Hello! I know that it has been a while, but I have decided to write again. However, this is coming as a re-work to my Project: of Machines story. I got very carried away from the original plot line that I wanted, so I started afresh, with a new look at it, more details, and hopefully a better following of a plot with everything that was meant to be a side plot exactly that- a side plot. I hope you enjoy the first few chapters, and as before, i'm taking any comments/ reviews you all send to me, from "you suck" to "You're the best I have ever read." Hopefully more so the latter.

Enjoy!

The gates of Demacia stand proud, bright, and as welcoming as ten-foot-tall gates can be. Two guards, both looking tired, have set up a card table out of a couple of crates along the side. A man, walking alone, covered in a tattered black cloak and carrying a rough pack made of sticks and rabbit hide, exits a mountain pass into the flat plane, just half a mile east of the main gates.

Death would be a better option. Death would be a much, much better option, than this silly escapade. As if these people would even look at him with even a drop of empathy.

But you're running out of options. You have to be here. Either the wolves, starvation, or some other creature is going to take you down, or these people might and just end it. This is your last resort, and they might even make a show out of it. The one good thing to come out of this life.

Great. Now i'm making jokes about being publicly executed. I truly have gone insane.

Looking down at a puddle from the recent rain, the man smiled to himself.

I look the part too

His hair, filled with sticks and leaves, had grown long, down to his jawline, and a beard reached to his collarbone. The weathered maroon eyes, once clear and decisive, now appeared sunken and unfocused. His once powerful, muscular frame had diminished, now appearing as skin and bones with a sore excuse for muscles showing just underneath. The man licked his chapped lips. He had gone the entire day without water, unable to catch enough to sate his thirst from the meager supply of rain. Crouching down, he looked into the small puddle, trying to determine if it was safe to drink. Realizing he was probably walking to a death sentence anyways, he scooped what he could into his dust-caked hands and brought it to his lips. It wasn't cool, and certainly not clear, but it wet his parched throat and might sustain him for a few minutes longer than what he had.

Standing back up and pausing, waiting for his headrush to leave, he staggered onwards towards the palace gates, the guards looking up from their game when they heard his measured footsteps and labored breathing.

"Hail, sir! Who might you be?" The right-most guard asked. He was an older man, from before the war truly started, with a balding head and a salt-and-pepper beard that wasn't quite as long as the approaching man's. Well built and still in shape, despite most likely being in his late forties.

"Refugee. Need water. Please.. Help..." Croaked the man. His brief sip of water had already left his mouth and it returned to its dry state. The man's knees gave way, as he no longer had the strength to stand, pushing his hood back away from his face.

"Bring the general. Quickly." He heard the younger guard whisper into the gates at a page, upon which he ran towards the closely stationed barracks. The guard, clearly in his early twenties, with a shock of brown hair tied back in a short ponytail stood and quickly pulled the older guard aside and whispered in his ear. The older guard gave him a glance that confirmed his suspicions. His eyes immediately went to his eyes, then his hair, which the man knew quite obviously showed his streak of white, before the guards eyes widened and nodded to the younger guard.

Black dots started to appear in the man's vision, as the gates were opened and a large, well armored figure with a giant sword strapped across it's back made its way right in front of him, crouched down, and pushed his hood to his shoulders. With nothing else to lose, the man looked into the hulking figure's eyes, making it simple and quick.

Garen's blue eyes stared back at him, first with what looked like a small sense of pity, before it turned into the hardened steel of anger, and hatred, before he spoke.

"Darius."

Whatever else Garen said after that did not matter, nor did they matter to

Darius, as all went black, into the abyss that was unconsciousness.