(A/N): Well then, I don't know where this spontaneous idea to make a League of Legends sing along came from… But it did strike a chord of intrigue! :O
Few people know this, but I've grown increasingly fond of westerns and classic cowboy flicks as of late. Maybe it comes from watching too much Clint Eastwood or playing lots of Fallout New Vegas, but for some reason I can't help but love the air of rangers and gunslingers…
On the topic of FNV, music! Big Iron by Marty Robbins in fact :P
I've been hunting down a theme for High Noon Yasuo for quite some time, and I felt – just prior to sleeping on a busy day – that "Big Iron" in particular would suit him well… And with that in mind, the most nonsensical and random fic idea that you've ever had the misfortune to witness lies ahead!
WARNING: Spelling errors, butchery of song lyrics, attempts at being edgy, extreme OOC-ness, a bit of blood, and cowboys!
Big Iron
To the town of Kalamanda rode a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around him; didn't have too much to say.
Few places had heard even the merest tattle of his vast tale – of the bellowing winds and stories his blade had stirred with its swift, measured strokes. The jingle of his spurs marked the confidence of his swagger, his namesake blade clutched tightly to his side upon the leather of his secure belt. The town of Kalamanda had earned his service this high noon; be it a blessing or a curse to see his bladework, only time would tell.
Anxious at the foreigner's arrival, the natives watched on with a sense of awe as the tall man of the East made his round. Children held onto the legs of their towering mothers, and labouring sons snuck sneaky glances as they worked the smithies and farms. Strangers rarely strayed so far as Kalamanda 'less they were there on business – the sort of business that you wouldn't want no Demacian or Noxian judicator to catch a whiff of.
No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip,
For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip.
The eyes of onlookers remained fixed on the length that hang loosely at the outsider's side; five feet of cold steel clad in five feet of snake skin. No local lawmaker could brandish such a graceful weapon and call theirselves a hero: This man was a warrior of Ionia, and a damn skilled one at that.
Like bullied Yordles making homes in the city states the farmers and citizens kept their heads low and their lips sealed, steering well clear of the towering swordsman and the folded steel that sat forever within his fist. His tattered poncho riding in the wind and flapping upon his back, the stranger moved onwards – the cling and clang of his boots and the trampling of sand underfoot punctuating his advance.
Big iron on his hip.
His blade never got any lighter.
It was early in the morning when he strode into the town.
He came striding from the south side, slowly lookin' all around.
Kalamanda was surely a different sight to the gorgeous pagodas of home, yet it was anything but a unique town. The roads were barren, the homes were makeshift, and the floor-plan was standard for your average human settlement. If it wasn't for his task that evening, he doubted that he would've ever heard of the isolated town – like thousands of other villages and hamlets and lives that would remain shrouded from his knowledge for the entirety of his days.
Still the townsfolk did all that they could to avoid meeting his eyes, turning to start nonsensical conversations with random naysayers and passersby's as to look engaged and occupied. The stranger frowned with distaste as the usual hustle and bustle of the town centre dispersed, clearing the way for his intimidating stature.
There's an outlaw loose and running came the whisper from each lip,
And he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip.
He spoke honestly and cleanly to the local folk, calling to those few that remained to assure them that he brought no malice or contempt or vindictive intentions with him to the town nor its people. The stranger informed them that he was a mere traveler there with a task set – and that the only person who need fear him was the target of his latest bounty.
A murmur grew amongst the civilians, as the distant townspeople began to funnel towards the Ionian stood tall at the town's square – all bearing scraps of information and trivia that could point towards the tyrant he sought. Much of it was useless, yet the wanderer couldn't help much smirk with gratitude – the folk were a decent sort, once you got through their shells.
Big iron on his hip.
The mayor and the stranger exchanged their names in due course – Ridley and Yasuo of Kalamanda and Ionia, the deal sealed with a shake of hands chilled by the hilt of a sheathed sword.
In this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Twisted Fate.
Many men had tried to take him and so many dead to date.
Nestled in the sole tavern of the secluded village – The Bright August – sat the land's baddest and maddest villain; a craven in everything but name. Fate had been brave enough to call the town his own, his heavy boots sitting crossed about the messied counter of his tavern table. By his feet sat spread a myriad of cards; the aftermath of the day's seventh game of Solitaire.
So many bounty hunters, nobles, heroes and spirits of vengeance had tried to pursue the tempting pot of gold that sat upon his head – at every city gate a poster of his mug lay plastered to bulletin boards, drawing in the brave and bold from miles around. Many men had heard the dramatic stories of his brief yet dangerous tale – of betrayals and heists aplenty; of bodies left bloodied in gutters with nothing to spare in their pockets.
