Will of Iron, Heart of Gold

by Chaos Productions

In a world where ideals are embodied by entire city states, one man is on the verge of losing his battle to be different. When a freak accident mere moments from death grants him the power to stop running, and fight back for what he believes, he sets out; With an iron will and a golden heart, he will find his place in the world - and his role in the future to come.

1. Chapter 1

Pre-Chapter A/N: Well, here we go. I saw the whole "OC goes to the League" trend was getting some swell reception nowadays, so I figured I'd try my hand at it myself. Here goes nothing - hope you guys enjoy it, and in advance, I'm really sorry about the chapter length xD

Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
Chapter 1
Symbiosis

In a weird, twisted way, this went against each and every instance of her morality, really.

It was early – the sun had only just started to peek out over the mountaintops, bathing the somewhat forested area in a miasma of dim lights and fading shadows. It was ideal, really – the hues of her padded apparel blended rather nicely with the varying shades of grey and purple the early morning brought with it. As she darted from the base of one tree to the next, nary a sound coming from her heels, she couldn't help but let her mind wander.

It seemed odd at first, dispatching a Ranger Team to take care of one simple deserter. Usually the Demacian guard took care of such matters – as such, it greatly piqued her curiosity when she was approached with the task. After all, why would the high command expend resources and send them, a pair skilled in deep-cover endeavours, on a simple manhunt? This oddity had bothered her for a while, really, even after being briefed – merely learning of her target's crimes was not enough to sate her curiosity.

High above her, an eagle let out its majestic shriek – it had seen something, and that something was close by, apparently.

Quinn did not allow herself to shake her head – curious or not, her mission had been finalized and her objective had been made clear. A Demacian double agent was dead at this deserter's hand – a brave man, cruelly ripped from friends and family. She did not need to consider the offender's reasoning – the act in and of itself had struck a near-crippling blow.

She had read of the man's history in the small dossier she had attained – a lowborn citizen, orphaned by the loss of his father and two brothers to skirmishes and minor border conflicts against bandits. He had officially deserted the city state of Demacia thirteen years ago, and has been a wanted man ever since. At first, Quinn had been baffled – how had the guard struggled thirteen years to catch one man? Her outrage had been met with a hotly defended yet automated response from the captain – "He's a cunning one," the captain had said with no small amount of ire, "the lad can't even hold a blade right, true, but his mind's sharper than any sword."

When Quinn had confronted him with the fact that "He's smart" was not an excuse to tolerate a thirteen year evasion, the captain finally blew his lid at her, exclaiming how 'one fucking deserter' didn't warrant a larger-scale manhunt as far as the higher-ups were concerned, and that if she thought she could do one better, she could go right ahead – the captain made a valid point when he said bandits, turncoats, outlaws and thieves along the borders posed a bigger problem than one simple deserter.

She sighed to herself as she sprinted through the woods – she had made more progress than any hunting parties dispatched after the man, but still, the captain's words were ringing true. While she encountered very little in terms of traps and deception, her target was cunning enough to elude her just long enough to make her frustration start mounting. The Guard's lax attitude and lenience towards him had allowed him to build up a network of allies and informants across all the major city states – Demacia excluded – and even some of the lesser ones. From Demacia, she had trekked to the mouth of the Howling Marsh, where her prey was last sighted, and proceeded to follow what little part of a trail she could distinguish.

While the few travellers in the areas he'd been sighted were unhelpful – whether through ignorance or, she suspected, loyalty – she could determine that he was en route the Freljord – or at least following along the Serpentine river, going by the patterns of the sightings. For but a moment, she allowed herself to ponder what his goals might have meant – but soon enough she shook those thoughts from her head as well. Within moments, her focus had reset itself –

…and was promptly shattered when a loud gunshot rang out far in the distance.

Barely a second passed between the loud report and Valor's shrill cry, alerting her to a threat further ahead. Immediately her eyes sharpened, and she darted forwards, her arms spread out beside her to help her balance in her mad dash forwards. There wasn't much wildlife in the area – at least not of the type that could be put down with a single shot – so a gunshot this far out meant trouble.

She vaulted over a fallen log with practiced ease, barely breaking stride as her eyes scanned the sky for signs of her partner. Amidst the openings in the treetops she could see Valor circling further ahead, erratically darting back and forth to try and signal where she should be heading. Quinn made the briefest of nods before drawing her crossbow, and increasing her speed even more. Whether this was her target or not, if someone was being attacked by a suspect individual it was her duty to assist – regardless of the cause of the conflict.

Another gunshot ran out, and as if nature itself wished to prove her wrong, a bloodthirsty howl followed it – more than likely a wolf or at the most, some form of rabid dog. Nonetheless, these things moved in packs; whoever was in their sight was a dead man if he fought alone. As if waiting for that exact train of thought, she saw Valor bear his talons and fold his wings to his side, diving down into the treeline with a fierce shriek. Another howl followed, closer this time, a clear sign that Quinn herself was gaining ground at a suitable pace. Another howl echoed through the trees, and another gunshot answered it; by this time Quinn was close enough to hear a pained yelp.

From that point it was all systematic – her eyes narrowed, her breathing slowed and her footfalls lost all sense of noise. Despite being a Ranger for a long time, Quinn new better than to approach a pack of wild animals gung-ho – if there was a third party involved, there was much more at stake.

It was then that the smell assaulted her, and her mind immediately comprehended where the wolves had come from. The unique aroma of burning meat filled her nostrils, and given the wind that travelled in-between it was no wonder a pack of beasts followed it.

From the bushes before her she heard a sound that made even her recoil – whether through caution or fear was unknown. She had come to know the sound well, during her time with Institute of War – countless times she had encountered Nidalee, the Bestial Huntress, on the Summoner's Rift, and countless times she had heard that exact same snarl – it was a warning, a premonition, a boast and a challenge; the sound of a predator about to take down its prey. She tried to dash faster, tilting her torso forwards even more, but in vain – the snarl had turned into a vicious bark, and a woman's voice screamed a gurgled note of pain shortly thereafter, just before a final gunshot spelled silence.

She didn't dare slow down – she burst through the bushes and into the clearing just as a large, black wolf leapt back from a wandering young woman. Part of its foreleg had been shredded by shrapnel – likely from the woman's now-discarded shotgun – but its lips and fangs were covered in blood that most certainly wasn't its own. As the wounded woman stumbled back, clutching a weeping bite on her neck, the injured wolf hopped back, turning its hellish yellow gaze on Quinn. Two more wolves – the last ones remaining, judging by the buckshot-riddled corpses in the clearing – quickly stepped in front of their injured pack mate, bearing their fangs and snarling at the newcomer. One of them had some interesting scars across its snout – almost as though it had been raked by a set of talons.

She didn't blink – her focus was split between the beast in front of her, and the wounded civilian slumped against a far tree. She had little worry for the two wolves before her – she was a Demacian Ranger, after all – but the slightest erroneous movement could spell the difference between a quick skirmish and a drawn-out battle. She had to wait for the right moment – the right opportunity…

Said opportunity promptly dove through the treetops again, uttering his majestic cry as his talons flexed again.

That was her cue. She darted the moment the wolves did – while one leapt and nipped and tried feebly to attack Valor, the other charged right at her, murderous intent gleaming in its eyes. A normal person would have had trouble with the larger-than-average beast; be it a conflict between fear and fight-or-flight, a normal person wouldn't have survived such a lunge.

Fortunately, Quinn wasn't a normal person – by any standard.

A flurry of bolts flew from her crossbow with speed and reflex only one such as herself could lay claim to, and the wolf before her crashed to the ground mid-leap, its forelegs skewered. It skidded towards her; the friction on its injured legs made the beast whine before coming to a stop. It glared at her from its grounded position, and for but a moment it was as though as a primal fear bloomed in its eyes – right before Quinn plugged another bolt in between its eyes.

The other wolf was already charging at her, ignoring Valor's attempts to hinder it. This one had gained a fair bit more momentum than it's now-dead pack mate – it lunged at her with ferocity to shame even the Bestial Huntress, its fangs bared and seeking blood. She didn't allow this to make her waver – quickly and efficiently she let one leg slide sideways out from under her, and she dipped down just as the beast's paws left the ground. The mass of fangs and hair flew over her, it's shadow hiding the quick check she did of her custom crossbow, and the two turned to face each other in unison.

This time it was her turn to lunge.

A myriad of battles on the Summoner's Rift had left her with a mastery of quick lunges towards her foes. Like a hawk, she darted forwards, crossbow aimed, eyes narrowed and focus steeled. The wolf tried to dash towards her; it snarled and bore its fangs again – and yelped as the heel of Quinn's boot caught it flush on the snout. Putting all her weight into her leg, Quinn forced the beast's snout down into the ground, where a sickening snap met her ears, and without a moment's hesitation she flipped backwards, clearing admirable distance between herself and the injured wolf. She aimed and landed at the same time, proof of rigorous training and awe-inspiring skill, and before the second wolf could even recover, it too had a bolt between its eyes.

She had her crossbow trained on the remaining wolf before its pack mate had even hit the ground.

For but a moment she hesitated – for just a moment she thought of leaving the injured one, letting it escape to seek refuge, or at least find a more peaceful end. But the sight of human blood smeared across its snout rendered that option obsolete – any wild beast that had tasted human blood had to be put down. She allowed herself but a blink as her finger applied the merest hint of pressure to the trigger, and much to her surprise, the wolf seemed to exhale – as if making peace.

The crossbow delivered its final silent report, and the last wolf fell.

There was no time to catch her breath, though – quickly rushing to the injured woman's side, she holstered her crossbow and knelt down. The woman seemed like your typical mercenary, really – mix and matched armor, dark leathers and sturdy materials and a traditional shotgun anyone could purchase in a back-alley in Bilgewater. Briefly she wondered if this woman was new to the career – whether she had bitten off more than she could chew – but the bitterness in her eyes told a different story.

