"Stay strong, it won't be long now."
A slow nod is my response, I feel... lightheaded.
...I feel weak.
Through the metal cages we are kept in, I only have a limited view of the prison, yet I drink in every square inch of this forsaken hellhole.
How long as it been? Weeks? Months...?
...Years?
It's all meaningless, time is irrelevant in here, I feel like this cage is all I've ever known.
A grunt, Geralt is at it again. The metal rebar doesn't budge as he kicks away at the the cell walls. Only a dull thunk in response.
My fur has all but blackened from the dark magic, and teal lines could be seen where the flesh had been branded, the Yordle fur scorched off in those Noxian
"searings": Runic experiments that had been practiced upon the inmates.
Not all of them survived this ordeal, but I stayed strong, fueled by nothing but a desire to live, to see another day, grim it may be.
More screaming is heard down the hall.
I wish I could have said goodbye to my loved one's before I left on my journey...
Who knew it would be my last.
Even now, the thrashing and sreaming can be heard from down the prison halls, a constant reminder that we are all one step away from the same fate.
To live in fear, this is what it truly means, existence reduced to nothing but this cage.
To see the next meal, to live life by the second, by the moment.
Then silence, the screaming is over, replaced by my own steady breathing in the darkness.
My stomach aches, a dull pounding that never ceases to go away.
They hadn't given us a proper meal in weeks, reduced to nothing more then scrambling beggars when the guards tossed us leftovers every once in a blue moon.
Like animals.
No...something far less.
The hunger, the pain, the mind searing, the runic imprints that have tattooed themselves across my now barren and scarred chest...
To my left, Geralt warily backs away from the rebar, his daily exercise sated for the time being. None of us talk, I simply sit on the stone floor, awaiting our fate.
Geralt takes a spot besides me upon a wooden stool, more or less a makeshift piece of wood that he had propped up against the wall in order to avoid sitting on the filth that
covered our cell.
It's moist enough to condensate unto the ceiling and drip it's contents down on us like a sewer line.
Maybe it actually is, who knows.
I want to retch, but I know that no one would clean it, no one's cleaned this cell since I've been locked up here. I feel sick, the stench is revolting.
I want to cry, but I know my body doesn't have enough water to do so.
Bastards like to keep us half starved.
Geralt's hunched over outline in the darkness belies the strength of spirit in his heart, fingers set to work upon a small piece of ivory.
A souvenir from Bandle City.
He looks up from his ministrations, a weak smile plays across his lips.
His bloodshot eyes do little to reassure me.
Grim is more like it.
This is our last night together, alive.
Something we're are both dully aware of.
They told me the punishment for black magic is execution. I pleaded, begged to them to see reason, yet my words fell upon deaf ears.
They condemned me, and I was taken away.
I'm going to die here.
Tonight, tommorow, it doesn't matter anymore.
The tally marks on the wall, scratched into with a piece of rock are my only reassurance that time has actually passed.
1000 tallies, the faint, yet visible lines are all I have left in retaining my sanity.
It's been 3 years.
But then again...
Time is meaningless at this point.
1000 tallies ago I set off as an adventurer.
Yes. That's what I wanted.
A dull feeling in my stomach, it wasn't hunger.
That longing...I wanted to go out there.
I had spent so much time cooped up in Bandle city...
I obsessed over what lied beyond.
It was all I thought about. To go out there.
I never made it that far, of course
I was played. A naive adventurer like me.
Just another victim in this cruel world.
Yordles all heard the stories. In Bandle city, we were warned about this place, a cesspool of corruption, evil, and deceit. A place where darkness ruled, and
morality was just a word.
But when I heard there was a trade route leading to Noxus, I couldn't resist, and booked the next caravan as a trader.
Curse my curiosity. That insatiable thirst for adventure, the double edged sword that all Yordles are born with.
I remember a couple of bandits, the hiss of steel as they drew their swords.
Our client was nowhere to be seen.
It was a setup.
We were doomed to take the fall from the beginning.
It wasn't until they found the tomes in my satchel that I was sentenced to death for black magic.
Despite having no knowledge of this craft, Noxian customs saw me as a threat.
I was taken away, left to rot here.
Fingers drift to the scar on my chest, the serial code denoting my status as a prisoner.
6015. My fingers can feel the numbers carved into my chest like braille
I remember the brand as it scarred my chest, the panic in my eyes as I was chained to the table, sprawled out, facing the ceiling.
The red hot metal as it embedded itself into my fur.