He was vicious and a killer though a youth of twenty four,
and the numbers of his card deck counted one and nineteen more.
No doubt the next fool who pursued his price would aim to avenge his latest victim – a gambler who had not the coin to pay the price for his mindless indulgence in the dice. If anything the idiot should have thanked him for curing his ills in an instant – one swift card of blue driven neatly between his eyes.
He had plenty of cards to spare for whoever would come; enough to stain the sands with their innards in one swift stroke. Those who assumed that his thin and lanky frame made him weak and clumsy were entirely in the wrong, for he could easily clear a room with a single sweep of his sleeve.
One and nineteen more.
There would be no end to his journey, neither today nor tomorrow. He raised his whiskey through the fog of cigars to the light of the chandelier, and took a hefty swig as if it would be his last.
Now the stranger started talking; made it plain to folks around
That an Ionian ranger wouldn't be too long in town.
While the residents of Kalamanda had made it clear that they were friendly to his cause, it was evident that they were eager to be rid of him. It only seemed right – how would anyone else feel if a threatening man from the lands far east took up a prolonged visit to their homeland? Yasuo tugged at the loop of his neckerchief with a hooked finger, straightening the mantle upon his collar.
They certainly seemed reassured by the revelation, the crowd whispering and bickering in their vast numbers. The ranger lowered his hat in consideration, fumbling with the clumsy weight of the weapon by his side – you'd think that the murmurs would settle in his presence, yet the people had quickly forgotten that he'd even existed like schoolboys squabbling in the classroom.
He came here to take an outlaw back alive or maybe dead,
and he said it didn't matter; he was after Twisted Fate.
There was no need for mercy; he had been given the exclusive authority to enact justice in any way he saw fit, be it through words or by blade. "Justice" – that was a pretty word, wasn't it? It didn't change anything in the end – murder was murder, yet it seemed everybody had their hobbies and excuses.
The stranger called for their attention once more, preaching for directions towards the actual target of his blade. Through the chorus of names – of petty cattle thieves and moonshine brewers – he demanded for any news on the whereabouts of his quarry: Twisted Fate, the Card Master of Valoran.
After Twisted Fate.
They said that he was like sand between one's fingers. But to the ranger he was merely a grain in the wind.
Wasn't long before the story was relayed to Twisted Fate.
But the outlaw didn't worry; men that tried before were dead.
Middle-aged townsfolk flocked to the August in their droves – a sea of balding heads all eager for a pint and a moment to exchange the juicy gossip of the day. So little news occurred in the hamlet of Kalamanda that the merest peep of interest could quickly spread abounds – 'twas a small town after all. Miners and farmers engaged in their banter as they downed their ales; a bounty hunter was about, and he was after the town's latest and greatest rogue.
Fate snickered to himself and returned to his drink, remaining in his shrouded seat at the back of the tavern – the perfect place to hear it all whilst remaining unseen. There was a need to celebrate – another arrogant ranger was in pursuit, and all that meant for him was another purse; another set of spurs; and another kill to his name.
Twenty men had tried to take him; twenty men had made a slip,
Twenty one would be the ranger with the big iron on his hip.
The vile crook flicked through a row of cards, the familiar feeling of paper against his bare fingertips filling him with the desire for combat. None had nerves as cool as he – at high noon all would falter with panic and fear, making the single and final mistake that would cease their lives at the end of a card of gold.
Through his deck he picked a knave – an appropriate card for the next fool who had the misfortune of going toe-to-toe with him. Fate spun the playing card of notorious suite between his agile fingertips, flaunting his impressive poise and skill with his unique enchanted weaponry to no one but himself. The magic was artificial – his talent was not.
Big iron on his hip.
Another whiskey: To the fruits betrayal tends to bear.
The evening passed so quickly; it was time for them to meet.
It was twenty past eleven when they walked out in the street.
Within hours the sun had set, casting the realm under the lunar glow of a summer's night. Their weapons tended, their eyes fixed, and their heads strong the two fellows stood in wait – for their first and final duel together, in the deserted streets of a town in twilight.
Those funny ol' spurs returned to clunking as Yasuo paced to the road, pivoting on his foot and facing south with a guise of stoicism. Ahead of him strutted the man himself – Twisted Fate, his long cloak fluttering in the perpetually kicking winds of Kalamanda's wasteland. No creature made a sound as they awaited the time, expertly containing the bloodlust with their flat expressions. The only colour for miles around was the crimson red upon the ranger's neck.