She grit her teeth as Quinn applied pressure to the gaping wound in her neck – three fingers was adequate to stem the flow of blood, and to her great fortune, no vital artery had been ruptured. It showed on the woman's face – the cold sweat was there, but she was everything but pale.

"Figures," the mercenary spat bitterly, "dad always said I'd go out in such a stupid way." Despite the negativity, though, Quinn sensed the torrent of fear hidden in the woman's voice. "That… That bitch… She told me this would be an easy bounty… Find the deserter, apprehend him…" She paused, coughing harshly, before spitting a wad of blood out on the ground. "If I knew… If I knew that fucker was so smart I would never have…" She coughed again, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. "Fuck sakes, this isn't worth a hundred silvers…" She sniffed. "This was supposed to be easy…"

Quinn allowed her gaze to soften slightly. It seemed as though she was right after all – this was just a young woman who'd gotten in way over her head. "Shh. Rest easy," she said softly as she fumbled in the small travel pack she brought along for medical supplies. "What's your name?" Keep her talking at least, Quinn thought – anything to keep the woman from blacking out or having a panic attack. "How old are you even?"

"D-Does that even matter now…" The woman rasped, shivering slightly as Quinn applied a thick wad of gauze to the wound. "Thing went for my neck… I'm done for…" She sighed. "Name… Name's Yalia. I'm t-" She interrupted herself again with a cough, this one nowhere near as harsh. "I'm twenty-two…"

"Yalia…" Quinn mused as she continued her work patching up the woman's wound. "Why would you turn to mercenary work at such a young age?"

"M-Mercenary?" Yalia shuddered. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm just… just a bounty hunter. I go after lightweight stuff… With people like the Battle Mistress and the G-Grandmaster at Arms operating as mercs…" She coughed lightly again. "I'm just a girl with a gun. How can I even compete?"

"Well Yalia," Quinn said with a soft smile, "I've got good news for you. The injury is quite raw, and in need of disinfection, but it didn't hit a vital artery. You're going to live." Nothing more needed to be said – Quinn remained silent as she observed the woman's face; the expression of shock that had appeared at first quickly melted into of utmost relief, and pretty soon Quinn found it difficult to keep working due to the fact that Yalia had started laughing uncontrollably. "So what happened here, Yalia?"

"The…" Yalia chuckled again, before calming herself. "The fucking bounty happened, that's what," she sighed listlessly. "God… That woman told me he was a nerdy type, but damn," she chuckled again, pointing to a tree behind Quinn. "I… I wasn't expecting that."

The Ranger turned to look where the young bounty huntress was pointing and – much to her surprise – saw discarded carcasses, belonging to rabbits and ferrets, strung up amidst the trees. Grudgingly, she admitted it had been just outrageous enough to work, according to the dead wolves in the clearing. While they didn't normally feast on carcasses, the scent of blood meant prey – and they found prey this time, even if it wasn't the owner of the scent.

"Got no idea how long the things were stalking us. Think my gunshot set them off, though… Came out of fucking nowhere, the mongrels…" Yalia said shakily. "Oh, gods… The adrenaline's wearing off…"

"Yalia," Quinn addressed the woman, easily capturing her attention – it would help nobody if she passed out now. "You were talking about a bounty. Tell me about him."

"That fuck… Bastard's been avoiding me all the way from Mogron Pass… Lost track of him there. I know for a fact he's heading to the Freljord – so I… I planned ahead. I learned he's a bookish sort – loves studying old languages and stuff. Saw a ruin not too far up ahead, thought he'd shelter there… I tried to set up an ambush but… Fuck sakes," She said with a hint of bitterness. "The person I paid for the info told me he's a useless soldier – can't even hold a dagger properly. Naturally I thought it would be easy money… But he's a slippery little fuck."

"We know that much," Quinn nodded, unclipping a canteen of water from her belt and offering it to the bounty huntress. "He's been on the run for thirteen years."

"Thirteen fuckin y-" To her credit, Yalia caught herself just before going off on a rant. "I was never going to catch him, was I?" She asked with a groan as she shifted herself upright. "Bastard… All that wasted coin…" Her eyes narrowed. "But you're tracking him as well, aren't you?" When she saw Quinn nod, she smiled ruefully. "I think… I think I might have been some help after all," she mumbled as she shuffled to the side, wincing once or twice, before retrieving her discarded shotgun. "Buckshot," she said simply as she held the gun up. "My first shot managed to shred his arm. I doubt all the pellets hit, but enough of them tore in to make a mist of sorts," she said shakily. "You Rangers are the tracking sort, no? I'm sure he left a blood trail for you to follow."

If not for her professional demeanour Quinn would have let her relief show on her face there and then. Finally, after two long weeks on the road, she had a solid trail to follow. "How far up ahead are the ruins?"

"'Bout half a kilo," Yalia said shakily. She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, before using her shotgun to try and rise to her feet. Quinn, quick on the uptake, moved forwards to assist the woman – a gesture that was much appreciated, going by Yalia's relaxed, if shaky exhale. "You can't miss it, it's got this big bloody broken statue on it. Entrance is halfway collapsed and the statue's covered with vines and moss but it still sticks out," she said as soon as she was on her feet. She had one hand against a tree trunk, to keep steady. "I've already checked it – there's nothing inside, it's just a round room." Then she smirked, a hint of smugness behind the fatigue on her face. "Should be real easy for you now."

Quinn allowed herself a smile and a nod. "Thank you, Yalia. The assistance, and the information, is much appreciated. But are you sure you're good to walk?"

"Pft," the bounty huntress shrugged. "Not dead yet. I can keep walking," she said hotly, taking a step forward, then another. Quinn watched with equal parts curiosity and reluctance as Yalia made it about ten meters, before stumbling slightly and grabbing onto a nearby tree for support. "Oh, fuck me… This… might be a long trip." She sighed, and took a deep breath. "Well, only two kilos to the nearest road… I figure I'll make it before nightfall," she said as she turned around to smile at Quinn. Cold sweat still matted her forehead, but at the very least she looked a bit livelier. "By the way; the person who told me where to find his trail? She's in Bilgewater. Real frigid bitch by the looks of it, and two-faced to boot."

"Thank you," Quinn nodded, "for the information and the assistance. Are you entirely sure you'll be able to make the journey to the road?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out now, isn't there?" Yalia responded with a cheeky grin. "Worst comes to worst I'll crawl all the way. No way in hell am I spending a minute longer on this asshole's tail." She coughed again. "So help me, as soon as I get ho-Ohshit!" She yelped loudly as she stumbled again, but managed to retain her balance without using a tree. "Gods above… As soon as I get home I'm getting shitfaced. Then I'm selling all this – no more bounty hunting for me. Fuck that."

Sighing and smiling despite herself, Quinn quickly strode over to the former bounty huntress. "Yalia," she called, unclipping a small piece of brass from her chest and placing it in the other woman's hand. "If you've tracked him that long you'll need some proper rest first," she said. "Take this to Captain Crownguard in Demacia, and tell him you helped me on a mission. He'll see to it that you're tended to."

At first Yalia seemed flabbergasted – a whole variety of confused syllables left her mouth, before she finally regained her composure, smiling sadly. "T-Thank you, ma'am. I'll, er… I'll tell that Crownlord bloke to send some people to… Uhm… I don't know, escort you back or something? Damn, I'm bad at this," she said, shaking her head and turning slowly, maintaining her balance as she started her trek to the main road. "Uhm… Thanks again, ma'am," she said sheepishly.

Quinn merely nodded and smiled, offering a small salute as the former bounty huntress waddled away. She'd send Valor overhead to scour the area after she apprehended her target – for now, sadly, their mission came first.

All traces of casual behaviour disappeared the moment Yalia disappeared into the foliage – with her determination set and focus reforged, she darted forwards again, dashing past trees at such a speed her peripheral view started blurring. Half a kilo, she said – five hundred meters, and she had already covered one – two, now. Above her she heard Valor shriek again – he must have spotted the run. When she reached the halfway mark her keen eyesight started picking up traces that verified Yalia's story – blood caked several leaves leading forwards, and the bark of a tree close by had shattered under the impact of a small bullet. Good, she thought, almost there.

Lo and behold, at a hundred and fifty meters left, she saw. It was actually quite well hidden by normal standards – centuries of shrubbery and foliage had done well hiding the ruin from sight. From afar it seemed like a chapel or a crypt, a small, cylindrical building with a stone door that had, over time, crumbled along the top half. Perfect, she thought, slowing her pace down to a stalk. Wordlessly, she held out her arm, and within moments, Valor was perched there, soundless, but focused – there was a glare to his eyes that belied his calm appearance.

Silently, footstep by silent footstep, she crept closer to the temple. Yalia had been true to her word – even from twenty meters away, Quinn could see the bloodstains trailing across the leaves and up the stone door. How the deserter had managed to scale it with a shredded arm – a very shredded arm, by the looks of all the blood – was beyond her. Nonetheless, the questions could come later, when the target was in a cell in Demacia; not here, barely ten meters from his hiding place.

Closer and closer she crept, and in synchrony with her distance to the building she felt Valor's body tense. There was an unspoken plan, a mutual agreement without words or communication, in their posture. Born from years of working together, they'd achieved a rate of synchronicity, of understanding, that other falconers and beast users could only dream of. As such, it was only natural that their arrest would go off without a hitch.

She stopped in front of the ruined door, crouched low, with Valor on one arm and her crossbow in the other.

And then they engaged.

Valor shot off her arm just as she leapt upwards, crossbow already aimed dead-centre before her. The Demacian Eagle let out a loud shriek, a scare tactic they'd employed countless times before, and in response, Quinn came to rest on the ruined edge of the door, her bow aimed right at –

A breeze?