I remember screaming, than blacking out, than screaming again.
And through it all, they never spoke.
Just a cold silence amidst the smell of burning fur and flesh.
Mine, among all else.
Someone lays a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I look up, broken from my temporary state of thought.
Save for the heavy scar that cuts along his left eye towards the right side of his neck, Geralt remains relatively unscathed, his golden mane turned a dirty gray from the
time we have spent under Noxian captivity.
Geralt's been here much longer then I have.
He never went into detail about what happened. It must have been bad.
The scars across his face give me the impression that he's seen and done things I wouldn't like to talk about, either.
It wasn't much, but he's all I have left, and whatever he's done, i'm willing to let slide in exchange for a friend.
Among anything else, loneliness is what I fear most.
We counted the days together, perhaps to oblivion, vowing that we would one day we would be free.
But that was years ago.
And we're very different people now.
Somewhere along the line of attempting to stay sane in these walls I had become jaded.
Gone were my aspirations, my lifelong dream of exploring this world, whatever lied beyond, I didn't care.
I was sick of it, I just wanted to survive.
Such a far off dream now, almost absurd.
Almost surreal...
"Veigar."
His voice snaps me out of my trance, I realize I had been staring.
I can see the concern etched unto his face, and quickly stand, despite my small stature not making much of a difference."
The effort blurs my vision.
"I'm fine." Yet anymore talk and I will have to lie down in the filth. My voice comes out as a raspy squeak.
His expression remains unchanging, clearly unconvinced.
"Rest, I'll keep watch now, you can sleep on the dry spot." His voice too is strained, but the searing had not damaged his vocal cords unlike my own.
A small price to pay for my life.
Abashed but too tired to avert my eyes, I simply nod and shuffle over.
Used to the rancid smell, I close my eyes and lie down upon the cold metal.
Maybe I won't wake up this time...
Geralt POV
I Know vigor alone won't be enough to escape this place.
Not all of us will make it, we're starved, tortured halfway out of our minds, some of these inmates haven't seen a glimpse of sunlight in decades.
But it's better then rotting here, forgotten, alone.
Anything is better then that.
As I take one last look at his sleeping form, almost serene, I feel a deep sense of regret welling up inside.
This isn't the first time I've left someone behind like this.
But he's a tough kid, I know he'll survive.
My breath fogs up the cold cell.
Part of me wants to take him along...
But he'll only slow me down.
And we're out of time.
It's time to move, now or never.
Veigar POV
"Get up"
I stir, but drowsiness keeps my eyes shut.
How long have I slept for?
"I said, GET UP!'
Abruptly, I'm grabbed by the scruff of my neck and violently thrown into the cell walls.
The impact jars my senses. My eyes fly wide open in shock, wildly scanning the cell.
Then I see them, my heart begins to beat faster.
The red and black sheen of Noxian plate armor.
What's going on? Why are there soldiers in my cell?
In the darkness, one of them calls out.
"He isn't here."
A gruff voice curses in response.
"Impossible, he can't have gone far, search the area, I want him dead or alive..."
The cold sensation of metal as i'm grabbed by two steel gauntlets and forcefully dragged to my feet, the frontal fabric of my ragged garments tearing in his grip.
I can smell the alcohol on his breath, my face mere inches from the Noxian soldier, his teeth grit in the dim lighting.
"Where is he, and don't play any games with us, we know you're in on this."
At first I have no idea what he's talking about, only the growing fear that these soldiers are about to do something really horrible to me.
That's when it hits me.
Geralt is nowhere to be seen.
It takes all the willpower I have to not panic.
I'm brought back to my predicament as a metal gauntlet strikes me across the face. The pain is blinding, I spit out a globule of crimson as I recoil in his grip.
'Answer me! Don't try to play innocent with us, we know you're in on this!" I can hear the anger in his voice, the other soldiers nervously pace around in the cell.
"Sir, we don't have much time, the other prisoners are quickly-"
"Shut it, Feyd! We have the situation under control, another word from you and i'm gutting you along with the rest of this lot."
"Y-yes sir."
It's clear that they're on edge, but from what?
He hits me again, this time in the gut. I double over, released from his iron vice, my small frame kneeling over the filth in my cell.
Through the corner of my eye, another soldier runs in, clearly out of breath.
"We have word from District C, it's a full on riot! the prisoners are revolting!"
My breath gets caught.
A riot?
What the hell is going on...?!
A pause, the news seems to only further their agitation.
Then after a couple seconds, he motions his men to step forward.
