A/N: Seeing as me not being able to make a good storyline killed my last story, I think I'll stick to one-shots of... whatever actually...
This is the first one (duh), but I'll try to mix it up a bit with other things.
On the plains north of the buildings of the Institute of War thousands of men clashed on a battlefield, the cries of thousands mingled with the clash of steel on steel, the whirring of bowstrings and whistle of arrows almost inaudiable within the din. Blood soaked the ground as men fell under the banners of Demacia and Noxus, which shining in the eerie red light of a bloodmoon hanging in the sky.
The greatest of noxian and demacian warriors fought, two lords of the battlefield: One wielding a sword the size of a man, wearing heavy armor in the demacian blue and gold colors, already covered by blood and gore. The other, wearing simularly heavy armor, but made of thick unadorned plates, wielding a giant axe that was already notched where it had hit swords, armor and shields.
"Noxus went too far this time!" The golden and blue armored man shouted, raising his sword to strike down towards the axewielder's shoulder.
"We have done nothing, demacian coward! You betrayed the Institute's conditions!" The hulking giant blocked the sword with his own weapon, snaring the sword, and locking the two soldiers in a contest of strength. The axewielder, a noxian general called Darius, suddenly heaved against the locked weapons, sending his advesary, the demacian commander Garen, tumbling to the ground.
Darius snarled in triumph, leaping into the air, his axe raised above his head, a victorious gleam in his eye. Garen saw the general leaping skyward, and knew he would never escape. Sending a quick apology to his sister, the leader of demacian intelligence, and to the noxian assassin he had come to care for, he took his sword, and stemmed himself up on his knee. A fire burned in his blue eyes, as he struck upwards, yelling one last battlecry with all his might: "DEMACIA!"
His sword struck Darius right under the chestplate as the giant axe descended on his shoulder directly next to the neck. Both warriors fell to the ground, locked in death, blood pouring from them to mingle with that already on the ground, finally proving that they were equals in battle.
Arlen took the axe on his shield, letting the blow glance off. He threw his weight against the shield, knocking the noxian down. He quickly stabbed downward with his sword, impaling the man, who screamed in agony, blood flowing from the wound in his stomach. Arlen withdrew his sword, only just managing to bring up his shield in time to block the spear of the next enemy. The spear hit the shield, causing it to shake under the impact. Arlen let his shield down to strike, but the man had stepped up, and buried his dagger in Arlen's neck.
Pain burst from the wound, causing the demacian's sight to go red. He felt something hot flow down his neck, and his vision went black.
Desterius saw the giant axe come down, and felt the triumph along with his comrades. They knew the demacian commander, the only one strong enough to defeat Noxus's Hand, would never escape. The triumph turned to disbelief, then rage, as the demacian sword came up, hitting Darius in the chest. Desterius roared with hate, and charged the demacian line, hoping to catch them off guard. His comrades charged with him. The demacians raised their shields, creating a defensive wall the noxians crashed into, pushing them half a step back from the weight of their numbers.
Desterius felt something crunch into his chainmail, right over the heart. He crumpled and never rose again.
"Fire!"
Two hundred archers let their bowstrings go, launching just as many arrows into the back of the demacian army. "Ready!" Eren shouted, watching his force set new arrows to their strings. "Draw!" The sound of two hundred shafts scraping against bows could be heard above the din of the battle. "Fire!" Again two hundred arrows flew across the battlefield.
The demacians returned fire with their artillery, sending a single stone launched from a catapult into the contingent of archers, knocking over a dozen of them. "Ready!" Eren kept going with his orders, ignoring the new cries of pain from the wounded. A messenger ran up to him, whispering into his ear: "The Grand General wants concentrated fire into the backlines of their right flank." He showed his right under arm, showing a tattoo given to those acting as messengers as verification.
"Understood. Retarget! Backline of the left flank! Draw!" The men under Eren's command repositioned themselves. "Fi...!" The second stone from the demacian artillery struck right before Erens feet, shattering, a single shard striking him under the chin.