Quinn's mind processed that something was off long before her eyes actually adjusted to the dark – not that they needed much time to, with the ominous, dim red light emanating from the center of the room. That, coupled with the fact that there was a breeze in a building with no windows or excess vents, told her immediately that this was much more than a simple one-room ruin. Crossbow still aimed in front of her, she used her free hand to pull a lighter from her pocket, striking it once. While the flame was small, the lighting it proved was enough to guide her forward. She dismounted from the stone half-door, dropping to the cold floor just as Valor signalled the all-clear, and crouched down.

Again, she shuddered to herself – her target was losing a lot of blood; she had to hurry – her orders were to apprehend him alive, so he could be dealt with in a 'just' manner befitting of their proud city state. If he died now… She frowned to herself. If her target died she'd be sending that young woman to a guaranteed apprehension.

That would not stand.

Readying her crossbow, she strode forward, keeping her pack of medical supplies within arm's reach. The blood trail was erratic, as though her target had stumbled and fell, thus justifying the large pool of blood. What it didn't explain was the source of the dim red lights.

Runes, she thought with a click of her tongue, or something very close to it. Is this… Is this blood magic?

From the pool of blood, a downright lavish array of runic markings had lighted up, forming an almost ethereal pathway to the end of the small crypt. They were written in a language she couldn't even begin to comprehend, an amalgam of brash tribal markings and abstract shapes and lines that seemed more suited to the Void Walker's robe than a simple ruin's floor. The blood trail continued onward, and as she stepped forward the breeze assaulted her again, filling her nostrils with a riverside scent. Her eyes narrowed.

There was a passage ahead.

Further and further she crept, until she found the offending orifice – at the end of the runic pathway it seemed as though a set of stones had given way, each sinking lower than the former in order to form an elaborate yet crude spiral staircase, descending into what she assumed would be some kind of spring beneath the river, or at the very least a cavern near it.

Those cramped quarters spelled murder on her tactics, though – if she was looking at a series of narrow hallways, Valor's effectiveness would see a rapid decline; not to mention her partner was basically a sitting duck, or, well, a sitting eagle. Sighing to herself, she started formulating a plan – the scent of the riverside meant that wherever this passage lead had to exit along the Serpentine River, and the fact that the breeze was striking her with such gusto meant it was likely close by, and had a very large mouth at the side of… wherever it exited.

Steeling her resolve, she turned to her trusted companion and put her plan into motion.

"Val," she called to eagle. "This tunnel leads somewhere that has an entrance next to the river. I want to fly ahead and find it – something that lets a breeze of this size through has got to be a cavern of sorts. We'll meet up there – and catch this guy."

Valor, to his credit, only shot her as incredulous a look an eagle could, before squawking once in affirmation and spreading his wings, taking flight through the ruined doorway.

Turning back to the staircase, Quinn took a deep breath, before descending down into the abyss.

---

His time in the Freljord had been good.

No, scratch that – it had been very good. Now, being the individual he was, it was quite rare for him to actually emphasize an experience. He liked to think of himself as a very simple person, despite his reputation – he had no little tags or definitions, no hype, no melancholy or nonchalance; that which was good was good, and that was good enough, and that which was bad was bad, and that lead to a curbstomp – normally at his own hands, and not at all because of his actions. Well, at least not always because of his actions – eh, details.

He did say he was a simple person, didn't he?

As such, when something was actually good (or bad) enough to make him add a little descriptor – even the tiniest of ones, like a simple 'very' – it usually meant whatever event was involved was something major, and majorly successful at that.

Such could easily describe his time in the Freljord. He had, at first, thought he'd simply be paying the Avarosan territory a visit to have a drink with his old friend, Gragas. This, surprisingly, marked the first time in a long, long while where his predictions had actually been an underestimation. The 'drink' in question was more of a string of fun and havoc, in which he and Gragas had crawled from one bar-slash-tavern-slash-drinking spot to the next, cleaning out entire barrels of grog and showing the Avarosan people what the word 'bar fight' really meant.

So what if it had scored him the ire of almost every citizen in Rakelstake? It wasn't as though there was anyone there who could do anything to The Champ.

Such were the merry recollections of Jax, the Grandmaster at Arms, as he enjoyed a comfortable stroll down the side of the Serpentine River, occasionally pausing to polish his trusty brass lamppost – usually against some poor bear or wolf's facial fur. Yes, his time in the Freljord had been a hearty one indeed, and although he had received quite an (ignored) earful from Queen Ashe, the fact that Tryndamere had grinned at him when his wife wasn't looking showed him at least he and Gragas had gained another drinking buddy out of the ordeal.

Nonetheless, his time in the Avarosan territory had to be cut short, due to a notification from the Institute. That Kolminye woman had apparently gotten wind of his activities in Rakelstake and threatened to have him reverse-summoned if he didn't 'cease his foolishness' immediately. As if she was his boss. He'd prepared quite the earful to give her when he got back, that was for sure. For now, though, he enjoyed his little stroll back to the Institute. It wasn't as though he was passive-aggressively spiting the High Councillor by strolling extra slowly – not at all. It was merely a beautiful day; why not enjoy it to its fullest?

It was at this very moment that something very particular caught his eye; there, in the distance, a giant hole was carved into the side of a small mountain – a cave mouth, almost in the form of a real mouth. Normally such a thing wouldn't even pique the interest of the Grandmaster at Arms, really – after all, what could possibly be interesting about a cave? Caves were smelly, damp places fit for insects and bats and people like that Laurent woman – not a Champion like himself. What was unique, though, was the fact that this cave mouth was weeping bats like it was no tomorrow.

Bats did not like light – the Grandmaster knew this much, no, proved this much; he even put it to test once by shining a floodlight into Kolminye's face. So whatever could cause such a large amount of them to flee into the bright midday sun normally meant something interesting nearby. Interesting somethings nearby often meant opportunities for detours and side-trips – and detours and side-trips meant more ways to spite the High Counc-er, more ways to enjoy this beautiful day.

At that, the Grandmaster at Arms reached his decision; he shifted his pack, tightened his grip on his trusty brass lamppost, and started his trek towards the frowning cave mouth.

---

After a few tense, claustrophobic moments of travel, Quinn had finally exited the narrow, tightly-wound passageway and stepped into a monumental cavern. She had been moving on a downward slope for most of the journey so she had gathered she was somewhere beneath the Serpentine River now. What she wasn't expecting was the sheer magnitude of the cavern – in the bright light flowing through a massive tear in the ceiling she could see stalagmites hanging easily three-hundred or so meters above her. The crack in the cavern roof flooded it with light, a phenomenon she was sure Luxanna would take inherent joy in explaining, and in that misty light she could see the makings of an ancient ruin that made even her gape.

From where she was standing now, a simple rock jutted out against an ornamental pathway carved into the side of the stone; the attention to detail, with every tile holding a different rune and every little part of the handrail having an intricate floral design, left her speechless. How in the hell had all this stayed hidden for so long? And so close to Demacia no less? In the back of her mind, behind the professional code driving her to track and apprehend her target as soon as possible, she made a note of inform Luxanna of this place – she could relay it to the Prodigal Explorer.

Slowly, her eyes followed the elaborate stone walkway, easily wide enough to fit five men shoulder-to-shoulder, and started taking in the details as she darted forwards, leaping over the handrail and onto the path. Above her, bats were pouring out from between the stone formations, fleeing towards the crack in the cavern ceiling as though a bird of prey itself was on their heels. There were hundreds of them, easily, seeing like a swarm of bees from where she stood – and then she saw him.

Even more than two-hundred meters away, she could tell the deserter was in bad shape. He was almost drunkenly shambling forwards, clutching his right arm – the tanned leather of his coat was stained black from the blood, even from this distance. She couldn't see his face through the mane of dark hair cascading down his back and across his shoulders, but she wagered he must have been grimacing with every step. Despite herself, she felt worry bloom in her chest – he had lost enough blood to kill a normal man; the fact that he was still walking alone beggared belief.

But even the strongest willed men could not stave off death forever – criminal or no, that man needed help.

With that in mind she darted forwards – he had gained quite a bit of ground, as was heading towards an altar suspended in the middle of the cavern, at the centre of the bright light flooding the room. He was much higher on the upward slope as well – the statues lining the side of the walkway further ahead meant this was likely a ceremonial area. As she continued her silent dash forwards she did her best to remain undetected – hopefully he wouldn't even hear her approach. It would be quick and simple – she'd take him down and restrain him, and get to work on his injury. The rest of her plan… As much as she hated to admit it, the rest of her plan depended on hope; hope that she could get him to the main road and to a healer before he passes on.

And at that precise moment, one of the runes she stepped on crack.

It was odd, the way a simple crack of stone could echo across a cavern and make it sound as though a whole cupboard of glass had been poured onto the floor. Even the bats' incessant chirping was drowned out by the way the simple noise became a cacophony. Her heart nearly stopped along with her footsteps – of all the things that could go wrong…

Slowly, her target stumbled to the side, resting his uninjured arm against a statue next to him, and slowly turned around.

Again, Quinn found herself beginning to worry – the pallor of his skin was nothing short of nightmarish; with a bit more than a hundred meters between them, Quinn could see the veins spanning his cheeks with clarity. Bloodshot eyes gazed at her, blinking away cold sweat and dizziness as it took in her features – and to her horror, recognition dawned in them when he saw the blue and gold colour scheme representing Demacia.

Then his eyes dropped, and he saw the crossbow in her hand – the one she had, in her worry, forgot to holster.

She could have slapped herself then and there – what a rookie mistake to make.

"Now…" She began, her lips suddenly dry, much to her ire. "Now don't freak out okay?"

That, obviously, was the wrong choice of words.

