Warrior.

Butcher.

King-killer.

These are the words we often use to describe the first Hand of Noxus. But description alone makes poor storytelling. To understand out history, we must confront it, baring it down to the absolute minutia of the desires of the characters we build, for desire and emotion are the things that make us human.

The Juggernaut himself was not merely a monster, and it is folly to describe him as just that. Even he had code to live by, and in the end, he too was human, ultimately mortal and with the ambitions of a mortal. But the legacy that he left behind inspired so many others, turning their principles and leading to a microcosm of little stories for those who have the moral resole to delve into. The gods above and the demons below both know that a mere historian such as I, nor any man who walks upon the earth, can truly understand the wheels that turn in our world. But is ignorance not the gateway to learning? Is uncertainty not the path to progress? Only by having something missing can we find an opportunity to grow.

These are the essence of our nature, and I fear for the world. There are men who find themselves content while others suffer in poverty; basking in their own sufficiency, they neglect that an unchanging mind leads to stagnation, the death of all things in a changing world. To grow and evolve, that is human. But to those who scoff at the necessity of change, I ask you this question: how can you truly be unchanging, if the only things that do not change are the gods? So, are those who cling to the past gods?

Or are they merely deluded men?

- L.G., Vice Historian of the Piltover Archive, signed Year 500

Chapter 1: Eyes

"The eye is the lamp to the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be filled with light." -Matthew 6:22, the Bible, NIV

Year 274, Outskirts of Oakensfield, Old Noxus

It was a cold, grey morning for the people of Noxus that day, and a sharp, shearing wind ripped through the limbs and branches of trees and stirred dark brooks and the stagnant souls of forsaken men. On the earth below, one could hear the sound of iron-clad hooves striking the road, their equine owners snorting and pulling against the restraints that bound them to a creaking wagon. The driver, a grim-faced man wearing black, woolen clothes from head to toe, looked back at his passengers, who all wore dirty rages and huddled in the back, away from the driver and from each other. The driver grunted in distaste and the group traveled in silence for about twenty minutes, until the three meter-high iron gates that held in a small town came into view.

"Hallo!" the rider cried out to a guard, who was lazily staring at the horizon. "I've got a delivery here."

The guard shook out of his reverie and acknowledged the rider. "Hallo, Revere! What've you got today?"

"Children from the town of Sorrel, Farming District. Got burned down by raiders three days ago."

"Damn. Farming District didn't want them?"

"Nope, they're rebuilding some of the other towns that got hit before, can't take care of a bunch of new orphans as well."

"So naturally, we get to be stuck with them. Unlucky for the kids or us?"

"You keep squatting on that stump, Gerald, but I get the real work. I've got at least three more trips to pick up the rest of the refugees, and by the heathen gods of Zaun, these brats are lucky that they ain't shipped off to the coal mines or the Fleshing Arena. I've heard stories about the kids who go to those hellholes." Revere shuddered, thinking about the horrors of the Fleshing more than actual compassion for the orphans. To him, cargo was cargo; logs, children, slaves, whatever, and if he got his gold, he would do the job, and damn the consequences with a good quaff of alcohol to accompany it.

Gerald, the guard, slouched for a while, then attempted to strike conversation again. "So, you're taking them to the cabins?"

"Yep, it's out of my hands after that. Boring, ungrateful work, this is."

"Hm. Least you get paid well for it, and you get to look at more things than the same stupid sunrise every morning. Like me," Gerald grumbled as he moped about his job in sympathy.

"Says the guy who sits on his rump half the day and drinks the other half. Goodbye, Gerald." Revere smirked and lightly punched the guard, who rolled his eyes and opened the gates to the town.

Revere drove towards a twin line of large log cabins, which stretched across the road for a quarter of a mile. In the distance, he could see the western gate, and beyond that the forest which most of the people of Oakensfield felled for their living. He spotted a man going to work, a hatchet in hand, and called him.

"Hallo! I've got newcomers!"

The man walked over and saluted the rider. "Revere! More orphans? Can't believe the other districts keep dumping their undesirables here. Unless you've got a couple of your own in here, eh?"

Revere sighed. "We can insult each other at the bar another day, Callum. Here's the list of their names and ages, best I could make out. Just keep them sorted with similar age groups, hit 'em if they start crying, and get them to work like you usually do." He then frowned and whispered, "Also, I've marked a couple of the names, and you gotta be careful around those. We've got a real load of nasties this time."

Callum leaned closer and whispered back, "Really? They just look thin and scruffy, most of 'em."

"Trust me, riding for three days with these kids in tow has been a real hassle. The kid with the coat there," Revere pointed to a boy of ten with choppy brown hair and nervous, darting eyes, "Is named Johnny. He tried to shank me twice. He found a broken bottle or plate before I picked him up, and worked on it for half the trip with a small rock. He even made a second one, as if killing me once wasn't enough. Real psycho, I'm amazed nobody died on the trip here. And that kid, Amea," he pointed to a small, blonde-haired girl about seven years old, "Wouldn't stop yelling for nearly a whole day, and tried to jump off the wagon into a river. Heathen gods, children are annoying."

