it could see its own reflection in the glass bottles littering the streets. Prygsis remembered everything, and he remembered things he shouldn’t be able to remember. Like the path his killers took. How they wrapped his limbs in his clothes. Or how Stiletto sobbed into his chest. At first he weeped, rasping as he marched out of the alleyway, dripping blue and orange ichor that ignited behind him. He just marched forward, knowing he was far too deformed to be seen by his father or siblings, so deformed his best friend screamed and ran from him. He tripped into crates and barrels, causing the boils to pop and ignite, firing running down his body as he instinctively scrambled up and tried to douse himself. He ran not for the sea and instead ran to the streets, pleading that someone would put him out. Those few souls who watched were in awe at this corpse before them, before many suddenly broke out of sight to hide. He slammed himself into a door to a bar, the force of which caused the overhanging lantern to fall atop of him, which caused him to-

Do nothing. He heard it clank to the ground, and as he looked back at it, he realized something. As the flames died down, he couldn’t feel anything but a mild heat. In fact that was all he felt. He could not smell his skin, and as he looked down at the lantern he realized he didn't feel it collide with him. He didn’t even feel the door.

He couldn’t feel anything.

And suddenly, he was no longer filled with sadness or worry. Those watching him saw him take the heavy metal lantern and brutishly connect it to the end of the chain he clenched. He walked out of the bar, as people screamed at him what his deal was, who he was, or what he was. He didn’t respond, and that seemed to anger one sailor, not wanting some sort of Shadow Isles infestation, immediately took to him with a blunderbuss to the back. He couldn't feel it, but he could hear it, and see the ichor dropping down his back. He slowly turned around, looking at the man who fired. He wailed out at him, spinning his chains around, as fire trailed down the metal and into the lantern. A wheel of flame approached the sailor, who tried to duck from the strike…

Only to land directly in the line of impact, the sound of broken bones filling the air as Prygsis took the lantern away from the sailor’s ragged body. He found himself salivating that same ichor from his lips, before he suddenly lunged for the same alleyway he had sauntered down, running and laughing like a hyena into the night. Leaving only a trail of flames, as soon the district he ran through began to catch a blaze, sending dark smoke into the sky. The city, once accustomed to lawlessness and chaos, now trembled in the wake of his wrath. Many mistook his blind rage for a hatred of all life, not knowing he was on the trail of his murderers, and so they too fell like leaves against the typhoon. Those who were the catalysts of his transformation, would not be able to savor their victory tonight. And any that tried to stop him only delayed inevitable retribution.

Prygsis descended upon Blackeye Malora's hideout like a vengeful storm, his Flaming Lantern swinging with devastating force through the steel door that hid their den. The man behind was none the wiser as his scorched torso and head flew off from his crumpled legs. The crackling flames licked at his enemies as he seemed to be an ever burning inferno, cackling as he took their shots point blank and charged forward. Each powerful strike broke the floor of the establishment, reducing any struck by his blows to mere ashes, though it was not a sudden death, for their' cries of pain and terror echoed through the building, a chilling chorus of their impending demise as fat and skin boiled before finally being reduced to chalked debris. As Prygsis moved through the crumbling structure, his every strike left behind a roaring fire that engulfed the tables and wall in their ravenous heat. His flames danced with a furious intensity, turning the hideout into a charred, twisted monument of his righteous anger. The echoes of his victims' screams reverberated in his ears, a haunting reminder of the pain they had inflicted upon him. He had found Blackeye Malora herself stuck underneath falling debris, still breathing. This infuriated him. How dare life cling to her bones, even now?! He stopped striking at everything that moved, and looked to the chains and rope yet to be ignited. Hatching the perfect execution, he grabbed them and bound them in rope. Those still alive, kicking and screaming, he already tied the chain around their neck, mumbling under his breath as he would ram their heads against the wall.

People followed the trail of smoldering bodies, straight to the den of Blackeye Malora, only to find her and seven of her men, dangling atop a bent light post, their bodies bruised and paleish blue as they swayed from nooses of chains. Their bodies were bound, and a few of them seemed to have been conscious in their final moments by the tears that stained their faces. They saw the trail of flames go north, and immediately the town went into a state of emergency as they tried to contain the inferno lighting up Bilgewater.

Those in the Bone Citadels north of them saw the blaze erupting at the docks, as no one had run to them for aid. The Archon ran to Prygsis’s room to awaken him, only to find no one there. Fear immediately hit him as he called out for the guards all over the Lokuii’s territories to be on alert, sending men to run to every settlement to deliver the news the prince was missing, and bilgewater was under attack. As he ran to the front gates of the Citadel, he heard other Lokuhii screaming and running to the town square. Confused, he marched forward, only to see guards before an open gate paused with slack mandibles. One was clutching the prince’s clothes, and his docked arms within them. The Archon immediately fell to his knees, reaching out and taking them as his chittering became more like the sound of grinding bones, the man wheezing. Yet the words he heard next brought him no solace, only more questions.

“He… is eating the man that delivered his remains sir.”

The Archon hadn’t even heard the screaming. Looking over to a see a human outside the gates screaming in pain as his body was wrung and being devoured on the spot, slick, black congealed blood falling to the ground as he hollered, somehow not dying from the shock and blood loss as his shoulders were stripped to the bone, and his legs fully twisted around as what was once Prygsis satiated his own cravings with the last of the bastards that killed him. The moment he saw his father though, he stopped, and dropped the man, before stomping through his chest to finally silence him. Around his wrist was all of his jewelry, and as he moved forward, the guards lowered their halberds, ready for him to strike. Prygsis did not move forward further, but instead tore some cloth off the man, deposited the precious symbols, gemstones, and chains into the cloth, before wrapping it tightly and throwing it to the guards. He roared into the air, before finally shouting to them:

“I WONT BE NEEDING THIS WHERE I AM GOING! LIVE WELL! AND LET BILGEWATER REMEMBER ME! AND NEVER LET THEM FORGET!”

He ran off into the surrounding swamp, and though the Archon sent many warriors and captains after him, none could find him. Those soldiers who came into Bilgewater were mortified by the sight: smoldering buildings, injured townsfolk, incinerated corpses, and hanging bodies. Though the Lokuii asked if the prince did this, none could… or would answer.

To this day, many refer to that fiery specter as The Hangman. And while many know he is not dead, for the Marai have seen him march along the bottom of the open sea, none know why he still shambles. And none know if he will ever return to Bilgewater. If you ask the Lokuii in the Bone Citadels, none will answer, for they fear the creature that was once their beautiful prince artist. And Stiletto has gone into hiding, unable to recall the man, and only able to recall his voice repeating her name. All in bilgewater dare not recall more beyond the fires, and the site that was once Blackeye Malora’s den is now an abandoned plot none dare walk. And though the bodies did ignite, their nooses still hang.

Passive: Persecuted- Upon damaging an enemy champion, the Hangman marks them as "persecuted" for a short duration. During this time, the Hangman gains bonus movement speed when moving towards marked enemies. Additionally, the Hangman's basic attacks and damaging abilities deal bonus magic damage based on a percentage of the enemy's missing health, appearing as flames on the accused.

Q - The Censer Barer:

The Hangman swings his massive Flame Cauldron in a wide arc, dealing damage to all enemies in its path. The closer the enemy, the higher the damage. Each successful hit grants the Hangman a temporary bonus to attack speed.

W - Forsaken Path:

The Hangman slams his censer on the ground, creating a line of flames that rapidly burn away at the enemy's shields and health. The flames linger for a short duration, damaging enemies who pass through them. If an enemy is caught at point-blank range, the Hangman unleashes a powerful shockwave, knocking them back and dealing massive damage.

E - Concealed Truth:

The Hangman transforms into smoke, becoming immune to damage and nearly invisible for a few seconds. During this time, he gains increased movement speed and can pass through units. Activating the ability again allows him to dash in a targeted direction, leaving behind a trail of flames that damages enemies caught in it.

R: Hangman's Noose- The Hangman lassoes any unit caught within the arc with the chain and brings them towards The Hangman. Each unit is marked with "Persecuted", giving The Hangman a brief buff in speed and damage output, healing back after each successful kill during the duration.