Summoning yet more of the willpower that kept him from death's door, Quinn's target wrapped his fingers around the statue's base and gave it a hard tug. The two-or-so meter stone display tumbled onto the walkway and, due to the sheer slope, started tumbling right towards her. Her target didn't wait a second longer – with a pained grunt she could hear even from that distance, he broke into a dead sprint, or at least what could pass as one for his nearly-dead body. Despite injury and blood loss, despite fatigue and dizziness – the man could run for his life if he needed to.

Quinn grit her teeth as the statue came rolling towards her. "Garret!" She yelled after her target, finally resorting to using his first name, hoping to at least stall him, or make him pause. "Garret, don't be stupid! You'll kill yourself!" She clicked her tongue. The statue tumbling towards her was just wide enough to force her to time her leap right if she wanted to avoid it – and to make matters worse, Garret was already pulling another from its perch. She took a deep breath – the young man was no doubt going to ignore anything and everything she said from here on. If wanted to help him now – if she wanted to save him – she'd have to force him to accept the gesture.

With several loud thuds the first statue neared her. She bent her knees, barely blinking as she focused. Even her heart rate slowed, granting her just that tiny bit of extra help she needed. When the circular, tiki-esque tube was about to meters from her, she braced her legs, and leapt.

The feeling of that statue scuffing her heels was one she wouldn't soon want to experience again.

She landed on both her feet, cracking more runes as she tucked into a roll, and just she straightened out a tremendous crash met her ears. She actually flinched backwards – her hand went for the crossbow she had holstered when she started her pursuit, but to her relief she didn't need to use it. Garret had managed to pull the second statue off its pedestal, and when it had struck the walkway it had promptly shattered the stone path beneath its weight. Quinn took several steps forwards, inspecting the damage – by the time extra parts of the walkway had stopped chipping and falling off, a good five meter gap stood between her and her target. "Dammit, Garret…" She grit her teeth again. "I'm trying to help you!"

"I do not…" Garret's voice was weak, even to her own trained senses. Yet no amount of fatigue, no amount of blood loss could make it weak enough to hide the disdain it held. He was struggling to catch his breath, and a trickle of blood had poured from the corner of his mouth. He cast her a dismissive glance as he took a few steps back. "…I do not want… your help…!"

"Dammit, Garret…" She cursed softly as he turned tail and hobbled towards the centre altar. Her brow creased with frustration and worry – despite him being her mission, she really was set on helping him; that wound was looking worse with every glance she took at it, and she truly wondered if it wouldn't be necessary to amputate the whole limb. Nonetheless, a simple gap would not deter her – a few quick hops backwards put her at a suitable distance to clear the chasm before her with a good leap. She glanced up at the altar again…

…just in time to see her target collapse right before he disappeared out of sight.

She clicked her tongue again. The harsh angle of the walkway rendered her incapable of determining Garret's condition now. So, with nothing else to, she bent her knees, swayed back just a bit, and launched herself forward with a speed even she was unused to. The distance she'd put between herself and the chasm disappeared in the blink of an eye and through a combination of skill, timing and technique, she had leapt just as her heel hit the edge of the broken walkway.

The five-meter gap was cleared in but a second, and with a harsh thud Quinn landed on the other side, tucking into a roll and popping back onto her feet at a speed downright unnatural in the eyes of anyone who didn't know the Ranger by now. She opted this time to keep her crossbow holstered, and instead pulled the small first-aid kid from her small pack, making sure to keep it in plain sight as she rushed towards her target.

She had barely laid eyes on his slumped form when she heard the ominous sound of a pistol getting cocked.

A standoff, she realized as she gazed at her target. He was slumped against a small pedestal in the middle of the large altar-like platform, sitting with his back resting against it. He looked as though he could keel over any moment, with those bloodshot eyes and pale skin, and the erratic, laboured breathing ease that thought. Yet still, despite everything, he managed to keep the loaded pistol aimed at her.

A glint caught her eye then, and for but a moment she allowed herself to be distracted. An old, withered bladed weapon, seemingly made of cracked bronze, was floating atop the pedestal Garret was leaning against. It seemed brittle – as every other item in the cavern – and once more Quinn wondered for but a moment how this had not been discovered yet.

A cough from Garret forced her to refocus her attention, and cautiously, she took a step forward. "Are you…" Garret heaved, his eyes unfocused and hazy. "… Are you the one who… who tracked me all the way from Mogron…?" He allowed himself a bitter chuckle. "You... Demacia's Wings… You are as… as good as they say… ma'am…"

She took another step forward. "Garret," she started, her voice low and urgent. "Please, please listen to me; you have no idea how much blood you lost. If you don't stop this, Garret… If you don't let me help you," she said with emphasis, "you… you're going to die, Garret…"

Garret, much to his credit, responded with a tired chuckle. "You… You think I am a dead man now?" He rasped. "I've been dead since I l-left… Thirteen years now," he said morosely. "I… I barely even troubled you…" He heaved. "I just wanted peace… T-To be left alone… and you wouldn't even grant me that…"

"None of that matters right now, Garret," Quinn said, taking another cautious step forwards. "As far as I'm concerned now, there's no Demacia – no infractions, no desertions, no crimes… Just a wounded, dying man in front of me," she said, raising the first-aid kit, "and the tools to try and save him, right here in my hand."

Garret started coughing at this, a few chuckles worked in between the fits, and before long it had evolved into an almost tragic bout of laughter. All the while, the pistol remained trained on Quinn's centre of mass. "You… You really think…" He rasped, locking eyes with her. "I… I mean no disrespect, ma'am," he said affably, "but… I refuse… to be left at the mercy of… of one of Demacia's lapdogs."

"Now I know you're not serious," Quinn responded crisply, taking yet another step forward. She was barely five meters from Garret's fallen form now. "You've fought tooth and nail for the peace you wanted, Garret. Thirteen years, you ran, hid and fought – I refuse to believe you're stubborn enough to let that all go to waste." From the corner of her eye, she saw his silhouette on the ground – as quickly as the shadows of his wingspan appeared, they were gone – hidden outside the ray of light.

Perfect, she though. Atta boy, Val.

Garret chuckled again, oblivious to the bird of prey stalking the shadows. "Well, ma'am," he started. "You… are correct that I've fought for so long… Heh… A few years ago that show of re... reverse psychology would have worked," he rasped. "But look at me now; tired, battered, wounded… Dying here… or going to back to Demacia, to rot in a cell," at this point his voice grew harsher, fiercer, "for a crime I did not even commit… I… I see no difference, ma'am." He made a show of applying a faint bit of pressure to the pistol's trigger. "I… am not going back, ma'am," he said ruefully, and for a but a moment, Quinn's sharp eyesight observed the cloud of sorrow in his eyes. "The D-Demacian Ideal… It took everything from me…" He said with a frown. "I… I will not let it have my life as well. S-So… Either use that h-hawk like speed of yours – draw your bow, and end this now," he said icily, "or gods above, I'll have the Crown send someone who will – in response to a murder I did commit."

The statement – the threat – left a silence in the air the likes of which Quinn had never experienced before, and with a sinking feeling, she realized… For all the courteousness he had shown so far, he was not going to budge. Her entire body tensed against her will – it was a realization that the worst had a very likely chance of coming to pass. She had a plan, though – she was hoping she wouldn't need to initiate it, because of risky it was – but now she had no choice. She twitched fingers of her free hand, hoping it would seem to Garret as though she was planning to reach for her crossbow – and then with a simple movement, she formed the hand signal that started the ball rolling.

Garret had a single, precious second to ponder just what the hell his pursuer had done.

Calling it an arrow was inadequate – like a speeding bullet, Valor came diving out from the shadows, tearing towards the fallen deserter at such a speed the poor man could only look on in confusion and shock as the eagle's talon's raked outwards, intent on seizing the pistol right from the weakened man's grasp. It was all part of Quinn's plan – Valor would disarm him and she would apply medical aid – whether Garret wanted her to or not.

It was a very good plan, given its spur-of-the-moment nature – but in her worry, in her haste, Quinn had forgotten to factor one element into her plans:

Outside involvement.

It happened in the blink of an eye – just before Valor could seize the pistol a sharp, jagged rock came flying from the shadows, intercepting the bird's course and making him hastily spread its wings to alter its course.

Quinn was already reaching for her crossbow by the time the purple and blue blur leapt from the darkness. As her hand closed around her grip she heard the wind whistle about an object as the intruder took a vicious swing at her partner at a speed even she struggled to keep track of. She wasted no more time – as Valor backed away from their assailant she drew her crossbow with every ounce of the hawk-like speed Garret had mentioned, and fired three precise, controlled bolts at the invader.

She then felt her jaw drop as all three were parried out of mid-air by a flailing weapon.

For a moment, silence reigned as Quinn heard her bolts clatter to the floor – and during the lull in action, her eyes widened. Before her stood a face – and a weapon – she had come to know all too well. A pit of ice formed in her stomach as spiteful remembrance invaded her mind; here stood someone she had never wanted to meet outside the Fields of Justice. In the breeze coming from above, purple clothing swayed a blue tussle attached to a hood danced almost ominously in Quinn's own opinion, and the multiple blue eyes staring at her from under that hood did nothing to ease her sudden fear and worry.

Before her, a battered brass lamppost twirled ominously.

She felt her teeth gnash as grim realization set in.

"Jax…"

…Shit.

"Well," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke smugly, standing with himself positioned right between Quinn and her target. "When I decided to see what was making the bats so crazy I wasn't expecting this."

"Grandmaster," Quinn addressed him neutrally. "May I ask why you attacked us?"

"You sicced your chicken on an injured man," Jax shrugged. "That's reason enough, ain't it?"