Folks were watching from the windows, every-body held their breath:
They knew this handsome ranger was about to meet his death.
Every door on the avenue had been fastened shut, secured to the teeth with padlocks and barricades. As if in contrast schools of eyes sat by every window high and low – the people of Kalamanda curiously watching on as the two warriors looked upon one-another across the dusty road.
The twenty-first's calm was mistaken for cockiness by the townsmen and women abound, who observed the individual with a mournful shade of grey. None had faced the cruel craven's wrath in the past and returned to speak of it, and few believed that his spree of bloodshed would end that night astray.
About to meet his death
Outsider or not, they would tip their hats to the latest grave.
There was forty feet between them when they stopped to make their play.
And the swiftness of the ranger is still talked about today.
Fate's feet spread upon the barren sand, his legs readied for the stance of battle. The stranger maintained his posture, his worn fingers drumming upon the familiar grip of his closest companion. His blade had guided and protected him against foes aplenty in the past – it was more than enough for the likes of the villain that stood ahead, his eyes a colourless white.
With the haste of the wind that was his namesake, the Ionian whipped out his sword with a swift snap of steel. The Card Master mimicked his sudden action with a crackle of sorcery as his bare hands reached for the knave that would do the deed. Their speeds matched in excellence; it seemed unsure who truly met the draw.
Twisted Fate not cleared leather 'fore a weapon fairly ripped,
And the ranger's aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip.
Whooshing like a heedless hurricane sweeping across rural plains, the ranger dashed forward at a velocity beyond the norm. Fate's brow furrowed with confusion as force pushed at his shoulder, his eyes meeting the sheen of unfolded iron pressing deeply into his joint. Fabric and sinew ripped as a ringing chime akin to an echoing gunshot bounced throughout the avenue – the sound of thrusting wind; a lunge of valor and the advance of deadly gusts.
Yasuo pushed the rogue to the ground, the tip of his weapon stained with the claret of his felled foe. No doubt the limb would be beyond use for weeks to come – the man's weapon arm was entirely out of commission. To slash and chop with a cultured weapon was bestial and imprecise – with disciplined thrusts he'd thrown the force of his element at the crook, bringing him to submission before he could even draw.
Big iron on his hip.
A flick and a flurry, the blade of the East returned to its slumber at his side - its thirst sated for now.
It was over in a moment and the folks had gathered round.
There before them lay the body of the outlaw on the ground.
As if summoned by the Deathsinger himself a legion of townsfolk flooded into the streets amidst a racket of brass keys and unchained doors. Pouring out in varying states of dress and age the farmers and miners and smiths and brewers silently circled the stranger and his quarry.
The mayor Ridley and his people loomed over the felled criminal, their eyes all fixed on the growing red patch upon the shoulder of his duster. To think that a foe seeming so invincible had at last been felled by the power of arms – he was a man and a man alone, not a god on the earth. The Ionian kneeled over the outlaw, and promptly plucked his furled and crooked hat from his greasy crown – the trophy of his hunt, and the ticket for his reward.
Oh he might have went on living, but he made one fatal slip.
When he tried to match the ranger with the big iron on his hip.
Once more the crowd dispersed – out of respect and pride rather than panic and concern – as the stranger turned and took off with the symbol of his success tightly squeezed between his hands. Twisted Fate's rampage had been halted before it had even started – the lucky number twenty-one being the end of his life, and his relief from the worries of running forever.
In some way it was karma; arrogance against patience, power against poise. Rest assured the ranger would sleep well that day, safe in the knowledge that the deed was done, and he'd have a sound pail of coin to come home to. The night was temperate and modest – he took that as a good omen.
Big iron on his hip.
He wondered – silently - how much time he had left before his closest colleague turned on him.
One day just like Fate, everyone's luck runs out. Thankfully, it wasn't yet his time to die.
He settled on that and kept on moving, focusing on the jingle that his spurs left in their wake.
Big Iron, Big Iron.
When he tried to match the ranger with the big iron on his hip.
X
(A/N): Well then… Been an incredibly long while since I've written a full story in one sitting! O_o
Not quite sure how this turned out, but then again it was just a spur of the moment thing… You might like it, might hate it, but I certainly found it engaging enough to write! xD
Thanks for reading! Just a note for future me if I read this, this story was written on the 5th December 2014 from 8:55 AM to 11:25 AM! :P