----

Yep, I chose The Hangman Baron Reksis instead of say... Fikrul. I think Reksis is just a solid baron and visually pretty unique. Plus his fight gave me literally goosebumps when he started to pick up speed with the end goal of fucking damming the flaming censer directly into my titan's chest.

A desperate friend making a Faustian bargain with an entity with ill intent, which feeds on the subsequent suffering of the people making the deal. It feeds the Riven narrative with The Scorn in my opinion really well. And the Scorn are ultimately a tragedy. Forced into existence and maddened, now seeking to make themselves their own people but ultimately all they can do is destroy and become pawns of greater forces.

I imagine The Hangman is in a similar boat. He can't feel anything, which separates him from the world. He saw his best friend runaway from him in fear, unable to say his name. And all that can replay in his head are hos last brutal moments.

A fun write, but I just feel bad for our undead prince. All he wished to do was become an artist.

4 notes · View notes

lizard-legendarium · 10 months

Text

League Concept: Flying Wyverns (ft. THROGG?!?!)

Hello beasties! Remember that guy I was rewriting? This man started in the same train of thought as Kyridon. Actually he was the OG. And he was admittedly not as cool. Or lore wise, thought out. He was PURELY designed for being a monster champ with a brawler kit. And boy he has grown in concept since the start of 2021. Let me tell you about a troll. His name is Throgg

Throgg from Warhammer Fantasy is one of the most intelligent individuals in the Old World. And most definitely the most intelligent troll period. While his original appearance did not paint him as especially bright, if just exceptionally competent in tactics. Yet The Kinslayer and End Times saga painted him a far more intelligent force. Like, he was Warhammer Fantasy's take on Smaug, having such a Shakespearean flair that one did not expect from some senior aged troll. milkandcookiesTW does an exceptional video on the dude, and I do recommend reading Kinslayer as they not only make him the big bad, but also just because Felix and Gotrek books are just swag.

youtube

What does this do with our boy here? Well, the story below details that juxtaposition between pure predator and architect of the future of an entire species. Also yes we're revisiting the Freljord again fuckers because the Northern Lands of Ice and Frost need more things to kill you. ----

In the Frozen lands, there lies the ancestral site of the Laitivern, the original Rulers of the Sky. For Generations, hundreds of these wyvern clans would roost within the massive elder volcano of Wyrms Furnace, their kin dominating the skyline. And at one point they were not just limited to the Freljord either, for they had in older days conquered the world. They were cunning, and recognized that in a world of great beasts, numbers overwhelming lead to victory. They existed alongside Man, Troll, Minotaur, and Vastaya, but they were not on equal terms. They raided Man and Minotaur, competed with Troll, and preyed upon Vastaya. Their namesake became synonymous with dragons, for a flock of wandering Laitiverns could very easily overwhelm a territory and strip it of livestock and soldiers.

The Rune Wars changed this dynamic however, for the sorcery unfolded onto the world would scar the lands they called home. Magibeast once dormant before days of creation rose up, and tempered the land in strange horrific ways. Magic radiated into new and terrifying plagues, and for as clever as the The Laitivern were, they did not know how to combat these new threats. But the other races did, and though they too had an uphill battle, they gained a footing when the Laitiverns themselves could not. They disappeared from most of the world, and those who resided in the Freljord soon found that Man and Troll had grown stronger. Now their meals were stolen away, or their hunting flocks ambushed and feasted upon. Some of these terrible magic plagues tore into scales like scalding iron, and left them too weak to fly. And those who could not fly, they starved. Many clans were razed in this era, and the Laitivern went into hiding, less they attracted the unwanted attention of Dragon Hunters and Slayers.

Those around the Freljord could sometimes go weeks without a successful kill. And as the magibeast roamed the land, and the shamans spread themselves out far and wide, those at Wyrm's Furnace had an idea to feed on them instead. The flesh of Balestag or Frost Casting Yeti could suffice a flock for much longer than a typical boar or cave bear. These hunts were not… always successful… but those who came back proved themselves the most capable and cunning of their flock, and were awarded the title of Mach'dala, or "Soul Downer''.

To their surprise, the young that ate upon the sweet meat of these corrupted creatures seemed to grow a powerful resistance to crippling frost magic, or bolts of channeled fire. Seeing positive effects of their more daring hunts, the tradition carried on, and slowly did their magical potency grow as those same hatchlings would then grow up into Mach'dala themselves. Near the modern age, as Noxus crashed the gates of holds in the east of the Freljord, some Laitiverns could deflect the magic, and those that had hunted shamans could now bring their own runic powers to the hunt. But they had also harnessed in this time the "Styg '', or "Wrath". The ability to breathe a clouded emission black as storm clouds and rolling with red thunder, that could direct at prey and foe alike. The Laitivern became known as Galdrveiðrormr, or as the Mage Hunter Wyverns. And those of Wyrm's Furnace grew bold, and even with Anivia in the skies… they claimed the heavens as their domain.

Wyrm's Furnace however was full of more Laitiverns than the Mach'dala. There were the Oldsouls who guided the roost and healed its soldiers, the Foragers who gathered supplies for nesting and firemaking, the Bouncers who protected the roost, and the Carvers, who carved our rock for them to build more nests and roosts. An apt home for hatchling, with many careers to seek. Among a clutch of eggs that belonged to a esteemed Carver and Mach'dala, was Veyolkos.

It was very clear after he hatched he was born a gifted hatchling, with his scales sharpening very early on, and learning to glide within a month of hatching. But this caused the problem where he was a bit too curious. Curiosity in the Freljord for even humans and Yordles has to be tempered, otherwise death would be the answer to the inquiry. So they kept him near the Oldsouls, who had no qualm with watching a hatchling. Except Veyolkos the moment he learned to speak, had too many questions. He asked why they collected spears, and was told they were warrior's trophies. When he asked if he could make a spear, the elders were dumbfounded, and had no idea if they could. Humans seemed to make them with ease, but they were so thin the Laitivern's saw them as an inconvenience. What use was a weapon if you were already so dangerous unarmed. He didn't like the answer, and attempted to make such spears. And then axes. And then disastrously, a bow. After a few days and a few more missing scales and bruises from the Laitivern Chick's attempted craftsmanship, they relieved Veyolkos of their watch, the Oldsouls growing tired of his boundless energy and always fidgeting talons resulting in injuries around the roost.

This was unseemly, as chicks could easily get lost or snatched up by an Azurite Eagle. But a few experienced foragers agreed, for his mother couldn't take him as she hunted far more dangerous beasts, and his father worked near falling stone for a living. Taking him under their wing, they showed them the shells they used to forage water, and the branches they searched for that carried the healing ingredients needed for the Oldsouls to use. They showed him flint, and chunks of metal along the cliff faces that helped start flame. And this, seemed to get him wondering if the wood they harvested for the fires couldn't be used to make something else. Especially seeing how easily the wind could snatch their cache from their talons. So he took to some branches, and as the veterans foraged, attempted to make a basket. He had never seen a basket, but he figured something that could hold multiple supplies at a time they could carry in their jaws and talons, was far easier. And to his chagrin, after six fell apart, the seventh carried back 3 shells of water and a bundle of medicinal batteries. The Veterans were curious about the little thing, and asked the young hatchling how it was made. And Veyolkos was more than happy to show.

As he grew into a Yearling, he would continue as a forager. Though he would not lie, he wasn't particularly fond of just being a forager. Yes he made baskets for collecting, but he also wanted to make more with the sticks, bones, and stones at his disposal. So he made for larger baskets yes, and sleds to make transporting caches easier, but he also took to equipping himself with armor. Most notably, taking the hides of kills and tanning them to make leather. To make into stripes. And to create spears around his face and shoulders, as to create a formidable defense as he and other foragers would descend into the valley to steal from the Freljord's wolves and bears. Veyolkos despite his size would always attempt to lead the attack, for though he was similar in size to the bears he believed his craftsmanship would stand the test against them. And the first couple attempts did not. But he learned to treat the wood with flame, and sharpen the bone instead of just relying on its broken pieces. And soon his body was among the veterans as they reaped hard earned scraps, as he tore into their furred hides with sharpened blades and claws, bringing back extra to be eaten, and additionally bringing him more materials to work with.