Quinn took a deep breath. The situation had gone from precarious to nightmarish in a matter of seconds, and the Grandmaster's aloof demeanour wasn't helping matters. "Jax," she started again, cautiously. "You're interfering in Demacian state business. That man –"

"It's 'Demacian business' to go around kicking injured people while they're down?" Jax interrupted her, tilting his head quizzically. In one hand, the battered brass lamppost was still pointed to her – and the amount of trepidation she felt was no less because of it. The other hand, though, quickly moved to a small pouch on his hip, and after a moment of fishing around in it, Jax withdrew what he was looking for – a small vial filled with red liquid.

"That's…" Quinn felt her jaw drop. "What… How did you even…?"

"I'm just that good," Jax shrugged again, before turning to look at Garret's fallen form. "Down this, buddy," he said, passing the small potion to the deserter. "You look like you could use the boost. And you can put that down," he said, motioning to the pistol still clutched in the young man's hand. "I ain't letting this woman near you. Drink up, heal up, get up and follow the pathway behind you. I'll just be a minute longer," Jax said, turning to face Quinn again. He took up the fighting stance he always used on the Summoner's Rift, and Quinn felt adrenaline kick in merely at the sight of it. "I just need to get the rest of your meds," Jax said ominously, eyeing the small field aid kit Quinn still had clutched in her hand.

For a moment, Quinn could do nothing but stare at the look of complete gratitude that bloomed on Garret's face. Bloodshot eyes nearly glowed with new hope as he pulled the stopper out of the vial and started drinking the potion as though he hadn't had a drop to drink in days.

The ball of ice in Quinn's stomach intensified. Her options were running out, she feared – while she and Valor made a near-unstoppable team, this was Jax they were facing. The Grandmaster at Arms, Valoran's greatest weapons master – and this time, Jax didn't have any silly sanctions holding him down. "Jax, please," she said urgently. "The charges made against him -"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard the little speeches," Jax interrupted her casually, looking at Garret. "Saying something like that, and meaning it? Shit, buddy, you must really hate that place." He turned back to face Quinn. "Alright now look here, Chickadee. I've got about this much time," he indicated with his fingers, "to get back to the Institute of War, and every minute I spend here is more reason for Kolminye to shit on me. So I'll cut you a deal, Ranger: Leave that kit here and report to your superiors; tell them Jax took your little suspect down to the Institute, where he won't get manhandled for answers he might not even have." He shrugged. "You get your mission complete, I get to placate that demonic woman with some political contribution or some shit like that and this guy," he motioned to Garret, "gets himself cleared of all charges, all in the same day. I win, you win, he wins, we can all get back to our lives and forget this ever happened." He locked eyes her, twirling his lamppost in one hand. "Think carefully, Ranger; I only compromise once."

Valor let out a defiant squawk the moment had finished speaking, and Quinn was, for the first time in her life, relieved that nobody took the eagle's attitude seriously. She spared a glance at Garret, still pale, but at least looking a bit livelier, but for some odd reason he was fumbling with his knee. "You alright there, bud?" Jax turned to him again, apparently having seen the fidgeting from his peripheral view.

"N-Nothing, sir…" Even his voice sounded livelier. "Just… Just pins and needles in my legs, sir."

"Don't worry about it," Jax shrugged. "Take your time – I can keep her at bay as long as I need to," he said reassuringly, before facing Quinn again. "Well, Ranger? What's it gonna be?"

Sheer, sheer willpower prevented her from caving and agreeing, and putting an end to this frustrating mission once and for all. However, her sense of duty won out – Jax was, for all intents and purposes, a mercenary – while he may have been professional, his loyalty was still for sale; so many things could go wrong with Jax's proposal it wasn't even funny. She sighed to herself, dismayed at the horrendous turn a simple track-and-arrest had taken, and steeled her resolve. "While your offer of cooperation is appreciated, Grandmaster," Quinn said evenly, "my orders stand. Garret is a key witness to a crucial case overseen by Demacian law – and I was instructed to bring him back, no matter the cost."

"Damn shame," Jax shook his head, his grip on his lamppost tightening ever so slightly. "Well I've got a dying man to tend to – so let's make this quick, shall we?"

Deathly silence followed, and tensions mounted among the parties involved. Between a glaring eagle, a morose looking ranger, Valoran's greatest weapons master and a poor sod who could never even have imagined being part of a predicament like this, there was a degree of danger in the air. For but a moment, the only sounds were those of a whispering breeze – before part of a stalactite above them broke off, plunging to the floor and shattering with a loud crack.

That was the cue.

The forms of the two fighters became blurs and they lunged – one forwards, one backwards, and the cacophonic orchestra of combat filled the empty cavern.

Quinn had opted to put as much distance between her and Jax as possible. Bolts flew from her crossbow at a frantic pace as the purple-clad mercenary charged at her. She lost track of almost everything around her apart from Valor's position – one could not afford to think of anything else when fighting the Grandmaster at Arms, especially not during such a precarious situation.

Valor squawked above her, a cue she recognized as a sign of terrible danger, and she halted her motions and hopped back without a single thought. For a brief moment she felt a different kind of breeze pass in front of her face, and the scent of brass and burning wick filled her nostrils. She blinked, and to her horror Jax had closed the distance between them faster than she could ever have expected him to, and due to Valor's warning she had just avoided getting her block knocked off. It served as a terror-fuelled reminder to Quinn that this was Jax she was fighting – and it wasn't going to be as simple as dodge, shoot and repeat.

Valor dove down towards them in an attempt to get Jax away from Quinn, but the Grandmaster was relentless – Valor's talons raked nothing but thin air. The Grandmaster had easily predicted the eagle's course of flight and, in a testament to his skill in combat, had dodged the aerial assault and continued his vicious assault on the Ranger with one swift movement. The roles had been reversed – now it was Quinn who was on the run, desperately backstepping and hopping around, trying to dodge strikes from an absolutely improbable weapon.

Suddenly it didn't seem so strange that even people like Shyvana were wary of Jax.

She switched to different tactics – she feinted to the right, acting as though she were about to try and leap away. Jax, ever on the uptake, moved to strike, not at her but at the spot she would soon be – she exploited this and ducked into a roll in the other direction. While she lacked the speed and elegance of Shauna Vayne it proved beneficial nonetheless; the Grandmaster had struck miss, and just as Quinn straightened out and aimed at the fighter's back –

She recoiled as a loud crack signalled a punishing blow to the side of her helmet, and spot of white appeared in her vision as she stumbled back blindly, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. A stinging pressure pulsed just above her right temple, and a quick touch to the side of her helmet determined it had been dented beyond use – the bent steel pressed against the side of her head, hindering her thoughts and movements.

Finally coming out of her stumble, she yanked the gold-plated helm off. Her raven hair tumbled down around her face, and a quick touch-and-inspect revealed she now sported a gash along the side of her face. "H-How…" She turned back to face her opponent. The Grandmaster still stood with back towards her, facing the spot the had feinted towards, but his posture showed he didn't need to face her to hurt her – his left hand clutched the lamppost just below the lamp itself, while the right had a hold around the middle. The uprooted end of the post, however, was pointing in her direction, making his attack obvious.

It had been foolish of her to assume he only attacked with the top-end of the post.

"Your move, Ranger," Jax said simply, looking over his shoulder at her. He still hadn't even bothered to turn around. Normally such behaviour from a foe would be infuriating, but right now Quinn couldn't be bothered with getting angry. Anger lead to a loss of control, of inhibition, of sense, and against Jax such actions would be nothing more than a death sentence.

Frowning to herself, she made peace with the situation at hand.

Diplomacy was no longer an option.

"Now!" A simple word had relayed an entire battle plan – bravely, Valor folded his wings in again dove towards Jax, his talons arching and seeking blood once more. For a moment it seems almost as though Jax's shoulders sagged a bit, as if he were disappointed with what he saw. Nonetheless, as Quinn herself shot to the side in order to gain a window, Jax himself tensed up – and started his counter attack.

He moved like water, Quinn grudgingly admitted as she kept herself light on her feet. There were no unnecessary movements, no openings for Jax to defend and no errors to hinder his skills. The lamppost twirled again, leaving trails of wispy smoke in the air and in a blink, Valor was on a crash course with the lamp itself. He dove to the side just as Jax had come around full circle, and two bolts from Quinn's crossbow harmlessly clattered off the shaft. The Grandmaster had his eyes on her now, as her eagle was retreating and preparing for another lunge. In a panic she fired more bolts at him, hoping to at least stave off his advance until Valor could dive again – but it was for naught. Her bolts struck either brass or thin air, and at one stage the Grandmaster even caught one in mid-air with his bare hand.

Three quick steps and he was in her face again – her aim was hampered as she desperately ducked and dived, and her heart leapt every time the edge of the lamppost scuffed against her leathers or nicked her shoulder pads. Even those tiny impacts were enough to make her jerk slightly from the sheer force. She grit her teeth again, desperation flashing on her features as she sidestepped, ducked, dodged and rolled in a futile effort to put some distance between her and Jax. Absentmindedly she noticed Valor going for a dive again, just before she ducked low to avoid another punishing shot to the side of the head. In her mad rush she had lost track of her companion, and upon hearing his disappointed cry she reckoned he was someone up above again – more than likely having failed another attack.

She coughed suddenly as the lamppost caught her square in the stomach, and sheer flexibility prevented her from falling over her feet again and keeling over. Once more she took a leap back, ignoring the hollow pain in her stomach, and once more it proved futile – she managed to avoid three attacks before a full-circle flourish from Jax caught her on the knee. She could have sworn she heard something crack, as pain suddenly blazed across her leg, but even then she refused to falter. She had to find some way to get away from.

Valor let out another cry, hoping to at least draw the Grandmaster's attention as he came in for another dive – only this time he altered his course. He dove straight down, aiming for the solid stone floor of the altar, and at the last minute spread his wings and pulled up just a bit. The speed from the dive sent the eagle gliding towards the weapons master mere centimetres above the floor. This was his plan, after all – if he could not strike from above, he would strike from below.