Nearby within the battle the bloodmoon shone on a imposing sight: two undead fighters, one a towering figure carrying a crude doublehanded waraxe with a shoulderplate and his gauntlets bolted onto him, the other the upper body of a man stiched together mounted on a metal tripod of legs, one hand a black curved blade, the other a pulse canon, stood locked in combat with a dragon with red and gold scales and a man wearing demacian armor and carrying a lance with a jagged blade.
The giant struck slow, heavy strokes at the dragon, continously missing his strikes but holding the dragon at bay and knocking over many surounding soldiers, both friend and foe. Meanwhile the lancebearer evaded the other undead fighter's shots by weaving to and fro, quickly nearing his opponent. As he came level with the noxian executioner, Urgot, he struck a heavy blow with the blade of his lance. The undead only just managed to catch the blow on his own blade, the force almost causing his metal legs to buckle.
"Today you find your truth, abomination!" the demacian warrior, Prince Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth,the Exemplar of Demacia, yelled at the executioner. With those words, he drew back his lance, and struck, piercing Urgot's mechanically supported heart, slaying him instantly.
At the same time, Sion, the undead giant, used his spiked shoulderplate to knock over the dragon, who was standing on her hindlegs trying to lock her jaws around her enemy's throat. She hit the dirt, the strength leaving her body. In a flash of red fire, adding to the eerie red glow on the battlefield, the dragon turned into a blueskinned, armored woman. The juggernaut raised his axe, and brought it down, striking a heavy but glancing blow on the halfdragons leg. The armor and the bone splittered under the heavy axe, shards of the red armor boring themselves into her leg, blood rushing from the wound.
"Shyvana!" The demacian prince launched himself on the giant, striking with all the speed and strength he could muster, driving the undead warrior back from the fallen halfdragon. Then, summoning up the little control he had over magic, he leapt to the skies, stiking the ground with such a forceful blow that the ground around the prince broke, jagged walls rising from the ground, locking him, his enemy and some noxian warriors in an arena.
"Come here, show me you have more courage than your ancestor, the cowardly king!" Sion bellowed at the demacian prince.
Jarvan hefted his lance, the grip and blade were covered in blood, making it slightly slippery. "Ours is but to do..." He muttered, bracing his right leg against the ground, preparing to charge the giant. "AND DIE!" He jumped off the ground in the same moment as Sion raised his axe high. Sion's strike went wide, going just over Jarvan's head, hitting one of the arena's walls. Jarvan struck his lance deep into the glowing ruby that was in the undead's chest. Sion bellowed in pain as thick blood slowly oozed from around the lance. Dropping the giant axe to the ground, he grabbed the haft of Jarvans lance and his arm at once. The lance snapped, leaving the blade in the undead's chest. Sion threw Jarvan against the arena's walls, the glowing ruby pulsating brightly in the bloodmoon's undead giant howled like a demon into the sky, charging the prince, who was struggling to rise. The undead warrior stood over Jarvan, raising both hands over his head.
Jarvan wouldn't escape his fate, he would die like his ancestor, Jarvan the First, whose crown was now Sion's lower jaw.
Suddenly, the giant was ripped off his feet, knocked back and pinned to the arena's wall, crushing two of the six noxian soldiers. A huge bolt, a 50 centimeter shaft of firehardened oak, stuck out of Sion's chest. Jarvan looked up, seeing Shauna Vayne, balancing on one of the arena's walls, her large crossbow in her hands. She quickly slung it on her back, and using the small crosbow mounted on her right forearm, she quickly dispatched the last four noxian soldiers still in the arena. Vayne jumped down next to Jarvan, helping him to his feet.
"Hold fast Jarvan." As one of the member's of Demacia's houses, she was entitled to some familiarity with the prince. "It's not over yet." With that, she disappeared over the walls.
Jarvan let the arena walls crumble to the ground, revealing the battlfield. The two armies had drawn back from each other near the walls, leaving behind a scene of carnage. Bodies of the slain were covering the entire ground, blood covering armor, swords shields and lances.
A cheer went up from the demacians, who saw their prince standing over the bodies of two noxian heroes and a small squad of noxian soldiers. They rushed forward, enveloping the prince in their ranks, and crashing into their opponents again.
A roar went up umong his comrades, and they charged headfirst at the noxians, passing by the prince. Carcyn suddenly felt something piercing his chainmail at his left side, and went down.