Though the Bouncers found his designs to be… the work of a fledgling that had yet to realize his true strength, the Foragers were more than happy to use his new equipment. Veyolkos at first believed he could create a new career, here in Wyrm's Furnace. As much as he enjoyed gathering, he couldn't help but feel it would be wasted potential. While others saw shapes and landmarks, he saw patterns. Patterns that could be manipulated and made into something new. For his siblings he created shields of bone and hide, to protect their sides once they were applied. When they went off to hunt, they wouldn't be as scathed by a predator's blows, but they did return with the armor mangled and torn. Which only incentivised him to cure leather and toughen the hide at his disposal.

But at two years of age, all his planning and testing was interrupted by his mother. His mother saw his tinkering not as the work of a brilliant mind or an opportunistic artist, but a soul yearning for conflict. Wolves and Elk wouldn't cut it, no, he'd need bigger prey. She told him that since he could fly with expertise now, that he must return home with magically gifted prey. Veyolkos was mortified at first, for he had heard his mother's stories of those beasts beyond in the Old Pines and Evergrowth. But before he went out, he asked her to let him prepare for it. She accepted, and for 2 months he fastened himself a suit of leather, bone, and took from an abandoned den, a worn out and torn chest piece of steel to make as a helm. And so he went out on his hunt, soaring through the skies in ragged armor. There amidst stormy skies he scoured, the pelts of his armor keeping him protected from the bite of winter's wind.

The storm he flew into made it so visibility was low, but amidst the flurry he caught sight of a fire deep in a cave. He perched outside of it, resting atop the mouth of the cave, as he let himself lay low and hid beneath the white blanket of the precipitation. There he saw a lone man, decorated in bear furs moving back to the cave, unaware of the danger lurking above his own refuge. He had heard of Shamanic Werebears, and wondered if though not the largest kill to make, if it would draw the praise of his roost. This was his first magibeast to down, not fed to him in shreds from the mouth of an elder or his mother.As soon as the shaman passed under the roof of the cave Veyolkos shot forward like a panther leaping towards a bird in flight. His body contorted, facing the man as the man instinctively entered his Ursine state. The two collided, bouncing into the cave as both tried to land their jaws on the throat of the other. But Veyolkos’s face spears became too difficult to navigate around, and so the Ursine departed, bleeding from his chest and arms, and tried to find a new way to attack this armored Laitivern. Veyolkos would look around, to find that indeed, Laitivern scales were used in the making of spears and axes. He snapped his jaws as the Ursine tried to rush for his flank, only to pull away, revealing that hidden along their neck was the teeth of bear, wolf, raptor… Laitivern. This Shaman most likely had experience, and knowing killing a slayer like him could prove dangerous to his people, he immediately went to flee, only to feel the Ursine crash into him and knock him over, immediately trying to go for his chest, yet seemed somewhat stunned when his claws only struck hide and stone. Which he had still torn apart, but had not reached the vitals of the Laitivern. Taking advantage of the situation, Veyolkos slapped the Ursine onto its back, and flipping himself up with cat-like agility. He plunged his head spears into the Ursine Man’s side and continued the fight, as the bear man clawed away at his face only for Veyolkos to plunge his spears deeper into the shaman. The struggle was long and brutal, Veyolkos withdrawing only after the Ursine stopped swiping away with their claws. His own face was a bloody mess, but beyond the blood flowing down his eyes, he was able to see the man’s bag. Torn up during their brawl, he noticed its contents included a long scroll, made from the skin of a seal. He nabbed it and the man’s body, flying off with his catch.

He returned to his mother and the elders, presenting his kill as he panted, before showing off his armor. He harshly dropped the shaman before their feet, before ripping a chunk out of the Ursine’s flesh, harshly gulping down the pelt and viscera. He couldn't hear anything they said, but he assumed he had pleased them. He climbed to the top of the Qyrm's Furnace, and took to studying the runes engraved onto the pelt, occupied only by the howl of the wind.

----

Laitivern mature rapidly at a young age, then it slowly peters out once they reach twelve years of age. As sub-adults they are not yet old enough to court or start their own clutch, but they can hunt amongst one another with some independence. Veyolkos had decided to flip flop between the Forager groups and Mach'dala. Amongst his siblings he was an alien, they adhered to the ways of old. And so he was most regarded not as a pack mate, but a tag-along. And so on their hunts he'd disappear for a time, since they wanted nothing to do with his inventions. But that was fine for Veyolkos. He'd begun smiting since he was seven, and had outfitted his talons with claws befitting a king. Silver he had learned, had some properties that could protect him from the surge of energy his prey usually outputted. Mystical stags he'd search for, not awake. For their speed was so frighteningly swift he could never keep up. When he found such prey he'd make sure they were sleeping. Sometimes he'd silently move in and pin the magibeast down, eating them alive. Other times he just found it easier to grab a large chunk of ice or a boulder to drop on them and concuss them. Before taking his talons to their throat. Should he find the campsites of hunters, he'd make sure none were around before taking any armor or artifacts they possessed as novelties to research. Most treasured to him was literature,for even power fantasies where the author obviously transposed himself into his work he found utterly fascinating. His favorite thing to catch he had created a pulley system just to harpoon the beast: The Frost Serpent. He had found their hide was too sharp and smooth to gain purchase with talons, and they moved so quickly that it would be a miracle to catch their giant eyes to rangle the beast. So Veyolkos had learned to harpoon them as soon as possible, and cranking the pulley could effectively keep one in place and slowly drag it to be butchered. His siblings called it cheating and barbaric. He called it an opportunity, for their sharp scales and fangs made for excellent blades and armor scaling.

Among his foraging kin he'd fashion them nets, should everyone be feeling more in the need for fish and seal. And he'd create great traps to capture Elnüks. The Foragers also noted how he often searched for herbs when they were available, and whatever food they had he would use them on the meat. At first they found it strange to add greens to their carrion, but when cooked, or he put it in a stone pot he had made and boiled them together, opinions changed quickly. He was always fast on the wing, and that made him exceptionally good at catching the more mundane prey. And they knew for a fact he would hunt the yetis that marched around their territory, plucking them straight from the sky only to drop them to the earth, like an eagle does with a tortoise.

Though his most macabre behavior of butchery. Impaling his prey to the trees and their branches, so that he could take his claws and remove their hides, and cut their flanks. He had made a basket specifically for this act, and he'd return with the cut pieces and prepare it for whoever was willing to eat from his kills. Sometimes he'd return with the helm of a Frostguard, other times the necklace of the Ursine, and rarely the weapons of the Winter's Claw. To the Laitivern he was still Veyolkos, but he had heard himself spoken about in times where he lurked in the shadows outside of man's fire glow… as The Windrazor. Veyolkos appreciated the name, and on his 14th year decided that his title should be just that: The Windrazor.

Naturally though as tensions rised in the Freljord, with the coming of the Dominion and the Walled Settlements of the Avarosans, hunts were now far more stressful. Especially now that Wyrm's Furnace was repeatedly being raided by Tribal Yordle, Trolls, and Slayers of The Winter's Claw. To kill a Laitiverns had always been a statement to one's hunting prowess, but their sharp scales and strong hide made for excellent armor and weapon crafting. The Bouncers were strong folk, but they were being overrun. As some bouncers fell after raid after raid, and The Mach'dala themselves would fall, Veyolkos stopped his hunts, and stayed behind to watch over his kin's ancestral site, ready to prove himself capable of protecting their roost. He took to what resources he had, and through convincing, equipped the remaining Bouncers In Armor, protecting their faces and chest, yet still allowing them to shoot their scales out at the enemy. He asked upon the Carvers to find fine stone deep within Wyrm's Furnace, and bring it to him. There he'd teach them, including his own father, to make blades for the tails of The Bouncers, and these blue, steel-shining great blades were so refined in quality that they could take down scores of men, and even without their cutting edge the weight alone could crush a troll's skull.