Quinn knew of Valor's plan even before she even saw him gliding towards the Grandmaster. It was a tactic they'd used times in the past – risky, yes, but a necessity in this case. If this didn't work, then… She shuddered as the lamppost struck her upper arm, rendering it half numb, and she pirouetted away – she was even beyond hoping now; all that mattered was minimizing the damage.

She got her window of opportunity moment Valor lunged.

The Grandmaster had seeing the eagle coming, true – it would have been insulting to imagine he wouldn't – but blocking or evading a low attack was a lot different from blocking a lower one – and the shift in the fighter's stature was just what she needed. As Jax spun to drive the eagle away, Quinn forewent any pretences of traditional ranged combat; she dashed forwards, firing one or two bolts from her crossbow. Of course they had been parried, knocked away mid-flight, but that had set up her escape plan. In a near-suicidal display Quinn leapt right at Jax, drawing her knees up readying herself to try and take one last attack.

The lamppost collided with the guard on her left arm just as her feet nimbly touched down on Jax's knee, and she let out a hiss as she felt both the guard and the arm break as though they were glass. Pain shot up her arm, focusing itself right between her eyes, but even then she did not falter. Drawing upon what was left of her own strength and stamina, she put as much energy as possible into her legs, ignoring her stinging kneecap and kicking off her opponent's leg. The leap was more than enough, and as she twirled in mid-air she noted with relief that there was more than enough ground between them now.

Her feet slammed down on the runic floors, and a single tile cracked in conjunction with the pain that shot up her knee – but she didn't let this act to her detriment. Despite all her pain, she landed in a readied stance, her crossbow still trained on the Grandmaster. As the final part of their disengagement tactic, Valor rose up and circled around before diving towards Jax one last time, brushing past her in the progress.

And just as it seemed her plan had reached fruition, everything went right to hell.

In a twisted way, neither of them was responsible – Quinn had not taken a single action and Jax had merely followed his instinct. But when Jax had effortlessly sidestepped her Eagle, Quinn saw something – or someone – she had almost forgotten. Garret had somehow made it to his feet; he was starting at the ground, catching his breath and clutching his arm – and Valor was barrelling right towards him.

"Val!"

Her cry did the exact opposite of what she intended it to do. Garret jumped in shock as he looked up, and she could see his amber eyes widen as he saw the giant bird of prey soaring towards him. With a startled cry, the deserter feebly tried to take a step back – and seemingly forgot about the pedestal he was resting against earlier.

Quinn had heard some soldiers talking about seeing traumatic events occur in slow motion. And she had always doubted those stories – until now.

Garret's descent seemed to take forever – his form slowly fell back, on a crash course with the broken bronze sword hovering over the pedestal. All it took was a tap from his shoulder as he twisted to try and right himself, the merest of impacts – and the brittle artefact shattered like glass, shards flying in all directions. The loud crash seemed to echo all across the cavern, not drowning out other sounds as much as it consumed them – it seemed like an all-devouring echo that ran across the entire cavern…

…and in the brief second of silence that followed, Jax and Quinn both realized that something was about to go horribly wrong.

The fading echo left a whisper – a whisper that slowly increased, in volume, in tempo, in ferocity, in everything, really; it seeped from between the stalactites, crawled from the small gaps between the runic tiles and rose from the abyssal depths surrounding the altar, until an almost bestial wail reverberated off the stone walls around them. Tiles shook, stone shuddered and even the pillar of light seemed to dim in the face of the abhuman wail that was slowly deafening the two combatants. The shards of the sword that had flown in all directions started to tremble, pattering on the cold floor before levitating ominously, giving off the same crimson glow as the runes Quinn saw in the chapel that lead her here.

The shards started to hum and sizzle then, and finally the wail started dying down – first in ferocity, then in volume, and just before it disappeared entirely, it devolved into a ghostly, whispered giggle.

From the corner of her eye she saw Jax tense up. "Get back, woman!" He yelled to her, leaping back a distance even greater than she had, and just as she turned back to see what had spooked him –

The shards exploded with a mighty, downright otherworldly blast, and a torrent of crimson smoke poured from it, writing and twisting and forming a makeshift typhoon around Garret and the pedestal. The cloud shot forwards, expanding at a rate she had never seen smoke expand at before, and when the cloud slammed into her, her whole vision nearly went white. Absently, through the sudden severe ringing in her ears she could hear the runic tiles under get torn apart by a vicious force, and pain downright flooded her already broken arm – it drenched the limb, burrowing down right to her marrow, leaving a hollow ache to accompany the feeling of nerve endings getting absolutely destroyed by something. She felt a strong hand grasp her by her free arm, and with a mighty pull the hue of red disappeared from her vision and she collided against a sturdy form, quickly regaining her footing.

"I told you to get back," she head Jax's voice inches from her ear. "Damn… Just what the fuck is this?"

Quinn willed herself to look, despite how weak she was feeling. Jax had pulled her away from the vortex of red smoke, but it was raging as bad as it was when it had erupted. She saw something then, which made her heart leap right up to her throat – the edge of the hazy vortex was covered in weird blade-like forms, as though the smoke itself had solidified into a physical defence. It moved in tandem with the cyclone, a blanket of blades that kept intruders from whatever it guarded.

Nervously, Quinn took a chance and looked down at her arm. She had expected to see a mangled limb weeping blood onto the stone floors, so when she saw it was still just a simple fracture from Jax's weapon, the relief made her downright weak in the knees. "…Oi, oi! Look ali-Hey! What the…" Jax moved to support her as her body sank to the floor. She ended up sitting on her knees, using her good arm to steady herself on the ground.

It was at that precise moment that a near soul-splitting shriek of pain erupted from the centre of the vortex.

Quinn jumped slightly, the fright making her adrenaline kick in again. Her eyes widened as she remembered – her target was still inside that smoke. "Garret…" She breathed nervously as another scream ripped from her obscured target's throat. The screams he was uttering now… It shook her to her core. It relayed agony that could not described by simple words; a cry for help, for relief, for peace, that would not be given. A terrifying thought occurred to her; that mist had merely grazed her arm and she nearly blacked out… and now Garret was covered by it. She imagined the same pain she felt in her arm, spread across her whole body, and almost instinctively her breathing hitched and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. If he was experiencing that… In his current state, no less…

"Fuck this," Jax spoke up, turning around to face her. With one hand he slung his small backpack off, letting it drop to the ground, and with the other hand he held out his trusty lamppost towards her. "Hold this," he said flatly. "I'm going in there."

You're mad. The first thought that occurred to Quinn was one of outrage and shock – Grandmaster or no, the amount of pain that smoke caused – the sheer danger it posed – was beyond even her description. And this arrogant idiot thought he could just walk in there like nothing was going to happen? "Like hell you will," she said through gritted teeth. "Do you… Do you have any idea how much that smoke hurts?" she said angrily as she tried hopelessly to climb to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain her leg used as a form of protest. "I don't care how skilled you are – I'm… I'm not letting you –"

"Then good luck stopping me with that knee of yours," Jax shrugged, dropping his lamppost to the floor with a loud clang. "Unlike you I'm actually being sincere when I say I want to help him. So sit tight, Chickadee. I'll be right… back?" He trailed off, turning around to face the maelstrom of crimson smoke behind him. Quinn followed suit, leaning to the side to look past the Grandmaster's wide frame.

The typhoon was shrinking.

And while it was shrinking it had started to writhe even more – the blades of vapour pulsed and shifted and moved erratically as the cylindrical smoke storm rapidly shifted and changed shape, almost compressing itself into a smaller shape. It twisted and turned, pulsated and gyrated like a fluxing focus of magical energy, unstable and deadly, and all the while the maelstrom just kept getting smaller.

Eventually all that was left was a small, hovering cloud of vapour – and when that vapour started to disperse, Quinn could do nothing to stop a shocked gasp from escaping her.

Garret was kneeling behind the small pedestal, his head tucked low so his fringe his face from view. His right arm – his injured arm, that had been shredded by buckshot – was extended beside him, parallel to the floor; the sleeve of the leather jacket he had been wearing had been shredded off completely, leaving a blackened, muscular, yet wiry arm exposed to the elements. That was the first cue that things were unnatural now – that, and the fact that the hand tipping the arm had four fingers instead of five. As if to add to the surrealism of the moment, a pulse of crimson light flared in the limb's fingertips, slowly travelling upwards towards the shoulder, and as it moved Quinn swore she could see the pattern of the musculature hidden under the dark skin. Something was seriously wrong here.

Moving slowly, Garret lowered his arm, and twisted it inwards to examine more closely. This exposed the top side of the arm to the two Champions – and Quinn had to fight to repress a shudder. Suddenly she knew where those bronze sword shards went. Several gleaming spikes protruded from random spots on the arm, likely used to plug the wounds made by Yalia's shotgun, and this served only to add to the limbs already macabre appearance. Garret seemed awfully interested in his new limb. He kept staring at it, completely still, unmoving – Quinn couldn't even tell if he was still breathing or not.

"Shit…" Jax spoke up. "Hey, buddy! You still there?"

The question – regardless of its intent – proved to have the wrong effect. Garret shuddered, violently at that, before looking up, and the sight made even Jax take a step back. Quinn grit her teeth as she looked upon Garret's face – or at least, the spot where his face used to be. The red smoke had not receded entirely. It formed a sort of veil across the deserter's face, its hue shifting, darkening and lightening and obscuring every possible facial detail except one – a part of slanted, downright vicious looking, pure white eyes.

Those eyes… It seemed as though they were hungering, and that revelation alone made Quinn come to a grim realization:

That… That was not Garret.

Jax had his lamppost ready before Quinn could even blink. "Who the fuck are you?" The Grandmaster demanded.