Arald went down dazed, hit on the helmet by a spearhaft. The demacian line had to fall back slightly, leaving him lying among the dead, blood covering everything. The noxians approached him, one looking right at him, a wicked grin on his face. The noxian raised his sword, ready to bring it down. Suddenly, a spear protruded from his chest, and a demacian soldier, a man Arald didn't know, stood over him, alone in a see of enemies. He drew his sword and struck out, kiling a noxian to his left. He took a spear in his right thigh, but just struck at the next man, hitting his shield with such force it knocked the noxian back. His sword broke on the next mans blade, and the drew the spear out of his thigh, whipping it around his head like a flail, forcing the noxians to back off slightly.
Arald could only ly there and look up at the man, who was bleeding in a dozen places, but still stood tall over him. Three armored demacians came forward, placing themselves between the two soldiers and the noxians, and drawing back with them. Arald and his saviour were hurried off to the infirmary.
Under the moon's crimson light, the demacian soldiers on the left flank were being forced back under a tide of their own blood. A pool of blood moved toward the demacian line, covering everything. One could only vaguely see the bodies under the sanguine liquid, flooding over bodies and leaving them behind as empty husks. A man rose out of the center of the pool. He wore blood red clothes: a sweeping cloak, boots and trousers. His hair was completely white, and on his fingers were sharpened claws. A bubble of blood floated between his hands, expanding as it drew up more blood from the ground until it floated around him in rings, striking away all projectiles aimed at him.
The man laughed, a shuddering sound that caused the demacian soldiers to shiver behind their shields. At a wave of the man's hand, five of the soldiers crumpled to the ground, blood flowing from them, adding to the blood rings rotating about the crimson robed man.
In the midst of another volley of arrows coming from behind the demacian lines, a single silver bolt struck through the blood encircling the man, striking him on his left upper arm. He screamed in agony, a sound that rent the night. All soldiers drew back from the robed man, the hemomancer known as Vladimir, as the blood floating around him expanded, pushing all the mangled corpses aside, creating a wall. The scream died in the Hemomancer's throat as he saw who had fired at him. A woman with pale skin, wearing a blue and red leather jumpsuit with a red cape and armored boots and gauntlets, stood facing Vladimir. A small silver crossbow was mounted on her right gauntlet, another crossbow, almost as large as the woman, was strapped to her back.
"Night Hunter," Vladimir hissed, his bloodred eyes finding Vayne's. "You wil die for that!"
He shot a barrage of blood at Vayne, who jumped to the side, coming up in a crouch and firing another silver bolt. Vladimir crouched quickly, letting the bolt whizz over his head. He sent out a large wave of blood, hitting Vayne on her right arm, and knocking her to the ground. Vladimir laughed, raising his hands, letting the blood wave shoot down towards the felled vigilante. She rolled to the side and disappeared. Vladimir looked around, letting the wave of blood circle protectively around him. Suddenly Vayne reapeared, holding the large oaken crossbow in her hand, sending out a quick voley of the heavy bolts, tiped with silver and glimmering in the light that fell through the dome of blood, that had the potential to pin someone against a wall. The hemomancer drew blood from the dome, solidifying it into a two meter thick wall of blood. The wall shuddered under the impact, the bolts' tips protruding through the wall. Then one last bolt struck the wall, blasting it to tiny pieces and hitting Vladimir in the left shoulder.
Another scream ripped from the hemomancer's throat. His eyes filled with a burning hatred, he cast the entire dome of blood straight towards Vayne, crushing her under the tides of blood. Vladimir retreated from the battle, his wounds sizzling where the silver bolts had struck him. He was not able to heal those wounds magically, nor was he able to take the bolts out himself, seeing as his magical essence was being destroyed by the silver.
The assassin watched the woman prowling around the edges of the battle, in the forest south of the plains the armies had collided on. Her eyes glinted in the bloody light, filled with a lust for revenge. She wore a demacian duelist's attire, although one could tell it was of expensive cut. She held a long straight-bladed basket-hilted rapier. He was suprised to find her on the outskirts of the battle, especially in her current clothes. They reflected the red light, unlike his own: He wore dark purple clothes that clung to his body, a blade mounted on his right fore-arm, on the lower edge it was straight to the point, but on the other it had a small spike that extended toward the point. But the most eye-catching thing about his clothes was his cloak. It had the same color as the rest of his clothes, a deep purple and was made of leather. Around his shoulders it turned into seven wide strips of leather, reaching down to his ankles, each strip surmounted with a single blade resembling his arm-blade.