He rallied the foragers and equipped them in shields that protected their flanks, and branded their heads with metal spears and their chest with plates made of thick hides and stone. They would go out there to scout first the whereabouts of these hunters, using the cover of night and thunderstorm to determine exactly how these raiders planned to take them. Mach’dala and Bouncers occupied any forces coming from their east and north, while they determined the best possible way to strike. Veyolkos also searched out the Vellox tribes that wandered near their territory, and communed with Yetis. He raised to them teh cruelty they had been experiencing, and how together, they could not only protect Wyrm’s Furnace, but all those in the freljord. He was no longer just trying to protect the Laitiverns, he was amassing an army to do so. He asked his siblings and mother to aid him in such encounters, and at first confused and just going along, they had not the slightest idea why? Only to see Vellox cowering and Yetis lowering their ice clubs in their presence, as Veyolkos spoke with haunting authority, though the other Mach’dala could not discern what he was saying. They would bow to each other, and then the non-laitiverns would leave. Only for Veyolkos to tell them each time: “Numbers make us look professional. A mad Laitivern rambling does not hold the same power unless occupied by his kin. Especially if he speaks their tongue.” He would soon talk with the Oldsouls his next set of plans, to continue teaching the carvers how to sculpt armor, and to carve out more dens for the new alliances.. The Oldsouls at first seemed offended by the preposition. They lambasted him for getting distracted. He had always needlessly complicated everything with redundancy and risks. At first Veyolkos let them ramble on, insulting his plans and his reliance on historical enemies, and his cruel affection towards melting metal to crudely reshape it. He then snickered after they had their say, and wandered back to his den. But not without departing to them some words, his tone callous, “I was not asking for permission, I was letting you know.” Continuously during their scouting, Veyolkos would plunge deeper past their territories to find covens in the moonlight, gliding silently to learn of their language, and their magics. For his many years with the scroll of his first kill, it had yet to dawn on him what it could mean. But as he had gotten older, he had gotten wiser, and more keen to meaning and interpretation. And understanding the magics their enemies often used was part of the battle. Know the enemy, more than they know you. And as he grew to understand the runic languages, he’d return back to the roost. He would make sure armor was being made, weapons being carved, food being prepared and stored. He’d have the foragers learn to create new tonics and wrappings to aid the bouncers, and then he’d retreat to his den. Only to take the scroll out and reach the highest peak to study the writing. The humans were obsessed with things beyond them. They shared that, and yet as he came to rehearse the incantations, he understood the nature of the scrolls. To shape into something else. To shape into another form of beast. He held in this information, and seeing what needed to be done, he tucked it away into his den. And prepared for conflict. Afterall, blood was to be spilled.

----

It turned out a large group of mercenaries, slayers, and soldiers of the Winter’s Claw had made their trek to Wyrm’s Furnace to finally get the materials needed for their employers or clan. War is, in part, a business, and buyers have strict schedules and due dates. As they ventured towards Wyrm’s Furnace, they noted how quiet it was. The Freljord could be isolating and haunting, but even here the wind seemed only distant. And as they reached the edge of the treeline heading towards the clearing, four of them took a step too far to the right, and were suddenly plunged straight into the earth. Looking down at their comrades, all they found was the four impaled on spikes of carved cedar, bleeding out as they stared down at the bottom of the pit. As if on cue, bolts were fired at the encroaching band of hunters and mercenaries. Many mages put up barriers for them and their crew as they ran past the treeline, shields raised for those who did not have arcane energies protecting them. But the bolts had come high from the peaks, before a new wave set upon the encroaching men. These bolts were massive, more akin to ballista as they descended down, taking a seventeen more of the hunters, limiting their numbers. As they saw no Laitivern in the sky, many shouted for their fellow man to take cover, as they rushed for the massive jutting stones that surrounded the mountain. Many took bows or muskets and fired up where the shots were coming from, hoping to score some blows.

Then they heard something coming from where the Laitiverns roosted. An eerie, discordant hymn, and it felt like those at the base of the mountain were no longer alone. They all felt it: something has gone deeply and irreversibly wrong… and they needed to start running. As soon as they were going to reposition, they heard screeching as a great pack of raptors descended upon them. With the beasts’ strong back legs and jagged bills, a few more mercs fell before the raptors were ignited by the magics of the mage or the molten lead of muskets. And yet the raptors stayed firm, dragging people out into the opening clearing. Some of those people dragged out were able to down the beast with spears and axes, and as soon as they stood up to seek cover, they were pelted with boulders. Attacking the hunters now were Yetis, roaring and beating their chest as they grabbed clubs and warpaddles before charging in. Some of them, the smaller white haired primates, fell, but the elders stayed strong and crashed into their flank.

Retreating up, they soon were beset upon by Vellox, whose snow leopard print helped them camouflage into the mountain, as their human faces suddenly bared saber fangs as robust monstrous winged arms threw them towards the hunters, tussling with them as they scrapped on the steps of the Laitivern’s roosting site. Weapons striked against flesh with the same ferocity of claws and fangs sundering armor. The Vellox had ways to avoid a direct engagement, with some departing to blow onto their foes winter’s cold embrace, freezing them in place. Yet still Vellox would fall, but as they did the Raptors and Yetis charged from behind, hoping to take the hunter’s down with them if they could. And the hymn above became not some eerie whisper, but a chaotic cacophony being blown through the horn of a ram. Before a Vellox would climb onto a rock and chant, and as she began her most terrifying dirge, the roost erupted with the sound of metal and flapping wings.

The chaos that ensued was swift and brutal, as the Laitiverns defended their ancestral site with an unmatched ferocity. The hunters and mercenaries found themselves vastly outnumbered and overwhelmed as descending onto the group like a horde of wasps were the Laitiverns they had come to hunt. Many bolted for the treeline, running as the Laitivern’s armor blocked their shots, and they threw themselves towards the mages, dragging them away as more of their kin flew ahead of the humans, claws lowering as they lifted the men into the heavens, tearing them apart as they took the remains back to the roost. The ground shook beneath the clashing forces, and the air was filled with the sounds of battle cries, roars, and the piercing screeches of the Laitiverns. Many of those from The Winter’s Claw stood their ground, and those slayers were able to counter the aerial dives of the Laitiverns. Yet they didn’t expect to suddenly be confronted by the heavily armored form of Laitivern Bouncers, Yetis, and Vellox barreling down the mountain towards them. Nor the synchronized volleys of scales being thrown at them.

Veyolkos had expected a larger group, and though mildly disappointed at only two hundred something men, it made his job way easier. He soared through the sky, leading the foragers and his siblings in a coordinated attack. He darted through the air like a dark shadow, shedding his scales like a storm of glinting blades to lacerate and weaken their forces, before with the cold calculation and agility of a falcon in the dive to strike with deadly precision. And when he noted the flank they were striking was in disarray, he lunged for a sorceress clinging behind a rock for cover. He dived down again, tucking in his wings as he descended from a great height towards her. He angled himself to the side and spread out his wings, coasting down towards her with talons outstretched, seeing the hunter witch’s eyes widen as his talons enveloped her chest. As he nabbed her he flew towards the center of combat, letting loose a series of Styg projectiles onto the enemy to scatter their forces. It wouldn’t be long now till they either broke, or were devoured. So as he applied crushing pressure to her ribs within his grasp, he had to act quickly. He flew behind many a peak to hide his position, as he landed on his perch for which he had titled his study, harshly throwing her down.

He grabbed his scroll, and as he set the stone down on the edges of the scroll, she began to scream at him, of course. She had expected to hunt creatures a little above yetis in wit, not, whatever this armored beast was. “What!? What the fuck are you planning?!” He scoffed at her, making sure the seal skin scroll was secure as he turned to face her with a look of not pride nor indifference, but the look of a tiger caught stalking its quarry. “The intellect I have can be gifted unto another. I refuse to see my society surrounded by witless animals.”

Now was her turn to scoff, as she leered at him with a mocking tone. “Awwww… golden boy feels he’s wasted on chewing bones with the rest of his packmates-” He slammed his bladed tail onto her with a sudden harshness, the woman hacking and wheezing as she felt her body crumple from the strike, as he approached her with way too much a casual stride, as he picked her up with his wing claws. “Though river streams and hills grow steeper, man grows a little more shallow. What right do you have to try and belittle me, witless tool? You have come to slay, and now are to be slain. At least your death will merit some greater use!” She squirmed in his hold, as he held her over the paper, the Laitivern chanting as she screamed for him to let go, a spell loading within her palm to smite the Laitivern. Veyolkos could see the runes begin to glow in her presence, and so he raised his other wing talon, aiming it at her neck, knowing to make it quick- “I will give you the taste of the beast that you see in me!"