Garret – or at least, whatever was controlling him – merely tilted its head to the side, as though intrigued by the purple clad mercenary before him. For several moments it held that stance, not moving, not twitching, not even breathing – and then the thing uttered a giggle, a sound that chilled Quinn right to her stomach. Garret's voice was still there, but… There was something new to it, a presence of sorts clinging to every syllable, imitating it with a feminine tongue and making even something as simple as a giggle seem sinister.

"Challengerssss…"

Quinn shuddered again. That voice…

Garret, or whatever possessed him, let off a downright vicious grunt, and with an ominous rumble his form darkened. The red smoke that covered his face returned, rolling off his form in waves and hovering above him, dancing in the air like extensions of his own body. They coiled and shifted, some shrinking, some growing, and before their very eyes, the smoke formed blades – two standard, yet sinister arming swords glowed in the remainders of the crimson mist. Then the swords intensified, in both colour and mass, glowing brightly as a loud crackle signified the blades solidifying themselves, becoming actual, physical weapons.

"That's… Okay, that's new," Jax nodded, almost impressed.

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiight…"

With a simple, gurgled command the two blades shot forwards, twirling like buzzsaws in the open cavern air and flying right at the Grandmaster. Jax grunted, half-grudgingly, before flourishing his lamppost, dodging one blade and almost easily knocking the other aside. But Garret's new tenant would not be bested so simply – the first sword moved of its own accord, turning upwards and flying into the air, dispersing into smoke before reforming itself in a barbed spear, while the other blade split into three crooked daggers that seemed to circle the room itself.

The spear was the first to commence an assault – it dove tip-first towards the Grandmaster, and upon colliding with his lamppost, flipped and twisted and twirled and struck in the way a master wield such a weapon would; it was as though an invisible spearman was duelling with Jax, and despite not even scratching the fighter's defence, was doing a pretty damn good job too.

One too many impacts later and the spear, seemingly brittle, cracked like glass and halted its assault. The three daggers darting around the cavern took over the fight, each flying at Jax with the speed and precision of a throwing knife. These were a poor choice of weapons against the Grandmaster, however – Jax had already seen the consistency of the weapons, and with such little mass they proved no challenge; Jax's lamppost outright shattered the small daggers, and when the crimson spear attempted to reinitiate, it too was cloven in half by a well-timed strike from the Grandmaster.

"You'll need to do better than that," Jax said confidently. "Now how 'bout you let the boy go? Else I'll just have to beat you out of him."

"Truuuuuulyyyyy…?" Garret's tenant sounded downright excited at the notion.

"Yeah," Jax nodded, "truly."

The spirit controlling Garret let out an ominous chuckle, and clenched its mutated fist before letting out a downright monstrous snarl. The red smoke, which had previously merely rolled off his form, exploded outwards this time, swirling around him and arcing into the air forming a hundred small clouds, if not more. The tenant uttered another ominous chuckle, and every small bubble of smoke started to pulsate and shift, and before either of the heroes could comprehend it the cavern was filled with hovering weapons of varying shapes and sizes: spears, swords and daggers accompanied kukris, shotels, flamberges and halberds. Several bows were fully nocked and drawn, and Quinn could hear the firing hammers of several dozens of firearms cocking backwards.

"…Well, shit," Jax summarized their situation helpfully. Quinn felt her body begin to quiver – paltry quality or not, even Jax could not evade or parry all those weapons if they decided to attack. As for herself… She paled. A broken arm, a fractured knee, and the gods alone knew how many other injuries rendered her mobility basically non-existent. They were sitting ducks – and the entity controlling Garret's body seemed all too willing to exploit that. Slumping back, Quinn shut her eyes, expecting the worst to come – bracing herself for the death sentence.

"Diiiiiiiiiieeee-aaaaaaarghh!"

Quinn's eyes snapped open as the spirit's command to kill morphed into an inhumane cry of agony and pain. With trembling sight she saw Garret's form twist and shudder where it knelt, and in conjunction several smoke-weapons around him trembled and cracked, some even shattering and vaporising on the spot. "Nooooo…" She heard the spirit use Garret's voice to plead. "Not… Not yeeeet… Pleeeaasee, noooo…" It's cries went unheard – Garret's body jerked and shivered, before his now mutated arm reared back and slammed down on the floor. Stone shattered like glass under the fist, and a crater easily the size of Quinn's torso appeared under the impact. They felt the tremor all the way under their feet, and even Jax stumbled for a fraction of a second. Smoke-weapons started exploding left and right, reverting to their crimson wisps and fleeing back into Garret's mutated arm, and amidst the chaos, they heard his voice, pure and untainted:

"…get out…"

It started as a whisper, a mumbled plead amidst the cacophony of shattering blades and snapping wood, but gradually it got louder.

"…get out…!"

No, it was more than a plead – it was a threat, a command, an order of a magnitude that could gather obedience from even the most finicky of soldiers. Interlaced with both ire and a twisted sort of charisma, it was absolute – irrefutable.

"…Get… OUT!" Garret's voice expanded by several octaves, surpassing the chaos around him to dance across stone walls and vast emptiness. His mutated fist rose again, and with yet another downward slam, more stones and runic shards were sent flying. His free arm – unhindered, unharmed, uncontrolled – flew towards his face, the fingers sinking into the veil of crimson smoke, and with a wet, sickening rip, it tore a good chunk of the mist away. "This is my body…" He said with a raw voice, tired out from screaming and growling. "This… is my body…" His left hand flew to his face again, tearing yet another chunk of the red smog away, and this time Quinn could see an emerald eye narrowed in fury. "You… will not… control me…" Quinn shuddered slightly – there was a determination, a resolution in his voice that reminded her of when he gave her that ultimatum earlier. There was no middle ground now. "I am in control…" She heard him say to himself, a mantra to dissuade whatever madness was pulling at his mind. Again, his left arm ripped a chunk of smoke from his face – by now she could see his teeth, bared in a ferocious snarl, and his mutated fist rose again, twitching and hesitating as though unsure who's command was more absolute. "I am in control…" He said again, his free hand's fingers digging into the stone runes below him so hard Quinn swore they'd crack at any moment.

It was then that the final ounce of resistance fell away.

"This is my body!" Garret roared, slamming his demonic fist down a final time like a judge passing the sentence. "You do as I say!"

In unison, the remaining crimson weapons shattered with a deafening blast, bits and pieces of blade and hammer and wood and string flying everywhere around him. The black arm pulsed like mad, almost glowing from the activity as cloud after cloud of red smoke seeped back into its muscles. It was as though the darkness itself disappeared in tandem with the misty weapons, as though the pillar of light shining down from the ceiling intensified in tandem with Garret's newfound force of will.

Until nothing but silence reigned.

In the dead stillness that followed Garret's triumph over whatever ailed him, Quinn's heartbeat hammered in her ears. Her target, the man who would gladly have chosen death over apprehension at her hands, had just saved her – and Jax – from a downright morbid fate; and going by the deserter's laboured breathing and vacant stare, Quinn doubted he was even aware of it. With a loud squawk, Valor returned from the shadows and perched himself on her shoulder, nuzzling against her cheek in a display of affection warranted from escaping certain doom. Patting him once, she tried to venture forwards, leaning her weight on her good arm and half-dragging herself, half-crawling towards Garret's location.

She saw Jax take a few tentative steps towards her target. "Hey buddy," he called to Garret, "you good in your head now or what?"

Garret jerked, as if someone had just given him a massive fright, before looking up at Jax. Slowly, the vacancy in his eyes evaporated, and the smallest hint of recognition bloomed in them. His face fell, then – weighed down by the stress and the trauma of what happened, it seemed as though he had aged years in mere seconds. And yet, when he spoke, none of his courteousness seemed injured. "I… I think… I think I pushed it back for now, sir… Thank… you…"

And with those words, consciousness faded from his eyes, and the deserter tumbled to the side, blissfully unconscious. "Well, that coulda gone worse," Jax shrugged as he turned around, facing Quinn. "No thanks to that damn chicken of yours. Cheh. No where's that field kit you were making me play around for? It looks you both need it."

Quinn ignored Jax's jab at the amount of effort his little duel with her took. Smiling to herself, she petted Valor once again, shifting her weight as to sit more comfortably – or at least, as comfortably as a fractured knee would allow her to. "It… It's over there," she sighed, pointing behind her as she felt the adrenaline wear off again, this time for good. Suddenly her injuries decided to voice their disapproval with her reckless decision to face the Grandmaster at Arms, and struck with their combined pain in one giant flood of agony. Quinn, used to such pains by now, merely flinched, swaying on the spot. Darkness was fading in and out of her vision already.

"Oh no," Jax said apprehensively, seeing in her body language what was about to happen. "Fuck. That. Him I can handle, but I am not carrying two people – and a damn chicken! – out of this hellhole. Forget it."

Quinn merely chuckled dazedly, smiling to herself. "Sorry Jax…" she said wearily. "But I think it's quite fair… That I make you work hard… after you made us work… so hard…" She tumbled to the side as well, thankfully landing on her uninjured arm, and Valor hopped to the floor, considerate enough not to land on her broken arm. "What kind of Champ… would leave a damsel in distress… huh?" Upon seeing Jax stiffen slightly at the question, she allowed herself a last chuckle. "Exactly…" she sighed as she, too, lost consciousness.

The Grandmaster at Arms, now alone with his thoughts, let his shoulders droop. First he turned back to look at the unconscious form of the deserter he had saved from Quinn, and who had saved him in turn. Then he turned back to face Quinn, who was unconscious for being stupid enough to actually try to fight him without Summoner magic holding him down. He frowned – all in all, he felt entitled to leave her sorry ass there. It's not like he killed her, after all, and she had that damn chicken to peck her awake if she was going to use her injuries as an excuse to be lazy.

