Everyone around me is only now escaping the trance of reverie and settling themselves down to sleep. I have not yet shaken off the pull of my memory towards the concert we just attended. The pervading discussion among my colleagues from Piltover always strayed to one singular thought: how does she do it? How does she hold herself up? And who does her hair? This is the discourse we juggled amongst ourselves on the airship from Demacia. What a circus we were. I ponder these questions as much as the next clown, if not even deeper still. The same question that confronted me the morning past is the same I think of tonight in this account. Who is Sona Buvelle?
As a summoner, all I knew is that she is a champion of the League. I am not the best summoner to serve the League of Legends. My skill is not commendable, therefore my name is not known outside the hallowed offices of the Institute of War. For the longest time, I found that circumstance to be most suitable. It's a miracle that I've made it all the way here to become a summoner in the first place. A miracle is what got this mess started. But moreover the factor of my own stubbornness ultimately thrust the ball over the gates. And here I am: a summoner who never had an ounce of charisma to promote myself past the middling junior level is now on track to take on Sona, Maven of the Strings, for my roster of champions. I'm in a fit of anxiety. This is too much! I don't know what will become of me. My career is on the ropes as I see it now. What if I don't make the cut? My most recent acquisition…Singed is his name. The Mad Chemist bears as much poison in his mind as he does in his body-if not more. I've become intimate with all of my champions. This case proves the practice to be dangerous. Even now, I think it would be a better idea to stop now and get to work on my newest liquid landmine project. The concept is so very genius! All one has to do is apply it onto any surface and let it dry. The moment an enemy stands on it…
No. That's a terrible thought and I will not humor it. I am housing the sadistic tenancies of a mass murderer and by my will, this shall be finished soon. Thank you clandestine lovers in business below our quarters! Your excessively loud cries of love making have hoisted me up from madness tonight. It is becoming increasingly hard to keep this a secret when I have to toss out bins of poisoned vermin from my office every week. Ceased will be any more venting on my part.
We set off for Demacia around three in the afternoon. There is an airship port within walking distance from the Institute building for official business. Quickly we were airborne on a rather small Noxian blimp designed for speed. The airship anchored down in a port right next to the amphitheater in Demacia's center after three hours in transit. I visited the city state often in my youth, and I studied there for a while in the College of Magic. That is another, more mundane story of fortune. The concert hall proper is a giant domed building like the rest of Demacia's skyline. All of them collectively represent Demacia's cultural statement to the world. To any good-willed visitors and would be invaders alike, the message is the same: Demacia is your daddy.
Inside the building every piece of architecture seemed to crush you down with their weight. Gargoyles sat in glaring vigilance, flowerpots hung from the ceiling in precarious chains, and the giant murals reminded all of us the familial values of bloodshed and violence. Only occasionally do I spot a mural depicting tamer themes. But a towering portrait of a glaring nobleman brings little more comfort and ease of mind. Especially when sitting in those small theatre seats, the scale of the place looked as if it were to come at you like the bottom of a large drop, which made for good acoustics. This overbearing mood is probably a product of Demacia's culture. I didn't expect the gilded portraits of her art to escape the ironed tinge of blood red.
The place was crowded. As if the patrons weren't rigid enough in their formal wear, everyone struggled to move their arms as they shuffled past each other finding a seat. The Institute must have made much effort in securing the spots for me and the other summoners. I must thank them along with my friends who recommended the trip. The night belonged to Sona, Maven of the Strings. Prior to this first meeting, I never seen or heard of any champion by that name. We all sat down and talked quietly over the trip and its related trifles. When any summoner recruits a champion for his or her roster, they must first acquire an interview somewhat like a judgment. It is a short formality that establishes trust and intimacy between the two parties. They're clean and easy, but require some planning ahead. So at the behest of her convenience, we met with Sona in this brief break in her schedule and talked about dates after her concert.