And in a sudden slicing movement she felt skin tear, then muscle, then a tingling warm pooling before her consciousness fled. And she coughed, though as her blood fell onto the scroll, and as it did she too began to fade, though slightly, as color fled from her skin and hair, her body a dull gray wash as the luminance from the pages poured into his chest. The new rush of energy was paralyzing at first, as he stumbled back, her form turning into mere ashes as they blew over his scales, branding his face in white stripes that ran down his nostril and under his eyes, branding some of the patterning in his wings. When he could finally move, he heard Yetis howling, Vellox roaring, and Laitivern’s trilling. He soon flew back to the scene below, as the many parties feasted on those who decided to experience a warrior's death. Veyolkos landed before them, breathing heavily from the exertion of the ritual. They seemed oblivious to what he had done, assuming him to have just been pursuing the marauders.

To his surprise, the Oldsouls and the Elders approached The Windrazor, their demeanor now changed. They had witnessed the rewards of his planning, and wordlessly bowed to him. He was dumbstruck by the wordless praise he had received. One of respect. His mother and father, having been in the fight, showed their throat to him, the highest level of trust and respect a laitivern could receive. He began to fidget in place, before broadening out his wings, and roaring to the crown a decree. A promise. “THIS! THIS MARKS THE BEGINNING! TO AN AGE OF BEASTS!”

For now he had the skills gained to understand his enemy… far more intimately than before.

Veyolkos Kit: Passive-Volatile Coating: The more damage he takes from Epic Monsters, Dragons, or Enemy Champs, the more his energy bar is filled. Once filled Veyolkos can charge his next attacks with draconic energy with increased movement speed for 3 seconds

Q - Voltaic Lunge: Veyolkos lunges towards a targeted location, knocking back any enemy champion or minion he collides with. Upon impact, a searing energy mark is left on the target, dealing physical damage.

W - Volatile Coating: Veyolkos sheds part of his armor for a brief moment, sending shards flying outward in all directions. These shimmering shards damage any enemy champions and minions they hit.

E - Evasive Maneuvers: With lightning speed, Veyolkos rapidly dashes away while releasing Styg energy forward, dealing additional searing damage if performed up close. From a distance, the Styg inflicts minor physical damage.

Ultimate - Flight of The Razorwing: Veyolkos takes to the skies, gaining enhanced mobility. During this time, his abilities undergo changes:

Voltaic Lunge becomes Thunderous Grapple, allowing him to tackle and immobilize a single enemy champion.

Volatile Coating transform into Draconic Cleave, a 360-degree tail swipe that damages all nearby enemies.

Evasive Maneuvers evolves into Laitivern's Dive, granting Veyolkos an arching leap with a powerful energy blast upon landing.

---- Aighty so physically he's gone like over... several hundred iterations. What remains consistent is the general build of Seregios, from the sharp scales, wing walking, and face. While also incorporating the more panthurine movement and tail slams of Nargacuga.

He's also gone through like several hundred actual redesigns, and while he started as just that: A flying wyvern capable of speech, he did evolve more into an analog to Throgg. And while Trundle is a legitimate troll king and is pretty sick, he more or less serves as a modestly competent himbo in a alliance with Lissandra. Veyolkos fills the roll of a cunning beast going through great lengths to ensure he has the means to play his cards correctly. He likes to innovate, he likes to build, but most importantly he likes to share that knowledge to elevate his people. But he also understands the sinister nature of his action, and how it spawned partially from necessity, but mostly through curiosity. His own desire to stake out his claim and plunge Runeterra into an era of beast speaks to as sense of him wanting to elevate his people, and a naivety to the danger of his ambitions.

17 notes · View notes

lizard-legendarium · 10 months

Text

League Concept: The Cabal

No Faction caught my eye more in theme and cinematics more than the Cabal. It was their size, the violent snarls., The sheer militaristic brutalism, the way they fought screaming "we plant our feet here, and we shall give no ground." even as they slowly advanced on you, just a wall of armor and discipline and guns. The score helped frame them not as eldritch horrors, but a faction in a position of raw power. Indomitable

Runeterra has Noxus, a powerful empire with a brutal expansionist air of authority paved in blood. It is to join them, or die. They sound frighteningly similar, but I wanted to make something... more. The underground is largely unexplored in the setting of league, and a common trope in fiction is "the terror below our feet", but I wanted to create something beyond the terrors of the void squirming under shuriman's feet. Like Tom Waltz's song Underground put it: "There's a rumblin' groan down below There's a big dark town, it's a place I've found There's a world going on underground"

So here is a champ, inspired by the cabal in all their brutish glory. Nach'Honok, Centurion of The Dominion.

----

The room was well lit. Everflame constantly ebbed and flowed from their tap, giving the room a golden luminance. It was no ordinary room either, as carved terrapin beasts made of gold lined the walls, each holding cleaver-like blades facing the doorway. It was a long hall that led to a singular throne. A simplistic one, carved from stone and padded in cloth. Said throne was occupied by a legend among the Subterranean people known as the Kakross- Regus Dhanag, The Torchbearer. Dressed in not regal clothes, but an adaptive layer of bulky, segmented plated, leading to a cetacean skull helm with a respirator, and wielding not a scepter or sword, but a spear and bladed shield. He looked down-

For before him was another Kakross. Battered and bruised. His armor was not on his person, instead he wore white linen that decorated his body, draping over his shoulders and hiding his chest, and draping over his hips. Some linen was wound tightly around his limbs, where faint purple and oxidized red marks were semi-apparent.

The figure on the throne stood up, and spoke.

"Sole Survivor of the Stone Breakers legion… What is your name?"

The figure was quite at first, perhaps a couple seconds longer than was culturally acceptable. Perhaps he feared something, something about Regus Dhanag. Something about the past 3 months. But he raised his head finally, and spoke.

"Nach'honok."

----

It was yet another moment of silence in the Freljord, bar the crowing of a Raven atop a rocky crag. Below the bird was a great clearing, flattened and deforested as a towering fortress stood on the side of a cliff. Patrols of armored bipeds, with great trunk like arms and legs could be seen marching along the outskirts of the clearing and its several roadways connecting themselves to resource rich patches all over this frozen peninsula. This was the work of The Dominion, most notably of the Ice Reapers Legion, who had been establishing their underground fortresses and mining operations here for forty years. Three years ago however, the previous centurion had perished at the hand of the Winter’s Claw, one of the dominant native tribes of the land. The Marshall still stood, though the attack had left a bulk of his troops killed. Though it was often not common for a legion to request reinforcements, especially after the Onslaught of Bel’veth, and The Wrath of The Ruined King, Regus Dhanag had answered Marshall Thu'ual. Among them was Nach'Honok.

The Freljord was a land of warriors, its tribes fiercely defending their territories and vying for dominance. Nach'Honok's presence in the Freljord was a calculated move, a veteran’s perspective was needed to secure a foothold in this untamed realm. Nach’Honok, had the misfortune of being part of the Stone Breakers in their Siege of The Ruined King’s forces, and the legion’s final stand against The Lavender Bloom. While he had not faced The Winter's Claw, the Avarosans, or the Frostguard, he knew that in this harsh environment: only the strongest survived, and he had been honed for such inhospitable conditions. It was his experience that had rewarded his current status. It had allowed him to fill some important shoes.

“Centurion Nach’Honok!”

He turned his head to the voice. It was loud, yet strained. It had little bravado, and the footsteps were too quiet to be the casual march of a Kakross. Turning around he looked them up and down. It was the lithe auxiliary race known as the Chirean, distinguishable by their bat-like ears and fur atop an otherwise semi-diminutive form. But they were still Legionaries. Even if the humanoid was dwarfed in both height and weight by a Kakross, or the fact their pitches were never as deep and chambered. They could hold a Crossbow, or a Headsniper. Some could even use magic. They were fast, and they were just as devoted to the Legions as the Kakross. This one was fresh blood, Nach'Honok had seen him fight and concluded he was too confident.

Some grunts were made to fight the war, loyal and true. Always the first in queue. This Chirean had been lucky his first patrol firefight was with bandits. Nach’Honok wandered his mind to his first fight in Noxus, his own eagerness. Before he could fully slip into daydreaming, he had heard the tail end of the Skirmisher's words.