The assassin stepped out of the tree-shadow, two of the blades on his cloak clinking together. The duelist turned, her eyes blazing with hate.
"I'm suprised to see you here. Unlike you to not be in the midst of things." He spoke softly, but his voice carried to her, even over the sounds of the battle that was so close.
"Well," the duelist spat: "I'm not at all suprised to szee thee 'ere, slinking around like tze coward you are!" Her accent slurred her words more than normal in her anger.
The assassin snorted at the insult. "I wouldn't be here if you demacians hadn't betrayed the Institute's conditions."
"Thzahts a lie! Thou have tried to frame us for your crimes! Thou have broken tze pact!"
With that she lunged at the assassin. He brought his blade up, striking the point away from his heart. In the next flurry of blows, it became clear that she was fast as lightning with the rapier, but the assassin's blade was made for close combat, to step into the enemy's weapon range, making their attacks wholly ineffective. He cut his opponent a few times, while she was unable to land a single blow on him.
In a desperate attempt to hit him, she abandoned her attempts at hitting him with the point and struck him with her hilt when he stepped too close for her blade again. At the last moment the man struck the arm to the side, but the hilt still grazed the side of his head, leaving a large bruise, and sending him staggering back. He kept a hold on her arm, pulling her after him, and sending her staggering further. She dug her foot into the soft ground, and reversed her movement, rapierpoint extended toward the assassin's heart. Time seemed to slow down for the duelist, and the assassin looked at her through narrowed eyes. Suddenly his eyes softened, and a glint of something simular to regret could be seen. The point was just an inch from his chest.
In that moment, the man dissappeared, and the duelist felt something heavy land on her back. She was knocked to the ground by the assassin landing on her, and he quickly drove his blade into her neck, just below the skull.
He stood, wiping the blood of on the duelists clothes.
"Je suis désolé d'en arriver là, Fiora, ma chère." With that, the assassin stood up and rushed on.
"Third company runner first class reporting, Mylady!"
The four people in the command tent of the demacian army turned, then quickly moved to the map table, covered in stones representing diferent units of the army. Two of the men were definately warriors.
One was wielding a long spear with a curious tip. It had three tips, one slightly shorter, with the other two meeting over it to form a tip. just under the spearpoint a demacian banner hung, though in smaller form. He wore heavy leather with armored shoulder pieces, all in the demacian colors of blue and gold. His brown eyes wer constantly vigilant, scanning everything in the tent and what could be seen outside.
The second man wore Demacian Royal Battlearmor, heavy stealplates, engraved with runic wards against magic, also in the gold and blue colors of Demacia. He wore a helmet with a visor open, showing an aged man of about sixty, with a beard and piercing blue eyes. A longsword hung on his hip, the demacian crown engraved on it's hilt. In his left hand he held a diamond shaped shield with the Lightshield coat of arms engraved on it.
The third person was a young woman, blond hair with a pretty face and eyes that changed their color in the torchlight. She wore a breastplate of unadorned steel, a white skirt and steel boots. In her hand she held a magical baton whose ends glowed.
The last figure was the strangest: He was a tall winged gargoyle. His skin was a deep shade of blue, with yellow runes covering his entire body. He had a burly frame, and large arms and hands. He was an imposing figure, but for the friendly twinkle in his eyes, even now, with the cries of the dying echoing across the plains.
"Make your report, soldier!" The young woman ordered.
"Mylady, the line is holding, and the enemy lines have not been breached."
The two warriors and the woman exchanged quick glances. "Continue."
"Our casualties are until now: one of the forward artillery batteries was whiped out, 13 platoons full of footmen are dead or incapacitated, three platoons of archers are dead, one lost its commander, our schocktroops have sustained minimal casualties, only six men dead, the cavalry is still in reserve." The runner took a deap breath. "Garen Crownguard has fallen, slain by Darius, whom he took down with him. Shauna Vayne is also dead, slain by the hemomancer, Vladimir. Fiora Laurent is missing in action. And the team of Quinn and Valor have not yet returned. Prince Jarvan has slain the two undead Urgot and Sion, but Shyvana suffered a great leg wound, she will probably loose it."
