Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape or form own League of Legends or any of its affiliates. This piece is purely a work of fiction and intended for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Note: All that aside, if you're still here please enjoy the story. :) Do note that this is, in some ways, an AU. Even though the story does take place within the same universe and on the same continent of Runeterra the setting, some events and aspects of League history have been altered to suit the story's needs.
After some heavy editing and soul searching, I've gone back and revamped the story. Here is the new introduction and, after a come to Jesus moment, I am pleased to present (what I feel) is a better version of the story I wish to tell.
"One Razor's Edge"
5th August, 32 CLE
Water dripping against bare stone echoed down the expansive corridor. Along each side, spaced haphazardly, where dungeon cells. Each individual cell contained a strange myriad of interesting beings. These individuals all wore the same outfit. A solid, one piece beige suit with dingy wraps for foot wear. Smears of dirt, grime and fecal matter stained and lined the floors of each cell. The entire place smelled heavily of sweat and urine - acidic and it stung the senses.
The air was moist from a leaking pipe somewhere in the water main. The system ran through the entire complex flowing heated water to the suits above the dungeons. Down here there was no need to fix the leak. Comfort was for the privileged. Mere gladiators - glorified slaves - did not deserve such luxuries.
The moisture created a chill through the tunnel. The cold dug into the bones, wriggling through the cracks that the meager clothing the slaves were provided with. It was a dense cold, a terrible cold. It not only made someone shiver but the feeling seeped into the soul creating a shiver that was both from desperation for warmth and the emptiness of being locked up in the darkness.
Most of the containment units held a single being. The few units that held more than one occupant were stuffed so because of the growing, over crowding problem. Too many candidates and not enough dark places to shove and contain them.
Steel toed boots clipped against the stone and dirt floor as a trio of armored guards entered the long corridor. Glancing over from cell to cell, the leader passed down the tunnel, hands held behind his ramrod straight back. A cloak fell down his back. The hood was pulled up, covering all but his lower face as the duo that was following the procession kept up with the pace. In short, clipped words the head of the marching column barked an order for the armored guards to stand at attention, guard the door as the leader opened the door into the innermost dungeon. He held it open, allowing the two finely dressed and primped men through without a word.
This formality had been performed a number of times and they all knew what to do without verbal communication. The commander closed the heavy iron door behind them. His hand reached out, palm pressed against the wall and a string of hazy but visible lights illuminated the darkness piece by piece, each light clicking on in a pre ordered sequence. Zaun technology at its finest. Though poorly maintained the lights showed how uneven and treacherous the slick stones of the floor could be.
Of the two primped men, the man on the right radiated a nervous energy, his hands wringing before his stomach but his mouth held a straight line - the hands betraying the sense of serene and calm he had been attempting to portray. The man on the left was the complete opposite. He held himself straight, his long hair pulled into a queue at the base of his neck. Both followed the commander down the tunnel, eyes forward, not glancing into the cells that lined the walls around them.
"Calm yourself Monsieur Reynault. These specimens are not getting to trounce your pretty little head any time soon," the commander said without turning around. A smirk flashed yellow teeth caught the dim lights of the poorly maintained Zaun lanterns. The light played with the shadows around the cells - giving an ominous edge to the figures tucked away into every cell.
"I have never been one for tight spaces. The darkness doesn't bother me," Monsieur Reynault responded. He felt exposed with his nerves so obvious to the commander. The walls so close and the earth pressing down on them caused a certain claustrophobia to delve into the psyche of the man.
"Famous last words from many a rich man," the third man said with a sharp intake of breath. A deep throaty chuckle escaped from plump lips as the man's soft leather boots hardly made a sound on the stone floor.
"Says the gambler. Some of us come by our means honestly Barn," Reynault retorted.
"If you say so. Last I was informed, running a brothel was just as good as stealing from a drunken man," Barn finished. He glanced across the shoulders of the commander leading them and offered a wry wink at his investment partner.
"Watch yourself." Reynault growled.
"Cease!" The commander barked, slamming the palm of his hand against the bars of the cell to their immediate right. A sinister, dark, feminine laughter came from within. Piercing purple eyes peered out from the darkness as a voice followed up.
"Men. So full of themselves." A violet tinged arm reached through the bars. No amount of bandages could hide the lithe, delicate features of the fingers as the hand produced a small, enticing gesture. "Let me out and I'll promise you a good time." The voice intoned. The purple gaze remained fixed on the three men as the commander motioned for his two companions to continue following.
"Put the woman from your mind. She can not harm you from behind these bars." The commander tapped on the next set of barriers to emphasize his point. "Your investment is up ahead. I am to assure you that you will be most impressed with this acquisition."
"I've seen this acquisition already on the bidding floor-" Reynault began with a haughty tone.
"Oh shove it. Viewing on the bidding floor and viewing person are two different things," Barn cut him off. "At least this way we can see how damaged the goods are." Reynault huffed indignantly in response.
"Not too damaged I can safely say," the commander intervened.
"We shall see." Reynault responded.