"-wanted to see you."

Nach'Honok was able to bluff full attention in his helmet, and so nodded. Suspicion dredged up it was most likely Marshall Thu'ual requesting yesterday's report. It was hardly combat related. Most patrols hadn't engaged with the Freljord Natives in a while, and the groups were usually too small for any significant requests of aid. He looked the Chirean Skirmisher down and spoke up in a dry, diligent expression.

"Then you may lead the way."

The Chirean bowed and quickly turned on his heel, leading the massive Kakross to the main base. As they passed by Phalanx guards which oversaw all that entered the complex, he subconsciously noted how much things had changed for his people. He remembered when it was just them and the Chireans, but now Kobold, Trolls, and Yordles walked among Kakross as Legionaries and Skirmishers. Through the sprawling open fortress, his heavy footsteps echoed in the corridors, joining the constant chorus of marching and discussion. Legionaries were going about their duties: weapons being maintained, supplies being stockpiled, and reports being filed. Harvesters walked alongside Yordle Mecha Constructions, placing palette loads of timber, coal, and iron to be dragged deeper into the earth. The atmosphere was one of controlled chaos, a testament to the Legion's disciplined organization even in the harshest of environments.

Ascending up the stairs to the observatory platform, an ovular chamber with a massive crescent window that oversaw the valley and taiga below, Nach'Honok seemed willing to take charge as his assumption seemed to be proven correct. The Skirmisher still kept pace, which prompted a slight race between the two. The Chirean was faster even at their brisk pace, but soon only after Phalanx guards could be seen on their way to the High Observatory did the two break out in a full sprint. A foolish game, as if Nach'Honok collided with the Chirean it could prove disastrous. But he used that to his advantage. As soon as the door was within sight and the Chirean prepared to open it, Nach'Honok skidded to a halt, and used his momentum to slide into the Skirmisher, knocking them off balance. Though before they could hit the ground Nach'Honok grabbed them by their nape, and lifted them back to their feet. The Phalanx Guards looked perplexed, but said nothing as Nach'Honok grabbed the massive handle to the door and walked in as it swung quietly inwards.

They arrived at a large chamber, where a long table stood with maps sprawled across its surface, a yordle updating the maps before a Kakross would save said information into a terminal. The outside window was reinforced with inch thick glass, and it gave all those in the room a wide view of the base of operations, and the many resource sites that dotted the land now. Yet it was all surrounded by a sea of winter covered trees, with mountains that loomed overhead as though jagged fangs jutting from the earth.

Looming over a separate terminal was the colossal Marshall Thu'ual. He was seasoned Kakross with a scarred bottom jaw and hardened eyes, and stood at an impressive 14 feet in height. He was poring over the intricate details of the Freljord's terrain just as Nach'Honok and the Skirmisher entered. The Marshall looked up, his gaze meeting the Centurion's visor.

"Nach'Honok, I'm glad you're here," Marshall Thu'ual spoke, his voice carrying an air of authority. But it was also expectant, deep and guttural. The voice of a Kakross in the tail end of his prime.

"We have received new intelligence regarding the movements of the Frostguard. It seems they are planning an offensive against our outlying mining operations near Icevane Lake."

Nach'Honok's gaze shifted to the maps on the table, the monitors and the symbols detailing the expected Frostguard patrol size, his brain studying the topography and potential chokepoints. The Skirmisher stood at attention, watching the Centurion look thoroughly through the reports, before finally speaking to the Marshall.

"Trolls, Thrall, Mages… anything else? Any reason they'd go after Icevane?" Marshall Thu'ual grumbled something in the Old tongue, leading the Kakross at the terminal to stand up and deliver him a Harvester's report.

"The Permafrost there is rich in their magic. We stopped mining in the area, but the harvesters and machines still need to be relocated to a new site. Their harvest was untampered bar a few tons of iron. And even still, Regus Dhanag asked for us to retrieve it. He wants to and I quote, "Learn how to eat their shadows."… You have faced similar enemies… correct Centurion?"

Looking at the numbers, a direct confrontation would be challenging, but not impossible. The problem is that Icevane had two major entryways. Their own, from the southwest, and an old trail most likely annihilated by an avalanche from the north, with a massive lake in the middle. The mining site itself was on the east, and was tunneled into the side of one of the smaller peaks. They had to go about this quickly.

----

The Caves were no longer dimly lit. A magenta glow branded itself from all directions. They were seen. They were running. But they were not retreating. The Stone Breakers brought down walls, slayed the cohorts of kings, and faced those that knew no defeat. Because of this, they had only known one phrase:

Victory or death.

But now Lilac Beast flew overhead. Forms that glided like butterflies yet with the complexion of deep sea strange. And they had not known defeat yet either. Krotar, Bond-brother of Nach'Honok, stood beside the incendiary as Phalanx Captain. And behind them was their Marshall Kumuch, firing into the horde above with weapons raised. Chirean Skirmishers and Headsplitters fired behind them, as the legion was trying to escort harvesters from the cavern. The sounds of raging Bulette Hounds and Ogre Wyverns could be heard echoing around them, unwitting combatants into a war they had never dreamed of being part of. Yordles and Vastayans could be heard screaming, chased through unseen passages as the school of void beast encircled them.

They continued fighting. They had shot up hundreds of the smaller beast, and their Phalanx Guard were more than willing to stand to the last man. Then it broke. Several of the aerial beasts made it past the Marshall's and Nach'Honok's veil of flame and bullets. They had swooped in, aiming for the back of the Phalanx's heads-

----

Nach'Honok shook his head, looking back at Marshall with a bit more of a grovel in his tone.

"How many men do I lead?"

"2 centuria… The Incendior Bracus Quo'omir will help you." T

wo-hundred men at his disposal. At least he'd have help, but even then, his trigger finger itched. A soldier of the Dominion never runs away from a foe of the empire. It's ingrained into their culture. It's why they live. There was however, a dishonor that came in callous amounts of deadmen. The auxiliaries did not hold the same full-hardiness of the Kakross, and Kakross leaders knew that in the current day and age, every man counted.

"Well?"

Nach'Honok wished to snap his bill at the man's call to attention, but he simply bowed his head, and stood up, speaking with the same air of authority presented to him as he slammed his fist against his own chest.

"So says The Grunt."

Marshall Thu'ual responded in kind.

"So says The Grunt."

With a firm nod, Nach'Honok turned to leave, his mind already formulating plans and issuing orders. The fate of the Dominion in the Freljord rested on his broad shoulders. He knew that the challenges ahead would be arduous, for this was not their land. They did not know it as intimately as the native tribes. But he was a Centurion, forged in the fires of conflict, and he would ensure that the Dominion's presence in the Freljord would not be shaken. The Skirmisher rushed ahead, though it did seem to be a foolish attempt to outrun the blaring comms echoing throughout the facility:

"CENTURIA WHITE SKULLS AND CENTURIA GRUMBLERS, REPORT TO QUEUE"

----

There was the titular stomp of the Dominion amidst the blizzard:

1-Lift-2. 1-Lift-2. 1-Lift-2. 1-Lift-2. 1-Lift-2-1-2.1-Lift-2. 1-Lift-2-1-2-1-…

Then came the horns. It was tradition for each centuria to have members of the military band to accompany them into every fight. An odd custom, that gave the Dominion a feeling that they were a bit too used to fighting. It helped the troops stay in line, with blaring brass and continuous percussion. It gave away their position, but The Dominion cared little for subtlety. Nach'Honok was leading The Grumblers, who lived up their namesake. They were snappish with one another, they marched in order yes, but they were always having some annoyed comments in relation to the cold or the biting wind. Which was fair… they themselves came from hot caverns deep in the earth. But Nach'Honok was growing tired of the constant whining. And so, he barked back.

"You can return home even faster if you kill the Frostguard!"

"We know that Centurion! But the enemy chooses now! When winter is biting at our flanks!"

