Warwick Lore
It truly was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, etched by clouds so high in the Jetstream it reminded Christopher of chalk traces streaking away in the rain. The sun had just set behind the high horizon of the Ironspike hills, rendering the valley Christopher sat in to the conspiracy of the shadows. But he didn't mind. In fact, he favored hunting in these twilight hours. The setting sky was still emanating enough light to be confused with the light of day. But this kind of light accentuated the features of the landscape: unique lumps and protruding bumps of varying minerals on the boulder field he hid in, the crisp and altering colors of the lichens that decorated the rock, just the rich saturation of color was enough to set the mind on a tangent. Christopher liked this place. In fact, he'd pictured himself living here eventually, deer plentiful enough to feed a family and a creek where you could poach the occasional trout. Christopher loved fish. Maybe even at the right time of year he'd travel further down the valley, where the creek broadened to a river. Salmon were bound to migrate up to spawn, and he could catch his fair share of salmon for the year. He saw it now, a house, no, a hut, resembling more of a yurt right down the-.
Scrak scrak
The daydream was crudely crushed as instantaneously Christopher snapped into his instinctive predatorial behavior. His nose siphoned the air, but the nonexistent wind left nothing but the smell of his lunch on his breath. He peeked out of the slit two boulders created on the valley hillside to peer at the cave he'd been camping out. He was hunting.
A week prior three Demacian fugitives had escaped from a Zaunite prison, jailed on terms of secrecy and treason. A statewide declaration of emergency had been instated until the return of these three captives had been secured. Their status: Unarmed. Very Dangerous. Manipulative. Holds privileged Information. Christopher remembered seeing the "Wanted" posters before hearing of it in the news. Their biographical sketches littered the streets. A dozen different Zaunite government sectors and corporations had priced a pretty penny for their return. Christopher isn't one to engage on these wild goose chases though. Petty work he thought, something for the likes of Sivir who lends a blade for a mere copper piece. No, Christopher wasn't involved until he received a personal visit from the president of Zaun in person. The President's frantic state of emergency was clear, and he was the man for the job.
Christopher didn't mind. Nor was it the first time he received such personal visits. It was his pleasure to serve the state, and he commonly indulged in these manhunts. He was a specialist, the best at hunting, and he hunted the most dangerous game of all. So damn good was he that people traveled far and wide for his services. His superhuman senses were almost mythic, and his reputation unparalleled. If someone needed to be procured, Christopher was the man for the job.
He had suspected they've taken refuge over these last few days in this cave to avoid the weather. The Ironspike Mountains were notorious for denying fugitives escape from the withholds of Zaun. The unstable weather synergized with the shear granite faces, snow capped peaks, and growing ravines that could offer disaster if individuals aren't smart or careful about the paths they walk. It takes a safe and conscious traveler a week to traverse the few miles the mountains span. But if delusional and disturbed like many a convict are; the mountains lead to a dead end with the promise of death.
Christopher had a sixth sense for fear, and he felt a source of it emanating from the cave before him. There was a disturbance in the air, like an injured bird shot out of the sky and left writhing on the ground alone, scared, and out of its element. A disturbance like this that attracted every predator from miles around, and Christopher was starving for blood.
But he knew better. They knew better. To have him walk into the cave by himself is a likely 3v1 scenario, with him out of his element. Christopher was sure he could handle anyone of them with his left hand on a bad day, but he wasn't the one to take chances either.
He layed his tools before him without ever drifting an eye from the rock. His tools: knives, blades, and tranquilizing dopes for his means of work. He tucked his blessed shuriken into a leather strap on his forearm, easily accessible in case of a quick throw. It was given to him in reward by an Ionian monk when he returned an adept back to the island from a Noxian prison. He was told the shuriken never misses the heart as long as the eyes lead the path to it. And he's never missed since. A blade is strapped to his left thigh. He picked it off of a rampant spectre from an assignment in the shadow isles. It was his weapon of choice, told to him by Ezreal that it contains the strength of every soul slain by it. And every assignment he tends to favor it more and more. On his right thigh though contains his most vital tools. Chemicals, pills and darts brewed by the famed Zaunite chemist Singed himself. Some for setting his prey to sleep, some for temporary paralysis, some chemicals guarantee a painless death in a matter of seconds. It doesn't matter to Christopher though; in his mind they all did the same job of rendering his prey immobile.
So he sat, and waited. And waited. The sun has left Zaun in favor of another part of Valoran, but Zaun never slept. As the black of night shrouded over the valley, a white world emerged as Christopher felt the cold wet beginning of snowfall accumulate on himself. All the better for him. Snow made for easy tracking, and the cold must have them skitterish and desperate for escape now. So he waited some more.
Christopher watching petrified over the cave reminded him of a tactic he read about of hunters in Freljord. A polar bear while hunting for seals will sit at a breathing hole unwavering for hours. Maybe even an entire day, for the chance to swipe at a seal. Sometimes a seal never shows up at that hole, but when it does, opportunity only shines for a second. Well Chrisopher was just beginning to feel that feeling of doubt. "Were my senses wrong this time? Maybe they escaped while I was daydreaming?" He tensed at the morbid thought of failure, the blow his reputation would receive if he returned to Zaun empty handed. But before the thoughts of doubt could make the best of his mind, his ears revitalized his hope as his eyes seeked to assure his mind.