"Agreed. No matter how many times I come here, I still do not understand the Institution's fascination with torture as a form of obedience," Barn said, brushing past Reynault and the commander as the trio came to a half open door at the end of the corridor. Small beams of light darted from behind the door, the dancing tones indicating candles and not the ancient Zaun technology.
"The last Champion we purchased stake in survived one fight and was dead from your training methods the next day," Reynault continued. "It was a horrid investment that we never saw a return on."
"Monsieur Reynault. Monsieur Barn. I can assure you that our methods have improved from the crudeness of the early days." The commander pushed open the door the rest of way, moving aside so the two men could enter the room first.
"I'll be the judge of that." Reynault finished gruffly, pushing past and entering the room. Barn followed after and both men looked around at the numerous "training" tools stacked on racks, bunched on tables or leaning against the walls. The room was square, the floor covered in grime - a combination of dirt, grime and blood - and there was a purely acidic smell that no amount of candles could burn away.
The acquisition in question was mute, staring from under grime coated tendrils of hair. One eye was black, bruised and bleeding from a large gash across the upper part of the cheek. A rough, home spun piece of cloth was wrapped around the mouth, shoved firmly between the acquisition's teeth to keep the silence. Objects didn't speak. Trade goods had no voice. They went to the highest bidder and did as they were told without complaint. The acquisition's wrists were bound in chaffing irons, held out to the side above their head. The chains were in an awkward angle that made each breath a struggle and forced the fighter to raise themselves every time they wished to break through a broken nose. No shirt covered their chest. The whiplash marks and burns from being subject to inhuman treatment still fresh and laced across old or reopening scar tissue. Torn cloth pants hung from around a surprisingly muscled, tone waist with a frayed rope belt. Bare feet and hands seemed the only piece of the body not terribly mistreated. This was a fighter after all. Breaking what would and could be used as weapons only diminished the value of the potential to investors.
"Scrawny but you said he is a fighter?" Barn quipped, stepping forward to raise the investment's chin, turning their head to each side. Barn reached up and, with two fingers, pressed on the gash. The man on the wall winced, good eye narrowing slightly.
"Yes Monsieur Barn." The commander responded. He stood to the side, allowing for the two men to have all the time they wanted to gaze over the fighter that they had spent hundreds of thousands of gold on. "We have tried him in the arena against lesser combatants and while he took some… encouragement to fight, he does with an absolute fierceness."
"It is entertainment you're investing in Barn, not welfare," Reynault chuckled from where he stood. "Who has he been pitched against? Can we see the training results?" The commander produced a sheet of parchment from a small locked bin on the table nearest them. He handed it to Reynault and the man glanced over it. "The samurai and the arrow? That is who he has fought?" Reynault asked with a scoff. "That hardly offers assurance of his time in the arena."
"You forget that the samurai placed second last year." Barn was quick to remind him. Barn had released his hold on the acquisition's chin and had begun to probing at the ribs and arms, feeling for confirmation or muscle defects.
"By a fluke. The prince taking his own life threw the whole season into disorder. It ruined the rankings," Reynault cut Barn off.
"Semantics." Barn waved his hand in the air, leaning back on his heels and forced open the investment's hands, looking over the callouses on their hands. "Well he is a fighter. He has the hands to prove it."
"According to this he is an assassin," Reynault handed over the paperwork to Barn who looked it over quickly before returning the papers.
"Even better! Maybe we will have a chance this year!" Barn exclaimed with a clap of his hands.
"Perhaps." Reynault turned to the commander. "Thank you for showing us our investment." Reynault turned, the paperwork in his left hand and moved towards the exit.
"One moment Reynault!" Barn said. "Commander, before we leaving I have a last question. Does this fighter have a name? The paperwork just says assassin and we very well can't keep calling him that." Barn chuckled before it died in his throat at the commander's unmoving gaze. He cleared his throat nervously.
"Talon. The man is known as Talon." He responded.
"Talon? Interesting name." Reynault said from already across the room, standing before the door. "I'm intrigued now. Would this be the same Talon that was notorious havoc in the slums of Noxus?"
"The very same." The commander said.
"Well well well!" Barn grinned, turning back to the man on the wall and happily slapping the chained man's cheek with a grin. "Aren't we the luckiest men alive! I think we finally have a real fighter!"
"Of course." Reynault also smiled, sharing his comrades enthusiasm at the news.
"Gentlemen. If you please. It is getting late. I am required to meet with the Grand General after escorting you back to your housing," the commander said. "If you please." He motioned for them to leave and the two men, with some reluctance, started towards the exit. "Orianna will see you out to the practice arenas. I will have your fighter prepared for a brief practice bought before you leave."
"Thank you. We await it," Reynault said, moving to leave the room with Barn in tow. The commander turned, releasing the chains around the fighter's wrists. The broken body fell forward without the support to it aloft any longer. The single golden eye stared daggers at the two men that had 'bought' him. Reynault shivered once more but this time not from the cold in the corridor.
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Captain Corgi Out!