"MAKE IT STOP!" the prisoner screamed in agony. Pain flared in his heart like a sword had pierced it. He felt warm liquid drip downwards. His head was dizzy with pain. It was too much. He wanted it to end, to stop, but he knew that Thresh would not comply.

Thresh looked at the prisoner in amusement. His scythe was plunged into the prisoner's chest, connected to metal chains that Thresh held in his hand. Blood oozed from the wound slowly. The smell of death choked the room. Thresh didn't feel like pulling it out. That way, the blood loss was reduced, hence making the prisoner endure more pain.

The other prisoners were locked in their cells, forced to listen to the cries of the tortured prisoner, shuddering uncontrollably whenever the chains jangled. They could do nothing but sit in their jail cells and listen, too terrified to look at the scene that was unfolding a few metres away. It would surely scar them for life.

The prisoner that was being tortured kept begging Thresh to stop but Thresh just stood there with no intention of ceasing this activity. Thresh licked his lips in anticipation. He could sense the life force of the prisoner waning. He was about to die, and Thresh wanted the prisoner to feel the greatest amount of pain possible before he did.

Just seconds before he passed, Thresh grabbed the chain and pulled forcefully. A last scream echoed through the prison before silence ensued. The other prisoners shut their eyes as tears stained their faces.

The scythe was stained crimson. It also pulled out an organ, sliced in two. It was still pulsing weakly.

"Rest in peace, well, try to," Thresh said, cackling maliciously.

He left the room with the body inside. The man's eyes were still open, his last expression of pain etched on his face forevermore.

Thresh walked down the corridor, loosening his grip on the chains just enough for him to hold it but also let the scythe scrape the floor. He loved the petrified look on the prisoners' faces when they heard the screech of the metal against stone. It was one of his hobbies. The fear satisfied him immensely.

He stopped at the end of the corridor where a wooden chair was placed. He sat down and gazed at his reflection from the mirror on the wall. His face was pockmarked with scars. There was a smear of blood below his mouth. His dishevelled and filthy brown hair complemented his entire look. His body was emaciated, almost like a corpse. He looked like a madman.

Feeling bored, he swung his chain around struck the first cell's iron bars. A "clang!" resonated throughout the corridor. Instantly, he heard a faint whimper.

"There you are…" he thought. "I smell your fear."

He rose from his chair and walked towards the cell, feet walking slowly towards it. The scythe screeched.

Inside the cell, around 10 prisoners were huddled in the corner, getting as far away as they could from the imminent visit from the jailer.

"Who made that sound?" Thresh spoke clearly.

Silence.

"I said," he repeated, "who made that sound?"

No one spoke. Even the air itself stood still, like Mother Nature was holding its breath.

"If no one answers," he said softly, but each syllable was heard, "All of you shall die."

The prisoners were silent for a moment, but one of them raised his hand, much to the rest's astonishment. "I did." He said. The others were completely shocked. This was not the one who whimpered. What on earth was he doing?

"So," Thresh said, raised his scythe. "You were the one who whimpered, like a coward?"

"Yes. So what if I did?" He replied defiantly. Although his words were charged with rebelliousness, his hands shook with fear.

Thresh paused. "This is not the man who whimpered. Oh, to hell with it. I'll find him after I rip this one's skull apart. Hmm, a death sentence for this one." He thought gleefully.

"Do you fear death, prisoner?"

"I fear death, but I do not fear you."

Thresh laughed. "YOU DO NOT FEAR ME? YOU WILL LEARN TO FEAR ME!" He winded up his chain, preparing to throw it at him, who was standing in the middle of the cell. The scythe glowed crimson. It smelled blood.

The scythe shot towards the prisoner at a blinding speed. In that instant, he caught the scythe's handle and pulled with all his strength. The chains flew out of Thresh's hand. Thresh did not have time to register his utmost shock as the new wielder of the chains struck the bars, tearing them open like paper. The prisoners screamed a battle cry as they charged out of the cell and immediately started beating Thresh. The wielder of the chains opened the other cells, which caused more prisoners to join the riot.

Soon, all the cells had been open. The wielder took the chains and tied it around Thresh's neck. He then ripped out the chains and stabbed them into Thresh's head, causing a scream of pain, but the prisoners didn't care. They were anticipating this moment, to see agony inflicted on the warden. Fresh blood poured from the wounds. Lastly, he latched the scythe onto a pipe on the ceiling, thus hanging Thresh. The joy and happiness was incomparable that day.

But the spirit of Thresh was not done.

His soul made its way to the Shadow Isles, the grim and dark lands in the northwest of Valoran, a place for the dead. Spectres and undead creatures haunt the once thriving forests.

There, Thresh found satisfaction and elation. His spirit reformed to a proper body, although he no longer looked human. The chains that were stabbed on his head combined with his body. He still had his chains and scythe, his beloved instruments of terror.

Thresh was waiting to begin his never-ending hunt for souls. Since he no longer was flesh and blood, he would have to settle for the spirits of the living. He needed something to contain it, and preferably something to lure his prey. He looked around and saw a lantern nesting under a rotting oak tree.

"Perfect", he thought, "a little light in the darkness. Who wouldn't be attracted to that?"

He took it and waved his hand. Tendrils of souls circled around it, and then flowed inside the lantern. The lantern glowed green

Thresh inhaled the air of the Shadow Isles. It was intoxicating, choked with scents of death and rot.

"Time to make it smell nicer…." He said, standing on the edge of the Isles, gazing at the nearby city-state of Bilgewater. He saw souls to collect, lives to torture. He laughed, his deep, rich voice thundering through the Isles.

Hi, so this is basically a book on extended lores of champions so tell me what champ you want in the next book!