Act III
Two months had passed since their first meeting under that moonlit sky, and with it the seasons had changed as well.
Rain began falling more often than not.
And so Syndra found herself fighting in the Fields of Justice one late afternoon drenched in a torrential downpour.
It was not that big a personal handicap; she kept herself dry through force of will.
It did make a difference in the battlefield however for the heavy rain hindered her sight and the electricity in the atmosphere interfered with her extrasensory perception.
Worse, some of the other champions not only benefited from such weather, but were at home in it.
Dark spheres at the ready, she felt a presence in her immediate vicinity.
The Dark Sovereign got her guard up; she could not afford to be careless at that point in battle—amongst her allies she so far was the one who provided the greatest pressure to the enemy—and thus was the prime target for elimination.
The presence shifted its position suddenly, and by reflex, Syndra launched her spheres into its projected direction.
A startled half-snarl met her ears—her attack had met their mark.
She immediately rushed toward her injured quarry, arcane energy crackling about her to shame the stormy sky above, ready to finish what she had started.
Rengar lay under her hungry gaze, burned and battered from her initial assault.
Let us make this quick, savage.
Telekinetically seizing the Pridestalker, she jerked him back into her direction, and followed up by effortlessly raising him high into the stormy sky and then slamming him with finality onto the muddy ground.
Rengar groaned, bloodied and broken in a crater of steaming mud.
She could not help but gloat as she readied herself for the killing blow.
"Any last words?"
The one-eyed hunter unexpectedly chuckled through a mask of blood.
"Fool."
Before she could even comprehend his meaning, a phantasmal chain and sickle had shot out with blinding speed from the darkness, and Syndra shouted in agony as it dug into the flesh of her right leg.
A monstrous force of will possessed her, corrupting her senses and denying her the power to escape from a cackling Chain Warden.
To add to her torment, the maddeningly elusive yordle scout, Teemo, began riddling her flesh with poison darts.
She was going to die now, she thought irritably, and her team would have a severe setback.
The monstrous spectre named Thresh kept her bound in his ghostly chains as Teemo instantaneously healed Rengar with a salve.
Damn you all! She would have said, but the skull-faced Chain Warden's magic was too strong even for her in her bound state.
Rengar's leonine face twisted into a fanged, bloody smile, blades at the ready.
"Any last words?" he taunted in reversal.
I'll take you to the hells with me, she would have said if she could.
The Pridestalker motioned for the killing blow when a seemingly innocuous cartridge flew from the thick jungle.
The hextech cartridge caused minor explosions when it rebounded on the three enemy champions who had cornered Syndra.
It was not nearly enough to kill them but enough to alert them to an attacking enemy.
They did not realize that it was already too late.
By the time the bouncing cartridge had done its work, four shots—four notes to the staff—were already fired by their unseen assailant.
The first ripped out a song of blood from Rengar's thigh, crippling him a second time.
The second note caught Thresh's side, its dissonance forcing the ghastly warrior to slacken his chains.
The third, a proud forte, sent the one-yordle audience that was Teemo scampering into the bush.
The Chain Warden hurled his lantern into the direction where the Swift Scout had ran off, knowing that they were caught in a trap.
"You fool! Get to the lantern, NOW!" Thresh bellowed at the fleeing yordle.
Realizing he was in the open, Teemo attempted to dash for the lantern when the fourth shot came, perfect and unforgiving, blowing the Swift Scout apart to applause made of blood and shrapnel.
I like the way you die, boy, he thought when he saw Whisper's fourth bullet compose another song.
The artist would have admired his work, but he had a teammate to save.
And not just any teammate...
The clock was ticking and the play was still on, its refrain marked by a lotus trap being thrown at the injured Pridestalker.
Rengar attempted to toss it away when a round fired from Whisper's cane attachment immobilized him.
The trap detonated in Rengar's hand, instantly killing him, sending dissonant shards of rain and blood drenched shrapnel at the already injured Chain Warden.
Thresh knew he was quite literally outgunned and attempted to flee with his prize into the rain-soaked jungle.
Yes! Dance for me...Dance!
Jhin's breath grew heavy with excitement as he assembled Whisper into configuration for the curtain call, his vision and range unimpeded by the heavy rain.
And now Thresh...your curtain rises.
One.
Prepare for your finale.
Two.
You will be beautiful...
Three.
You will be perfect!
Four.
Each and every one of the hextech accelerator powered shots met their mark, shredding the monstrous spectre's corporeal form.
The fourth dealt the finishing blow and the artist watched with pride as he saw flowers blooming and heard an aria being sung from his latest piece.
Perfection!
He immediately ran to aid his comrade and was pleased to see that she had taken the initiative to heal herself after being freed of Thresh's chains.
"What took you so long?" Syndra asked.
She was smiling though, and he knew that this was her way of showing gratitude.
"I always execute with style, darling" the masked assassin chuckled, "and that old bag of bones can take a hit."
He offered a hand enveloped by a golden gauntlet to help her up from the muddy ground.
"Let us make this a performance to remember shall we?"
She took his hand, biting her lip as she did, and his hidden smile grew when he heard her breath hitch when his skin touched hers.
Oh, how you make my heart sing...
The resounding victory their team had won had raised both of their spirits that evening.
It was no surprise then when Syndra had requested that they meet again later that evening to further perfect their schemes for domination, and—as she had coyly hinted before retiring to their quarters —actually celebrate their collaboration.
Since the stormy weather had refused to abate even after the authorities had attempted to rein it, the amphitheatre made a poor choice for their meeting that night.
It had been a pleasant surprise for Jhin when Syndra decided that they will meet in her quarters.
There was no missing the note of conflicting apprehension & excitement in her voice, however small it was.
He knew what it meant, and it pleased him.
It pleased him indeed to know that Syndra, for all her attempts at hiding her desire for him, was failing as always.
He had no intention of letting her failure be corrected.
Not now, not ever.
The Virtuoso knew that there would come a time when he had to tip the balance irrevocably in his favour.
Tonight perhaps?
He had dressed in a somewhat different fashion that evening.
We shall see.
An artist and a gentleman, he made always made sure that he cut a dashing sight.
He was meeting his lady after all.
He had dispensed of the black eelsuit and golden greaves he so opted in the field for a near-diaphanous white Ionian poet shirt coupled with black gold-trimmed dress pants and high heeled dress boots of the finest Freljordian leather.
In place of his white and gold field cape, he had worn a billowing floor length cape the color of fresh blood, swept off to one shoulder and loosely fastened at the level of his neck with a gold chain and lotus shaped brooch he had forged a few months before.
One aspect of his look remained constant—the meticulously carved, smiling, ivory-colored visage which had since become infamous in the Fields of Justice.
Which is the lie? he would sometimes ask himself, the mask or my face?
Yet he could not part with the mask, try as he might.
For him, it was his real face.
The face of the artist.
The face that Syndra was helplessly, hopelessly in love with.
He then fantasized at what Syndra might have decided to wear.
She had always gone on their meetings in some variation of her usual battle outfit.
Not that I am complaining.
Striding confidently towards his destination, the Virtuoso could not help but feel that this was to be an evening to remember.