Chest heaving, Gangplank, the Saltwater Scourge limps towards the safety of his looming stone turret. The remaining tatters of his armour hang loosely from his injured form. The gaping knife-wound in his arm continues to ooze his lifeblood, his torn flesh leaving a thin dripping trail upon the grass of his lane. Though his surroundings seem calm, the rift seems to breathe lightly around him, a warning of the danger in which he remains. Just a little bit longer, and he will be able to recall under the protection of his turret and escape to his fountain to heal. A muffled distant explosion disrupts him, and he stumbles forwards, his mechanical arm flailing forwards to catch him. Scrambling back to his feet, he begins to resume his panicked race to his turret. Stopping, he suddenly realizes that the breathing around him has grown much closer. He freezes, and whipping his head around fearfully he scans the bushes and trees, but there is nothing. Gangplank takes a tentative step towards his turret and ends up flying back in terror as a howl rips through the air and Warwick pounces from the shadows.
Pinned by fear, and by Warwick's claws, he is unable to do anything except cry out in fear and pain as Warwick tears viciously at his already-rended flesh. His gaze has just begun to falter when he remembers. He quickly eyes the item in his hand, a slightly dirty half-peeled orange. With a roar, he raises the orange abruptly to his mouth, causing sprays of blood to erupt from the gashes on his chest and shoulder. Catching it between his teeth, he bites violently into it, dripping orange juice down his bloodied front. With a yell of triumph, he leaps back as Warwick stares at him in confusion, stunned by the sudden turn of events. Looking down at himself, he watches as the influx of Vitamin C reconstructs his damaged form, his flesh knitting itself back over the gashes and holes, his clothes and armour mending, and even the stains of the spilt orange juice and blood lifting from his shirt as the spirit of the orange fills him once more with life. He notices the man-beast staring at him, disbelief reflected upon his wolfish features. With an up slash of his suddenly flaming sword, he sends Warwick scurrying and whining back into the jungle.
Satisfied, he sits upon a crate that sprouts spontaneously from the dirt underneath him, and begins to cast ancient arcane recall magic by sticking his sword into the ground and polishing his gun. After careful contemplation, he completes the spell, and he teleports away to his allied fountain of healing. Sighing, he pulls his blade back undamaged out of the now stone ground. This was going to be another long nonsensical day.