"We don't have time for anymore questions, get him out of the cell."
I hear the clank of metal as they briskly move in and grab me, legs barely finding the strength to stand.
My arms are wrenched behind my back and tied together with a thick binding of rope, the fabric cutting into my wrists as they did so.
I'm shoved out of the cell. I want to take a breath, but they hurriedly move me down the hallway. Looking around, the inmates eye me.
Row upon row of them.
They all look like they're expecting something...
But what?
A sharp pain as i'm struck on the back of my head.
"Eyes forward!"
I warily continue on, the guards escorting me from all sides.
Then the guards stop, i'm held in place by my surrounding escort.
This isn't right.
Why are we stopping?
I look around, we're still in the middle of the hallway, the inmates are watching me, yet no one says anything.
The entire block is dead silent, save for the dripping of sewage and my own heavy breathing.
It's faint at first, but I hear the ever growing sound of footsteps not too far ahead.
The Noxian sergeant mutters something akin to a curse under his breath.
"Damn...we're too late."
My escort seems to be bracing itself for something, none of them move, save for the slight anticipation of a battle that is yet to come.
Then the giant double doors at the end of the hallway begin to open.
With a loud groan, the rusted gears turn as the doors are slowly parted.
"Swords!" The hiss of steel as my escort draws their blades, the sheen of Noxian metal gleams in the dim lighting.
Slowly, the entrance opens itself. Inch by inch, the double doors part, until finally I can make out multiple silhouettes framed between the doorway.
Slowly, they come into view, the guards around me have taken a battle formation, akin to a phalanx but with less people.
My heart stops, and I see him.
He's come back for me.
Accompanied by 6 or so inmates. They're all armed, swords and clubs at the ready.
No one makes the first move, Geralt stands in our path, barring our exit out of the block, his small stature belied by the 5 extremely burly men on both his flanks.
Blood stains his prison garment, and multiple cuts can be seen along his exposed arms and chest.
Dried blood can be seen on the hand and a half Noxian blade carried in his right arm.
He's been fighting.
He's been killing.
The Sergeant behind me barks a set of orders before moving up, blade at the ready.
"They're just prisoners! Don't give them a damn inch!"
All inmates are awake, and all eyes are on the conflict that is now quickly building in tension out on the prison hallway.
I realize that there's only 6 guards in this room.
It's an even fight, and if Geralt wins...
We might have a clear shot of getting out of here.
Geralt POV
This is bad.
It's too soon for another scuffle, we already lost 3 taking out prison guards.
There's 6 of em. I'd reckon they've had better training, and are better armed.
This is gonna be much tougher then before.
These are actual Noxian soldiers.
No matter which way I cut it, we aren't coming out of this without casualties.
But this district has to be taken.
And I ain't leaving without that kid.
"Alright boys, you know the drill, let's snuff these bastards."
I begin my forward advance, men trailing closely behind, weapons bared, eyes set forward.
None of us are formally trained, but all of us have the street smarts that require you to survive in a place like this.
As I close distance, the first soldier takes a step forward, blade drawn in a vertical slice. It doesn't come too fast, but the blade itself is probably thick enough to split
my skull wide open. My sword isn't as broad, but it's enough to intercept the blade and violently catch it with the cross guard, locking our swords as my men run in to engage
the rest of the group.
"I'm going to skin you alive, Yordle." I grit my teeth, breath fogging the crossed steel.
With a quick shunt, we both back off, circling one another in a slow counterclockwise fashion.
The dance of death has begun.
I get a quick glance at the red helmet. He's a sergeant, guy probably has some training. Doesn't look like I'll beat him in a straight up fight either.
Up close, he's a good foot taller than i am. Since i'm a Yordle, I don't have much in the way of reach, I have to somehow get past his defenses with an already short
sword.
We make a couple exchanges, I see his sword arc left, and I twist my torso to dodge it.
A little to late, as the damn thing catches on my abdomen as I try to maneuver past the swing.
I grit my teeth as the cold steel makes the slight pass, it hurts, but the blow was only slight.
I can't afford to make another mistake like that, however.
We close again, this time I opt for a more frontal approach. Bringing the blade perpendicular to his, i feint left as he tries to skewer me in my charge.
But i'm shorter than what he's probably used to, and he overshoots by a couple inches, the blade passing over my head as i close under his guard.
Skidding to a halt under his outstretched arms still in midswing, I bring both arms in a horizontal slash, the sweat on my palms almost causing me to lose grip of the hilt
as I bring the blade across his chest in a rightward swing.