"Dismissed, soldier." The young woman's voice faltered for a moment. She turned to the two warriors, speaking to the swordsman.
"My lord, what are your orders? The line will be able to hold for as long as it must, but we have to act if we don't want the noxians to destroy our entire army."
The swordsman, King Jarvan Lightshield the Third, looked at the map.
"We cut the head off of the snake..." he muttered. He looked up. "I will take the cavalry straight through the center. We hit Swain in his command tent, and we hit him hard." He brought his fist down on the table, scattering the small stones.
"My liege," the second warrior spoke. "That is dangerous, we do not know what the Tactician is planning."
"Please, my lord, we can't loose you too." Tears were in the young woman's eyes.
"The time to grief for your brother's death will come, Luxanna, but it is not know. Know we avenge him, and all others who had to fall to those cowards. Tell them to be ready to sound the charge on my command!"
Luxanna bowed, and went to leave. "Luxanna," the king called her back. "Let the light fade, but have it burst forth once more, all the brighter to destroy this shadow of fear and hatred! Galio!" He turned to the gargoyle, who had been standing next to him silently. "Make sure the wounded are safe in the final stages!"
"Yes, my liege." The stone creature replied in a grovely voice.
"Xin, with me."
The king sat on his horse, a jet black mare, armored simularly to him. On his right Xin Zhao was mounted on a rowan, also armored, carrying the king's banner. Behind him the entire heavy cavalry was arrayed in ranks fifty wide and ten deep. Their sergeant rode to the king's left.
Jarvan III spoke to Xin and the sergeant:"Have them form in a wedge, follow me closely through the ranks, then give me room to strike at Swain!"
As the riders reformed under the sergeant's orders, Jarvan faced the men. The crimson light reflected off of the polished shield, creating the illusion that it itself glowed with battlelust. Tall and proud the king seemed again, a young warrior; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:
"Riders! We will bring justice here, today! Even though we must go through fire and slaughter! For a red night, and a redder dawn!"
With that he seized a great horn from his banner-bearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Demacia in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.
And the king charged, his host following him in a charge straight for the battle, his shield uncovered, shining like an image of the sun in a blazing light, casting off the bloodmoon's light, bathing all around him in pure daylight. His army opened, swinging outwards like a gate, letting the cavalry pass. And the king could hear his men shouting, the entire army taking up the chant:
Lightshield! Lightshield! Lightshield!
With a mighty crash, the host of riders hit the noxian line.
On a hill overlooking the battlefield, two dark figures stood, looking at the gruesome slaughter below them. The larger of the two, a large humanoid figure, wearing a helmet and carrying a jagged blade that seemed to breath in the scent of blood, spoke: "You kave done your part well. This battle will never be forgotten on this world, not in al the ages to come. And the war that will follow... It wil be glorious!"
The second figure, not much more that a whisp of smoke as legs, but with an armored uper body and two blades on his arms, growled in un unearthly voice: "To ignite fear in human hearts is my purpose, it was easy, and will cause far more fear in the time to come."
From the hill the figures could see the great axe come down, the mighty walls of the arena rising and falling, and the dome of blood crashing down.
"The war will be forever now." The tall figure spoke. "The Institute will never be able to reinstate peace now!"
"My work is done here, I will leave now. I have matters to attend to." The dark wisp drifted down the hill and disappeared in the shadow of a tree.
The dark figure could hear a voice rising above the din of slaughter and the cries of the dying, a voice that carried hatred and battlelust, hope and joy. And after the call, he heard the sound of a great horn, answered by five hundred others. And from behind the demacian lines he saw a bright light burst forth, surging toward the noxian line. The cavalry rushed straight through them without slowing down, seemingly unstoppable. From the back of the noxian lines, a cloud of darkness arose, ravens circling , diving in and out of the cloud, challenging the light that the demacians had sprung forth.
The figure laughed, howling like a demon into the night. "This is my masterpiece!"