"Jeez, should have just left them on the road instead of handing them to us."

"Sorry, I get paid five extra for every kid I bring here. If they get too big a problem, dump 'em in the forest or something. Oh, and there's just one more you really have to worry about." He glanced backward at a boy who stared at the talking men. "That kid."

Callum glanced at the list, then at the boy. "Weird name he's got. Sounds a bit Shuriman."

"Probably is, he's got that Southern look in him." The boy in question was the age of twelve, and of stocky build. A mane of messy, black hair wreathed his face, which was somewhat lighter than the sand-gold color of most Shuriman peoples' skin. But it was his eyes that made him unique even among the Shurimans Revere knew. The irises were crimson, like the color of blood, and burning with an intensity that he had seen in few men. The boy grasped the edges of the wagon, scowling as he strained to hear the men's conversation.

"Oh, gods, Revere, his eyes."

"Huh? Don't tell me you actually believe in that superstition. Eyes are eyes, and as the nuts in Zaun know, any eye works, even if it's purple. Sure, the kid's got some mean blood; he beat Johnny to an inch of his life after the brat tried to pick his pocket, which is why I'm telling you to have some care. But he ain't demon spawn for having red eyes; his parents died, didn't they?"

"Ugh, I don't have a good feeling about this kid, but I guess you're right. Might as well get them to start work." Callum marched over to the wagon and slammed on it with an open palm. "Listen up, brats! You're going to line up when I call you, and I'll be taking you to your cabins. Report to the cabin leader immediately, and you'll begin work in two hours. Now stop whining and haul over!" After angrily listing off the children's names and sending them off to various groups, Callum and Revere were alone on the road.

"Well," Callum said, "New workers. I still don't want to work with that big kid, though. No offense, but those eyes, man. They had some evil in them."

Revere started saddling his horses. "Man up and get back to work, Callum. Don't go spreading your talk around, or I'll be carrying you to the Fleshing for my next trip." He fastened the reins, got into his seat, and drove off.

The boy looked at the number on the door of the cabin he was assigned to: 9. He hesitated for a second, then knocked on the door, sharply rapping twice. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a tall boy who looked a few years older than him. He had strength in his arms, the younger boy noted, from years of chopping wood. The most notable physical characteristic of the stranger was a streak of iron-gray hair that ran down the right side of his head, which accented the look of authority across his face.

"So," the tall boy said, "You a refugee?" He nodded once in response. The other boy seemed to find this amusing and chuckled. "Don't talk much, do you? Well, that's fine. Come inside." He opened the door wide and beckoned.

"We get folks like you all the time," the boy continued. "Refugees, bastard children, and the like. One of the jokes at Cabin Nine goes like this: the children that come out of wedlock here are better at jacking wood than their fathers." He smirked, and was pleased to see that his charge's countenance was slightly less grim. "That's a start, I guess. Oh, and I forgot, we're also the crazy cabin. You know how old Revere has those little marks next to people's names on his list? It's for messed-up kids like us." He amiably patted the younger boy's shoulder, which was a mistake.

The boy slapped the hand away and turned on his elder, red eyes burning with rage. "Don't touch me. I'll hurt you if I have to." His hands curled into fists, and anyone could tell that he knew how to fight, and possibly even kill.

The tall boy's smirk fell. He tensed and matched the younger boy's gaze. "Now, while I'd be very interested in seeing who's the stronger man here, a fight wouldn't be very productive. As I've said before, this is where the crazies go. One small slip, and you'll be out on the streets. I don't decide the rules, but I'm telling you this for your own good; I've seen several kids like you booted out and starve to death because they threw this chance away. If you want to live here, you have to play by the rules. Now, calm down, and we can talk about something like, say, not killing each other." He waited with concealed nervousness for a response for one.. two... three seconds, and found with some relief that the younger boy relaxed. "Much better. I'm Boram, by the way. Third eldest in Cabin Nine, native-born orphan. And you?" He then offered a hand in greeting.

The younger boy shifted uncomfortably, and shook the hand, muttering, "Sion. From Sorrel."

Boram smiled. "Well, Sion, it seems we haven't gotten off very well, but hopefully we can work something out. Anyhow, welcome to Cabin Nine and Oakensfield. We'll be eating breakfast and going to work soon, and I'll show you around for the first few days, so I hope you join us. There's a few open rooms, take your pick and then get ready."

As Boram walked off, Sion stood and scowled as he remembered Boram's stare, and his cold eyes.

For a moment there, he thought he saw anger there that was as great as his own.

Got my first follower! (Shoutout to Liimbo, thank you kind sir/lady.) As this is my first story, I'll rely on reviews to keep me aware of things I can work on. Updates will come every week, unless some terrible tragedy befalls me :P. Good tidings to you all, and remember, stay forever strong!