What should have been a fatal wound is deflected by that Noxian plate, sparks flying from where I scratched him.
We both back off from that brief exchange. I see sweat beading on his exposed forehead, he lowers himself to adjust for my reduced size.
Damn. That was my chance, he isn't going to let me slip through again.
I lick my chapped lips as I realize this is going to have to be fought fair and square.
We circle for a bit before closing in once more.
I deflect the first swing as I close. It's not like I have a choice, he has the advantage of reach. I need to be at a range where my blade is effective.
He parries a quick stab, then another, I angle the blade towards his legs in order to throw him off, but he's quick on that as well and sweeps the forward leg back before
bringing his sword to my neck in a roundabout sweep.
I deflect the swing haphazardly, the edge grazing my collarbone in a painful, messy drag.
I'm getting tired, we're underfed in this damn prison, soon he's going to beat me simply because he had dinner.
No, I can't lose.
Not here.
There's one thing I can try.
I make a forward charge, blade squared for his chest. He grins, and prepares himself for my charge.
As I close, I see him readying his own sword, abusing the reach he has in order to skewer me first.
But that isn't going to happen.
Inches before contact, I drop to my knees, sliding underneath him in a low slide.
His eyes widen as he realizes my plan.
But it's too late.
My blade is angled straight into his lower abdomen, the link in which the plate cuts off for the leather waste band.
The only real exposed part that I can reach.
Momentum drives it home, and i feel the blade sink into his flesh like a 9 year old sinks into a parfait.
His eyes widen in surprise, I twist the blade for good measure.
"You...bastard..." Are his final words before collapsing onto the cold, steel flooring.
I realize that a couple more inches, and he would have hacked my left shoulder clean off, the red tracer on my side is enough to remind me how close that was.
It actually shouldn't have worked, if I had missed the narrow tasset, I would have bounced clean off the plate and he would have hacked me to death.
I was lucky.
Breathing heavily, I quickly wrench the blade out of his corpse, it's time to get to work finishing the rest of these guys off.
Veigar POV
The last soldier turns on me, blade drawn.
My mind is telling me to move, but my body is frozen, i'm too panicked to do anything.
"I can't..." I hear myself mutter, "I can't..."
I see the flash of steel, and screw my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable.
But it never came, I slowly open my eyes, and feel something wet on my face.
It's blood, but it isn't mine.
Looking up, a sharp, metal piece of rebar has been forced through his exposed neck, his eyes wide in shock, I can barely believe it myself as he abruptly falls on top of me,
the weight is crushing.
Moments later, the weight is alleviated as someone pulls him off, it only takes me a second to recognize who my savior is.
"Geralt, you came back for me..." I'm shaky and out of breath, he pulls me up before kneeling back down to rummage through the fallen soldier's gear.
I see it, the dagger he had drawn to end my life a couple seconds prior.
"I hope you know how to use it, because you're going to have to."
It takes me a second to register that he's giving it to me. I reach out and wrap my fingers around the leather pommel. It feels heavy, and clumsy in my hands. I've never
swung a blade in my life.
I never imagined myself doing something even remotely close to this.
Geralt grabs the side sword from the soldier's scabbard, the blade is revealed in a flash of light, the odd glow of the prison walls bathing the blade a deep blue.
I can hear him curse under his breath.
Damn, we lost a couple." I realize that four of the inmates were slain in the ensuing battle for my freedom, Geralt passes a bloody hand over "Renaults" eyes, closing them.
"Remember, aim for the tendons, you and I are shorter than Humans, that's the only chance we have."
He's serious. Amidst the chaos, I realize that we're going to have to fight our way out.
Even as we speak, more Noxian soldiers come our way, intent on bringing us down.
"I hope you know how to use it" The words echo in my mind.
I've never stood up for anything in my life.
And now, the only thing I have to stand up for is my life.
As the men come into view, I can make out the red and black plate colors of Noxus embroidered onto the plate.
To my left, Geralt mutters under his breath, sword at the ready.
I count 11.
Can I do this?
Can I kill a man?
"This is it, do you want to live? Or do you want to die?"
There's no choice, my survival depends on the death of these soldiers.
They stand in our way as but one obstacle in the many that we must overcome.
It's them our us.
My hand tightens on the piece of metal between my hands.
I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.
Rage.
The rush of adrenaline as they close distance, my dagger drawn with both hands at the hilt.
Yes, this is it. And this is where I begin my story.