The massive red drapes before us were closed and the lights dimmed together with the dense ambient noise. I looked up intently, seeing the stage washed in a grassy yellow. With loud steps echoing from her heels, Sona rolled her way in as a gaseous blue brushstroke, outlined with gold. Carried aloft by magic, her twin tails radiated an otherworldliness. Her face was bold and beckoning with an aspect of young wisdom. In fact, everything about her is iridescent and flowing. Awe inspiring, heart stopping, etcetera, etcetera. Forgive me for indulging in this language, but for a presence like Sona's what else could do her justice? I was nothing more than infatuated, but deeply so. Normal man must have felt something of the sort at one point when going to her concerts-but that magic behind her music, it's so alien to me. Is it of the nature born in our animal blood that she manipulates, or a lustrous mineral that drives men to climb mountains and conquer the seas? I want to know why I am drawn to it so that next time...she will not have the best of my senses!
I am compelled to write of her song in great detail. It's a shame I'm not musically trained and cannot scribe it in the proper notation.
I heard that she improvised the whole show that night, but it sure didn't feel like it. I use the word 'feel' because 'sound' is only part of the experience. Sona plays an 'etwahl', a large stringed instrument, a bridge of strings with no frets, a beautiful instrument in its own right. She started out with a contemplative tone. The etwahl reads off the exposition to an incoming stream of music. My mind was gently prodded into a state of intrigue. Then she opened a trapdoor under my feet with a single deep and resounding chord. The progression that followed left me battered, thrown out of a strange home she only just showed me. Stuttering notes slashed at my arms and legs with a tingling sensation, leaving me helpless to react mentally. After a bit of this, a tune started to form, hesitant and hopeful. She led me up a ramp, slowly but surely and…picking up speed. Dissonance began to burst outward from within the structure. Defiance, rage, desperation, I remember gripping the armrest and sweating profusely at this point. And then suddenly it dropped, very loudly, on a very deliberate and booming arpeggio. Laying on the ground, broken, I was lifted by a misty wave of impressionist color, just inches off the ground. The last notes trailed off like light does in a thick fog. And then silence settled into the architecture, a jarring movement in its own right. I took in the air. Needless to say we applauded with great fervor.
In a room backstage the four of us summoners were to have our audience with the maven herself. We were nothing short of excited. While waiting for Sona to appear, I learned from one of my compatriots, Lucid is his name, that he was learning how to play the etwahl himself. I still wonder to what end he aspires. How could he hope to attain a power and mastery like Sona's? Besides, our duties as summoners of the League consume us, and as it should.
It does consume me.
She sat so immaculate on that stool. I could be satisfied just by being in the same space to marvel her. However, the conversation didn't amount to much because of her stoic silence that persisted the entire time we were there. Sona never uttered a single word as she sort of took in all our voices, reading our language like sheet music. In the back of my head I could feel an unpleasant tinge of guilt, wondering if we by our own fault had stifled her being under us.
I was surprised to learn that she is mute. Apparently that was news only to me, for I had marked her initial silence for an attempt at cordiality. Whatever she expressed in her performance could be taken for a voice not unlike my own. And as music, she told us a story, passing down everything we could want to know about her. I'm a little envious of her. The weight of being helpless for words my brain as I stumbled between pleasantries and jotting on a calendar rolled out on parchment. It distressed me greatly. Nothing came to mind in terms of making this exchange interesting. In retrospect, most of my nervousness was ridiculous and based on nothing more than a favor of my eye. We established dates for our individual meetings. My interview will occur next week. The summoners and I expressed how we were moved by her music. With a warm smile, the League champion shook our hands as we departed. Awkwardly, I gave her a thumbs-up as I walked out of the door. There was a slight bewilderment on her face as I ran to catch up with the others.
The rest of the night we set about finding food and drink. There was a classy place right across the street, which we quickly skipped in favor of the pub a block over.
And then we made it back to the Institute without complication. And I'm still nervous over trifles like a mundane interview. And I'm looking at my scribbling about atrocities of science from earlier. And I'm repulsed even more. Something could go wrong on the scheduled day. I might make an even bigger fool of myself. A slip of the mind could ruin the spells required of me. Worry rules all sights and sounds of tonight.
I am measuring myself on the day. Can I keep this summoning game up? Am I good enough to decide the fates of nations? Good enough for Sona?