Fcchht fcchht – The sound of scraping rubber boots on the eroded granite outcrop that composed of the cave was heard. Why Christopher still sat peering through the rocks he did not know. The Valley was a dark world right now, but his sense of smell and hearing were just as acute, if not better, than his sight. Additionally he has always had an uncanny sense for his surroundings, which contribute to his noiseless stalking and efficient chasing ability.
Christopher circumnavigated around the cave, giving him the opportunity of the highland as he paralleled his victims path. The fugitives were obviously untrained in the art of stalking and traveling; they were making such a racket that even the ground squirrels skimpered away from the source of disruption. He heard them stumble and curse their misfortune, curse the damned weather, and cursed the seemingly impenetrable mountains that separated them from their destination. Each mistake they made, stubbed toe or slip on the icy rock vitalized Christophers anticipation and desperation for blood, preparing him for the feast to come. Cristopher stalked to a point he was so close that he couldve seen the pupils of theirs eyes if it were light, see the perspiration of work and fear dribble down their faces, a leaps away which is more than he needs with the extension of his knife.
Christopher's breath resonated deep and slow in spite of his racing heart rate. Too easy he thought. Two blind victims, delusional and beside themselves in the cold. There was a new feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. In fact, last time he felt it was on one of his very first assignments. An interesting man long ago appeared at his door. He heard of Cristophers talents way down in the Shurima desert, and had a project he said would, "Define the future of Valoran." As young and aspiring as he was, ready to make a name for himself he couldn't say no. And when he was told the assignment, he almost laughed and closed the door in the man's face.
He wanted him to kill a child. No travel, no stalking, no fighting. In Zaun itself the man said, "is a child destined to crush life in Valoran." So Cristopher followed orders, for he paid in advance a fee generous to even the most difficult of projects. Cristopher broke into the suburban house he was told to, upstairs, second room on the left where he found himself peering over a cradle. A baby slept in it: ignorant of the cruelties of the world, ignorant of the cruelties of man, how could this baby become something so cruel? It was then that Cristopher felt the twinge he feels now. His breath felt icy cold, kind of as it feels now in the snowy night. But the ice didn't come from the snow, it came from his heart.
He tucked the motionless baby back into its sheets. The neurotoxins should kick-in in a matter of seconds.
Returning home, the man who gave him the project was waiting for him at the door, his eyes were tracing a clock in his hands that had six arms, all spinning at different speeds.
"Your late, but ooo- I knew you'd follow through. Valoran thanks you."
Christopher said nothing, took his profits, and shared his night with the bottle.
But now here he is with a similar feeling for such pathetic creatures now, comparable to a defenseless baby. But he's killed like this once, and he will do it twice. Do it thrice if need be. It's his job.
He vaulted from the rock he was crouched on. His twisted blade melted through the first victims throat in a single swift and soundless movement that left his opponent leaking red in his lap. Before the second man realizes the events occurring in the dark, Cristopher drives his hand hilt deep through the back of the second man, enjoying the warm feeling of blood ooze through his fingers. His heart races, he prances around his slain foe's like a deranged drunkard. He used to not enjoy killing but over the years it became an integral part of his life. It's his drug that keeps him motivated, always wanting another dose of blood.
After the euphoria of battle dies down a little, Cristopher sits to think of his project. Only two bodies laid before him, yet he was told of three fugitives escaping Zaun. Only two tracks lead up to this place? He gets down on his hands and knees and smells each body, then stands on a nearby rock filtering the air with his nose to see if there is a change.
They are alone.
Cristopher breaks into a jog retracing the route of the escaping fugitives to the cave. He was sure there were three of them before, and had the one deviated from the other two then his trail could still be hot with his scent. But the tracks of the two remained together all the way from the origination of the cave. But standing outside the cave now he could feel the sense of fear even stronger than when he staked it out before. It was almost overwhelming, and it made Cristopher smile.
He began his way into the cave. Indifferent in atmosphere really, it's just as dark in as it is outside, so he felt no discomfort. There was one man left. Cristopher heard the chatter of his teeth before he even saw where he sat. A bright light suddenly flashed and partially illuminated the room, but lit up the man face. He held a match close to him, as if the light would protect him from evils of the dark. Cristopher walked over to him. The man held his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs so his fingers intertwined with his toes. Cristopher knelt down in front of him so the man could see his face, it wasn't every job that he got this personal with his victims. He wanted to feel how they felt, what was it like knowing your imminent death?
"Hello" Christopher said trying to be as cheery as he could. He even sported a rare smile that revealed his polished and pronunciated teeth.
" H-He-He-Hellolololooooo….." The man many said through a shivering constipation.
"My name's Christopher! Do you know why I am here?"
The man nodded.
"Whats your name then?"
"W-W-Wa-Warwick…." The man said in two simple syllables.
"Warwick.." Christopher played with the name in his mouth. He liked that name. It meant a lot of things, an impressionable name people won't forget. "I like you Warwick. I even brought a surprise that may make you feel a little better!" He reached into his right pocket and cradled a handful of pills before him. All of different colors, different substances, different reactions and different purposes. But one of them was a peppermint.
"Unfortunately, I need to save some of these for your friends who are waiting outside. Very nice people by the way! But I'll let you choose one for now"
The man eyes bulged and he shook his head in refusal but Cristopher was insistent. So he took one, the smallest one, and popped it into his mouth.
"Now now, that wasn't so bad was it?" But just as his sentence finished the man's eyes rolled unfocused as his shoulders slouched in posture. The emanating presence of fear was distinguished from the room.
"Warwick…." Cristopher played with the name some more.