Then again, he was on his way to Vessaria Kolminye of all people… It wasn't as though she scared him – come on, he was The Champ. Even Nocturne couldn't scare him and Nocturne embodied fear. No, the case was simply that Kolminye, well-meaning as she was, was a stone-assed stubborn bitch. The woman could rant for hours on end, and Jax, despite being The Champ, had simply no way to shut her up.

He was already in deep shit for what he had done in the Freljord. Taking his sweet time would leave him in even deeper shit, and if Kolminye found out he left a League champion injured and untreated, then… Oh boy. That would be one shitting-on that The Champ wouldn't be able to ignore even if he tried.

In the dead silence of the ancient cave, the sound of a palm slapping against a steel facemask echoed off the walls and across the bottomless chasms.

"…Fuck's sakes… This woman is gonna have so much debt to pay when this is over, I swear – just watch me…"

---

Thus, the great Grandmaster at Arms found himself sitting sourly at a campfire several hours later. The sun was just beginning to set behind the horizon and the sky was painted a dark miasma of purple, black and orange, with several clouds retreating wherever the wind took them. He huffed to himself, seated on a stump he'd set camp at. Being the Grandmaster that he was, he had little need for a tent – a night under the open stars was the best kind of night, after all. Around him, though, his two patients lay unconscious – one, a Ranger dreaming of something close to her heart, judging by the smile on her features, and the other, a deserter – a criminal, seemingly innocent, who had fled Demacia at a young age.

Jax frowned as Quinn shuddered from the cold yet again, and threw his empty canteen at her chicken when the purple-feathered beast shot him a cold glare. So what if he didn't give her the sleeping bag? She's the one who got him into this mess, so fuck that.

No, his sleeping bag was currently semi-covering the deserter, Garret. Jax has wisely laid him down within lamppost's reach of his little improvised chair. After the debacle in the ruin he figured whatever the hell took control of the youngster must have been concentrated in that evil-looking arm, and The Champ had been proven right numerous times so far – every now and then, the arm's fingers would flex, and slowly the limb would reach upwards and move towards the man's face. It's goal remained unclear – whether to touch, or scratch, or strangle, Jax didn't know, and he didn't take any chances; five times so far the arm had tried to start its shit, and five times so far it had received a stern smack from a bent brass lamppost for its trouble.

The fifth time it had even flipped him the bird. Cheeky.

Nonetheless, he kept at his vigil with the same professionalism he used during assignments or jobs. The change in circumstance had forced his hand, and he had notified Kolminye that he had two injured wards – a Champion fighting in Demacia's name, and an innocent man ailed by a dark, malignant spirit. Old Girl Vess had been none too pleased about the matter at first, but agreed to send Summoners to transport them to the Institute when Jax proved he could be every bit as stubborn as she was.

Now he sat; waiting on the Summoners to get up off their lazy asses and actually start doing what they were supposed to. It had been a long day, granted, and Jax had every intention to blow off absolutely everyone back at the Institute in favour of hitting the sack and getting some rest – but until then…

A slight shuffling sound came from under the sleeping bag, and with a groan, Garret the deserter awoke from his rather fitful unconsciousness. He was every bit as pale as he was when he had fainted – close inspection proved his arm, macabre as it was, was fully healed – but his eyes… They seemed sunken, and ringed with dark skin, a sign that the past three hours of sleep did him no good. He was also trembling, for some odd reason that Jax dotted down to stress. "Morning, kiddo," The Champ spoke gruffly. "Sleep well?"

Garret jumped slightly, whipping his head around to get a good look at who was speaking, before leaning forwards and swaying slightly, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Easy there, buster," Jax got up off his stump and strode over to Garret, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder whilst offering him a spare canteen with the other. "Here," he said, "you'll need this after the day you had." The deserter gave him a wary look, but shook his head, smiling and opening his mouth to speak. When nothing but a dry rasp escaped him, Jax patted him on the back. "Drink first, talk later. You look like hammered shit – and it doesn't look like that arm helps matters."

He strode back to his makeshift seat and sat down, watching the deserter down the contents of the canteen as though water was something new and wonderful to him. Offhandedly, he wondered just how long this man had been wandering. He must have stopped by a few places here and there, going by the fact that he merely had some stubble instead of a beard, but still. Poor guy seemed downright gaunt sometimes, and had a wiry, seemingly malnourished build fitting of someone who didn't get much rest or shelter. The canteen ran dry within seconds, and with a soft pop the deserter pulled it from his lips, heaving slightly. "Heh. Why do I get the feeling it's been a long time since you had a drink?"

"Too… Too long, I am afraid to say," the deserter spoke with a scratchy tone. "You… You have my sincerest thanks, sir."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up a minute," Jax said, raising his hands. "First off: Drop the 'sir' nonsense. It's Jax, kiddo – or Grandmaster, if you wanna be a kiss-ass like most folks this side of Valoran. Pheh. Snooty little snobs," he growled. He wasn't thinking about a certain woman from the Laurent family. Honestly, he wasn't. "Anyhow, don't jump up when you look next to you – I brought the Chickadee as well. She blacked out a few moments after you did."

The deserter looked to his side, and upon seeing the Ranger sleeping peacefully, a weight seemed to roll off his shoulders. "That… That is wonderful, si-Uh, Jax. Thank you for tending to her as well."

"Huh," Jax made an impressed noise. "Wonderful, you say? Awfully good-hearted of someone who was about to shoot her a few hours earlier." At the very least, the deserter had the sense to look bashful upon recalling the memory. "What's the deal about that, anyway, er – Chickadee said your name's Garret, right?" When Garret nodded in confirmation, Jax shook his head. "You sure as hell don't look like a Garret."

To his surprise – and relief – Garret merely laughed at the observation. It was a dry, throaty affair, but Jax could hear a bit of merriment in the action. "You… You have no idea how much I hear that. My name drove Father through the roof," he said, looking up at the stars. "Father was a military man, through and through – he tried to breed his sons to follow in his footsteps. When he named me he… he obviously had high hopes for me. He expected Garret, the paragon of justice and righteousness, the tall, imposing soldier who fought for all that was good and proper. And instead…" Garret trailed off. "Well. Instead, he got me. A bookish nerd far more interested in philosophy than war."

Jax chuckled at this. "Yet you're talking about him as though he meant the world to you," he remarked.

"Oh he did," Garret nodded. "My father and my brothers – they meant everything to me. I loved them dearly."

Jax did not miss the past tense Garret used to describe his family, and right then and there the Grandmaster had Garret's motive for desertion dotted down. It was at that moment that Garret's arm chose to act up again. It moved of its own accord, drawing a startled yelp from the man it was attached to, and once again, it tried to reach for its owner's face –

- and once again, it received a blow from a brass lamppost as reward for its troubles.

"That damn thing is turning out to be more of a nuisance than ever," Jax remarked loudly, and it seemed as though the arm glowed in response.

"You… You have no idea," Garret groaned, palming his face. "I remember the dreams I had… There… There's something inside this arm, Jax," he said fearfully, "and it will not leave me alone. It lingers in my mind, hiding behind my every thought, whispering to me, flooding my mind with things I'd rather not see… During my sleep, I saw… I saw carnage. Chaos. Combat, most likely, going by all the different weapons I saw. Some I had never even laid eyes on before, and yet, as though by instinct I could recall their names immediately… Their names, their purposes, how to wield them… I… I've never even touched a sword in my life, Jax…" The inherent worry and fear was evident in Garret's voice. "What kind of spirit is this?"

"Well, buddy," Jax started, shrugging ruefully. "I dunno. I didn't even know that damn place was there, and travel that road at least twice a month. However!" he interrupted, just as it seemed a depressed look was about to flicker over Garret's face, "I know some people who do."

And as if on cue, as if waiting for the Grandmaster to signal their role, magic flared to life around the campsite. Blue beams of light crashed down on the jungle floor, as flickers of power swirled and danced around the pillars. Several runic circles flared to life on the soil, and in a panic Garret had shot out of the sleeping bag, his demonic arm aglow and held up to shield him. The hum of magic filled the air, and with a crackle of might the figures materialized, their robes seemingly flowing into existence as they finished their ancient chants.

The Summoners had finally arrived.

"These… These are…" Garret seemed to recognize them, and much to Jax's merriment he seemed completely awestruck.

"It's a good thing you're up, kiddo," Jax said heartily as he rose from his makeshift seat. "These? These are some good friends of mine. They've agreed to take you somewhere safe, to help you and get your side of the story without all the chains and arrows and rampant Chickadees and their stupid chickens. Who knows," he said, raising his arms. "Maybe they can help you with your new friend as well," he said.

Garret, for the first time that day, showed the merest glint of hope in his eyes. "You mean…?"

"Yup," Jax nodded, smugness evident in his voice. "Buckle up, buddy – we're going to the Institute of War."

---

Aaaaand Chapter 1 is done! This took ages to write, but I feel it paid off - so far we've at least got a look at the two/'one' OC's this fic is going to be utilizing. I'm however quite nervous about making the story completely OC-centric - as you'll notice I didn't write from Garret's point of view once in this chapter. This isn't to say I'll be having him - and his new tenant - as some kind of 'passive-protagonist' duo; it merely means I do not want to overwhelm the readers with too much nonsense.

Now then! Two new characters - one, a kind-hearted, courteous if cynical young scholar who's never even been in a play-fight, let alone a real battle - now accompanied by a malicious (...or is it?) spirit that seems capable of nothing BUT combat and weaponry. Should make for an interesting combo, I hope :)

Also, on a side note, a very special thanks to the EUW Server's player "Kitten Mittenz" for her stellar help in naming the bounty huntress from early in the fic. You have our sincerest appreciation for your aid :)

Now then! All's done and dusted, as an author, I wish to thank you, the readers, for taking the time to read this chapter. I can only hope you enjoyed it - knowledge only the feedback will show.

Until next chapter, though - adios, and thanks again for reading!