Nach'Honok was close to reprimanding this particular Legionary, but decided to leave him with nothing. They'd strike during a blizzard because those Natives of the Freljord could not be picky. These storms could last days. Weeks even. And so when an enemy was willing yo wait it out, they were gonna make a move. Thu'ual was most likely tired of playing their game. But looking over, Bracus Quo'omir seemed unbothered, their "White Skulls" hungering for combat. Nach’Honok could tell. They were too silent, laser focused. The Phalanx had their hands on sluggers or spears, pointing ahead. Legionaries in both centuria were observant of their surroundings, but the White Skulls were thorough, scanning the terrain with hawkish glares. The Bracus was equally as imposing. She seemed disinterested in all things beyond what lay ahead, her thick plated armor ending at her arms, which was covered in thick scale hide sleeves, ending in a hook clawed gauntlet. Her helm was a smooth, almost tear-shaped dome, the rectangular respirator letting out her warm breath as a mist amidst the freezing air. The weapon she held was bulky, with many canisters in the back leading to a trumpet-like barrel. It was experimental tech, mostly reserved for elite legions.

Like the Stone Breakers. But he was still curious as to how she had been allocated the tech. Yet when he asked her, she didn't not budge or tilt her head, ignoring the centurion, and so he did not press. The Centurias set out, their footsteps resonating through the icy tundra as they made their way toward Icevane Lake. The path was treacherous, with biting winds and frozen terrain, but the legionnaires pressed forward, guided by their pure stubbornness to succumb. But it was not always enough. He'd occasionally see a couple members of the Phalanx Guard within the White Skulls buckle under the storm, the Bracus pausing only to smack their shoulders, prompting them to instinctively startle back up onto their feet. Her voice was gruff, but her demeanor proved her rank-

"Do not break! You are our cornerstone! Bear the weight!"

Nach'Honok paused his observations when he finally reached the shore, seeing a couple of stationed guards barking orders to the miners to keep packing up, loading their massive hulls onto great armored combines, though the drivers of such seemed to be barking back at the guards, and suddenly they're presence here at Icevane made sense. Too few guards, too many open resources. They were sitting ducks among the fjords, and the blizzard had done well to isolate them further. As Nach'Honok surveyed the area, strategizing his approach, he was relieved The Frostguard's offensive had not yet begun, but he knew they had to act swiftly. With Bracus Quo'omir by his side, the Centurion devised a plan-

"How do you wish to kill them Bracus?"

"Standing."

Nach'Honok paused a little at their sudden nonchalantness, and well, lack of strategy. He coughed into his hand again, and pointed to the snowbank on both sides of the trail.

"I'm thinking I can get the grumblers into the snowbank… You stand before the cave. They'll expect us to stand, they'll expect us to charge head in.

"Good, that is what I'll be doing then. I'll have my men charge head in. We're stronger. It doesn't matter. They'll break." Nach'Honok bit back on a response, looking to the forces they had. He returned to the Bracus, his tone not one of pleading, and not argumentative. It was factual.

"We have few Trolls, they most likely will have many more. They can fight for days in Cold, we cannot. We are stronger, you are stronger. But we are only Men."

Bracus Quo'omir was silent for a minute, a baited moment that Nach'Honok could not discern for their helm hid behind it any real emotion. The agape of a bill, or the baring of her tusk. A dilated pupil or furrowed brow. None of that was there for him to read. It was a blank expressionless mask befitting a weapon. So when she spoke, and it sounded of genuine intrigue, he felt relieved.

"You wish to end this quickly?"

"Correct."

"…Then you will place your men in that snowbank. And upon my roar you descend. What of the Skirmishers?"

"I suggest mine hide in the trees… the branches here are thick. Yours on the mobile."

"Simple. Very well. Get to it. So Says The Grunt."

"…So says The Grunt."

----

The Lilac Beast had ceased. Incediary Nach’Honok held his arm, clipping the weapon to his hip as he tried to move over the corpses. There was… too many. His footing was uneven, some of the cuts in his metal pushing inwards between his scales, branding him with each step and swing. He looked behind him, his Bond-brother's hold tight on their flaming spear. So the flaming spear head acted as a torch, showing the grave and deep wound in his chest. And illuminating Kumuch's split head. A blow intended for him and his Bond-brother could be seen on the shredded flesh protruding from his back. His Bond-brother tried to fight the beast off once their Marshall fell.

Nach'Honok never left his side. Now he wandered blindly through the tunnels, throwing his helmet off, his march but a shambling step. He felt around under the armor of his now deceased legion, beginning the arduous duty of collecting their tags. And as he lifted up metal plates and looked down at their mangled forms, no other Kakross or Chirean joined him. The Weight of the plates grew too heavy, and eventually he had simply decided to create a massive, collective pile of his brother's and sister's tags. Until eventually, he couldn't move anymore. His knees buckled, some metal cutting in deep that caused him to jerk to his back, but as he landed, he became too exhausted to move.

The Stone Breakers had fallen. And he was lying atop their grave.

----

As dawn broke, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the icy landscape, with the legionnaires having positioned themselves to cling to the shadows, hiding among the snow-covered rocks and using the natural formations as vantage points. They awaited the Frostguard's arrival, cold having bitten at their hides under their plate armor. Though Nach'Honok had them gather around a large fire pit at the mouth of the cave the night earlier, it only aided in keeping themselves from being utterly frostbitten. But Nach'Honok knew what to expect, and he knew once the fighting started, the cold would become irrelevant once they made contact. An hour passed when finally they heard it. The Horns of War. That horn did blow, loud and strong it’s sound would below. The trees did sway, the mountains did echo, and the ground beneath their feet did tremble from its own notes... mysteriously enough a mist began to conceal the treeline from the west. Nach’Honok figured they would do something to conceal their position. Yet as he stood there, hiding under a thin blanket of snow, he heard the Skirmisher above him mutter something in the trees.

"Just heard the battle hymn… They're coming."

Shapes shifting in the mist just within the tree line, mostly humanoid, with frilled and crescent helms. Though there was some notably larger silhouettes behind them. The miners and their harvester craft looked back at the mist, and the wall of Phalanx Guards and Legionaries that separated them from the enemy. The Mine Guards raised their slag Rifles. Waiting. The sudden sounds of arrows flying through the mist towards the White Skulls startled Nach'Honok, taking him out of his trance on the figures. Men in what looked to be obsidian hued stone armor that topped thick leather wrappings ran forward, holding black ice swords and axes, brandishing metal round shields covered in a similar icy substance. Massive Trolls erupted out of the mist, wielding clubs as wolves and ram cavalry lunged forward. Bracus Quo'omir and the White Skulls engaged the Frostguard in a fierce firefight, their slag projectiles and flames lighting up the air, as Skirmisher bolts and bullets collided with the canines and cavalry men. It was a chaotic scene already, the no man's land covered with freezing spears and winds. The distance was closed quickly, several phalanx having been frozen in place and no doubt slayed, while Skirmishers were thrown back as broken heaps, forcing them to either hide amidst the Legionaries or to take to the frozen surface of the lake. The clash of steel against steel echoed in the frozen wilderness, but so too wad the sound of the Incendiary flamethrower ad

A Bracus Quo'omir engulfed the first row of warriors in flame, the sticky substance was already ignited the moment it reached the air, and though the Stone and metal seemed to be handling it well, the leather did not, as it heated up the treated hides and caused it to melt with their skin. Leather and flesh soon both became the same glue, as the Bracus lunged forward, grabbing the arm of a soldier trying to pierce her defenses, and simply ripped it off, before using the limb to take off that very same man's head. She roared, and no sooner did she bellow out her challenge did the Skirmishers of the Grumblers point their weapons to the approaching mass of foot men, archers, and mages, would they then fire. It was a volleyball of bolts and lead that found purchase in their flanks, shredding up their advance. Mages and Bowmen would fire back in turn, the Centurion seeing some of the skirmishers fall from the tree limp, their collision with the ground sealing their fate. The White Skull Skirmishers were quick to assist, running across the surface of the frozen lake to land shots into the other flanks presented, having to struggle against being caught off guard by a cavalryman or a wolf. Taking advantage of the assisted distraction, Nach'Honok took this moment to charge forwardTaking advantage of the distraction, launching their surprise attack from the north. They emerged from the cover of the blizzard, striking swiftly and decisively. It was a great thunder ad the Kakross charged into the enemy lines, Their Phalanx Guards spears and shields becoming fatal for the first row of Frostguard they skewered in close-quarters combat. Nach’Honok raised his Concussive Slag Rifle and unloaded into several of the mages assaulting his Skirmishers, barking orders for the Troll Guard to charge in. The Auxiliary Collosus was their name, and unlike the Trolls fighting back against the White Skulls and Bracus Quo'omir, these brutes were outfitted in what was essentially tank plating, wielding massive rotary guns as they quickly closed the distance and crashed into the Ice Witches, before focusing their fire on the mages. Legionaries quickly descended onto the footmen, may alternating from Slag Rifle to Wrist Blade in seconds as they were subsumed into a sacred frenzy.

The Centurion had unfortunately dig himself too deep into enemy lines, and was now realizing he was being pelted by the blades of the Frostgaurd more than its arrows. Nach'Honok quickly clipped the Concussive Slag Rifle to his hip, and as a icy axe was poised to strike his neck, he suddenly backhanded the figure with a swing of his Wrist Mounted Blade. As their head fell to the ground, the Centurion danced through the chaos, striking down Frostguard soldiers with precision and skill. The Blade ignited as it sliced through the air, finding its mark time and time again, the sound of sizzling lifeblood audible amidst the chaos. He parried blows with forearm, using his immense strength to push back the enemy, creating openings for his comrades to exploit. The ground beneath him was turning crimson, and occasionally he'd simply just lift a man off the ground, only to bring them back down onto the ground with such force their body would crack, vertebrae piercing upwards towards the sky. The sound of Gunfire closing in from his east was welcome, as he heard the Dominion Marching music soon following, marching forward with Rifles firing, as he could see the enemy Calvary trying to weave in and out of the White Skull's flanks, but unable to shake or route them. This seemed to anger the enemy, as a Troll Chieftain roared, throwing themselves through the phalanx line, Kakross tossed aside as the Troll Chieftain's hammer collided with Bracus, nearly knocking her onto her back as she struggled to regain footing. Yet as soon as she did she would charge forward and shoulder check the brute, just as willing to spar with the beast. Nach’Honok seemed willing to help, before having a javelin thrown into his side. He roared out in pain, taking the massive projectile out of his torso and stabbing it into the stomach of a charging marauder.

Looking for this assailant in the midst of the chaos, Nach'Honok spotted a figure clad in frost-bitten armor and a colossal cape of bear fur, their Two-Headed Axe glinting with an icy glow, and they were charging him shoulder first with spiked pauldrons. It was a Frostguard Champion, their aura radiating power and authority, and their visor blanketing the roaring face behind it in total darkness.

Devoid of expression, a perfect weapon.

Without hesitation, Nach'Honok locked eyes with the champion and charged towards them, their fates entwined in this brutal dance of combat. Nach’Honok despite his weight was surprised when the Champion pushed him back, nearly sending him onto his ass as he shot his wrist blade forward. It did not pierce into his chest, but it did send him flying off the Centurion, allowing them a moment to get their bearings in place. They collided with one of their own men, the explosive detonating and sundering their chest piece. The Champion doesn't take much time to pause, and he immediately goes in for the kill, bounding forward with agility Nach'Honok that made the armored opponent far more monstrous. The Champion bounds to him, striking a Legionary trying to intervene in the shoulder. It is a deep cut, a fatal cut, and he pauses to free his blade just as Nach'Honok charges, roaring in annoyance. The Champion lunges in turn and thrusts the cutting edge of his axe toward Nach'Honok's ribs. The Centurion sidesteps the massive Double-Headed axe blade and bats it down with his Percussion Slug Rifle. The two test each other's range and speed with a series of back and forth half-committed strikes—until The Champion gains favorable footing and bursts forward to swing at Nach'Honok's waist. Nach'Honok narrowly tumbles over the axe. Sparks of contact spit from his leg guards. He lands on his knees and jabs the barrel of his rifle against The Champions exposed throat. It is possible a living trophy would be a great prize to Marshall Thu'ual, and besides, he pulls the trigger once it's game over. The Legionaries aid in keeping the Frostguard off the dueling commanders, and yet not having a blade poised at his own neck makes the moment feel so much longer than it is.

"This is your one chance to yield…"

Nach'Honok says as the human sputters for air and stumbles backward. And yet soon his cough turns to laughter. He kicks up a cloud of snow that clings to the Kakross's visor, and leaps with his blades brandished overhead. Nach'Honok wipes the snow from his visor and raises his gun to block The Champion's heavy swing. The Centurion absorbs the shock and controls the Frostguard's blade, sliding it down to catch on his muzzle, and pivoting the weapon's hefty stock to butt The Champion hard in the face. They stagger away and slashes wildly, splitting Nach’Honok's visor and drawing blood. The Centurion throws his ruined helm to the ground and wipes the blood from hos brow. He advances, ducking under a deterring swing, parries a second chop away, and activating his other Wrist Blade, severs the Frostguard Champion's hand. They lunge for him again, and Nach’Honok and The Champion wrestle in the snow headbutting one another, kicking, clawing. The Champion tries to swing, but without hia other hand to aid in the fight the Double-Headed axe lands blade first into the snow, and Nach’Honok kicks the champion in the gut and levels the Blade to their stomach.In the brief moment he's on his feet again, he looks around to see the fields of littered Frostguard. There are casualties, yes, Skirmishers and Legionaries can be seen torn and pierced, but there are far more Frostguard dead. In fact, only one stands. Their eyes are on him. The Bracus and Centurias seem to wait for how it unfolds.

"SON OF THE FRELJORD! YIELD!"

Nach’Honok growls as blood pours onto the snow. The Champion looks to him, to the axe still clutched in his detached hand, and back to Nach’Honok.

"Never to you."

He dives for the cleaver-

And Nach’Honok swings, catching The Champions's throat, spewing blood. The Champion tenses for a moment, then falls limp. The Centurion sighs and stands to his full might, picking up his rifle. No sooner does he do so that he hear cheering. The ground shakes with Kakross stomping and the air is filled with Chirean whooping. The Troll Guard begun to chant.

"TAKE HIS HEAD! TAKE HIS HEAD! TAKE HIS HEAD!"

And Nach'Honok is more than ready, striking out his blade as he heads it up, before grabbing the helm and neatly slicing through their skin, muscle and bone. He raises the detached head from its post, the soldiers going wild. Nach’Honok can do so little for a second than stand, before dropping the head and roaring. The soldiers chant alongside him, their voices echoing throughout the Freljord-

"VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!"

----

Passive: "So says the Grunt"- Nach'honok's armored suit provides enhanced durability and resistance to damage, locking up after reaching half health, giving Nach'Honok a shield and bonus tenacity. Additionally, when Nach'Honok takes damage from enemy abilities or auto-attacks, he gains a stack of retaliatory energy. Once he reaches a certain number of stacks, his next ability gains bonus effects.

Q: Arms of the Empire- A toggle switch, this allows Nach'Honok to either use a wrist mounted blade in combat, which can be used to pierce defenses in exchange for range… or it can then be toggled to a "Concussive Slag Rifle", which while gives range needs to be reloaded. When fully charged, the blade becomes an arcing swing and creates cleave, while range gets a firing speed increase and focus fire.

W: Improvised Explosive- Shooting a projectile in a straight line, the first unit it comes into contact back is slowed for a second, before 2 seconds later the explosive detonates doing ad damage. Fully charged, it will sail through the air leaving a brief trail of flame. Champions will be pushed back until the projectile ceases or collides with a wall, then detonates.

E: Tactical Evasion- Nach'Honok simply dashes from one point to the next, and is able to do so if engaged in combat, where he will face the opponent as he moves. When charged, the ability is occupied with a stomp as they launch, pushing characters back. Where Nach'Honok lands he gains a brief shield.

R: Victory or Death- When in melee gear, he will charge to a unit, pushing others in his path and dealing some damage before plunging his blade into the target, lifting and throwing them behind him, dealing AD and percentile pure damage.

When in Ranged Gear, the ultimate allows him to fire continuously, gaining range and shielding in exchange for movement speed.

When charged, the melee gear ultimate does cleave to units Nach'Honok passes and slow them. Charged Range Gear now afflicts burning damage and leaves trails in it's wake for a second.

----

Visually speaking, I went with the classic Centurion design from D1

LOOK AT THIS SHIT! THATS COOL!

7 notes · View notes