Pun-ultimate Chapter, here we go. Hope you've all enjoy so far!

Just a heads up, Ch 5 will likely not be as long as the others have been.

In theory, the League was an arena where city-states and rich individuals settled their disputes without engaging in the overly destructive warfare of the past. In practice, it was a freakshow, a zoo, training grounds, a mages guild, a show, a comedy, a club for nobles and royals to prance around and impress their followers, all of these things together, blurred and interwoven.

Vlad's place was somewhere between the mages guild and the freakshow. He expected his entry to be without many formalities, but the moment a representative saw him, a long list of desired improvements was produced.

"It is good that he is a red-eyed albino, we've not had anyone like that yet," the official had said."But he needs his own style, a stage persona if you will, and an outfit to match."

Is this necessary, the blood mage thought later, when the metallic claws extending from his fingers made his gestures awkward and hard to balance. Truth be told, he enjoyed looking fancy. As he stared at the flamboyant, predatory man in the long red coat in the mirror, he found himself admiring what he saw. He could see himself becoming this man, and he could feel the visage resonating with the power fantasies he had had as a teenager and even as a child.

For this reason he found it extremely easy to get into character from his first game onwards. He appeared at the starting point of the arena, informed about the strategy, but largely inexperienced. As one of his teammates, a large, aging sailor saw him, measured him from head to toe with his cunning eyes, and landing his large hand on his shoulder, barked:

"We got a new lad here, mateys! We're all friends here, boy, nothing to be afeared of!"

Terribly excited and entertained by the man's accent, Vladimir donned the mask of the cheerful, bloodthirsty clown-count and fired pun after pun at the invisible audience. Puns were easy and failing at them meant great success, and people seemed entertained. He laughed maniacally in his mildly forced but awkwardly charming way while dirtying his hands with the blood of no fewer than ten people (loosely speaking). His art was flashy and stylishly gruesome, matching the colors of his outfit.

The audience loved him.

…

"How was it, master? I watched you from the Institute, you were magnificently fierce."

"Wonderful, Alastor. Thank you so much."

…

With his bloodthirst sated, the young mage felt both his life and his mind were beginning to fall into a steady, controllable course. He was a calmer, more relaxed man than ever, and with Alastor's loyalty by his side for the first time he felt like he belonged in Noxus.

Then the invitations started raining.

"What should I do, Alastor?" asked the lad.

"You should go as Vladimir from the Fields. He is the one they know and love, and who you have spent the last months becoming. But keep your eyes and ears open - there will be opportunities to grasp and secrets to learn. I trust the deceased Lily has taught you at least one way to acquire them."

The mention of his victim's name did not offend or worry him anymore. She had been a necessary milestone on the way to his goals.

His murderous appetites, once sated, withdrew into a safe and controllable corner of his existence. The same way a starving man would dream of nothing but food, Vlad had been preoccupied with murder for far too long, despite his desire to suppress it. After joining the League his hunger for death was replaced by a more ravenous, unforgiving one- the lust for power. As he fought side by side with Noxus' elite, his gaze would shift ever upwards, until it was permanently fixed to the top of the fortress-city.

One way or another, he would find his way inside.

Alastor came with him to his first banquet, trying to serve as the training wheels for the lad who had spent the better half of a decade isolated from society. The day after, entertained by Vladimir's ineptitude, he started teaching the young man about social cues, the subtleties of class and rank, and the changes that had taken place in Noxus in the image's absence.

It was all difficult and incredibly complex, and the butler made sure to teach his ward of the price of failure. But after Dmitri's educational methods, everything was child's play. There was a certain undertone to every event, every interaction - it was the pursuit of power, knowledge and pride - and it all resonated within the young man, as if his very genes of a pure-bred Noxian noble responded to it.

Indeed, it had been his birthright to be among the ruling class of Noxus, and as he gained contacts and influence, there was one specific noble house which interested him above all. Very early on he learned that his mother had passed away, and the thoughts filled him with sadness and regret.

I wish she could see me now, he thought, I wish she had lived long enough to feel my vengeance.

It took, however, many balls, parties and banquets, many formal dinners and escapades with noble ladies, where Vlad would draw secrets from his partners in between moans of ecstasy, before he finally made it. He got invited to an event where his father was supposed to appear.

Alastor, who at this point was familiar with the boy's story, knew what was about to happen, but preferred not to interfere. He knew how hard Vladimir had worked and how far he'd made it through the Noxian elite, and decided he was to be allowed this one small prize.

"Refrain from melting any flesh, sir," he just said as he drove him to the event. " Gehrman du Aarenberg is an important man, who has done well to side with the military. While you are Swain's protégé, I doubt you can get away with the mutilation of a man like that."

Vladimir smiled and nodded as he brushed the odd strand of hair off his exquisite blue coat, fixed the ribbon binding the loose ponytail of ivory hair and stepped through the threshold of the ballroom.

He bowed and greeted each and every one of his acquaintances, making sure to make small talk with at least some of them. A few, especially the youngest, were somewhat intimidated by him and would buy his attention and company with pieces of semi-valuable information. Vladimir would smile, summon a seductive glimmer in his eyes, and indulge them.

In a way, he was still a freak and an attraction to be displayed, but his height and noble features automatically drew people's respect. Curiously enough, his pale perfection was in great contrast to the olive-skinned, black-haired and scar-covered Noxian men. He found out many ladies would dream of a lover white as snow and pure as the fair men of Frejlord. He was there and happy to satisfy their needs.

He saw Gehrman, his father-brother surrounded by friends and family, cheerful enough to make Vlad's good mood dissolve. He was married now, to a woman of equally noble birth, and had brought his two sons to the event. They were the haemomancer's nephews... or brothers, depending on how one looked at it.

Gehrman himself was a strikingly beautiful man, stern and grand as the ideals of a Noxus from the past, but also refined and seemingly spared by age. His skin was olive, hair- jet black, and eyes a deep and rich shade of blue which illuminated his image and distinguished him from the crowd.

"I do not believe I have had the pleasure," Vladimir bowed before his wife, introducing himself to her, the children, and finally to his father. The man looked somewhat taken aback by the sudden introduction of the pale man, his eyes flashing a forlorn recognition before returning to composure.

"Gehrman du Aarenberg, yourself?"

"Vladimir, Crimson Reaper, Haemomancer, and champion of the League of Legends," He made sure to accentuate on the lack of surname.

They both knew why, of course, and Vlad watched with delight as his father's smile turned more and more sour.

Name me, the unclaimed son thought, acknowledge the sins of your past, I am an Aarenberg head to toe, inside and out, the purest there has ever been. I will forgive you if you name me.

But no such thing happened. Their conversation continued on a predictable and boring course, and Vladimir soon gave up before the nobleman's self-control and mastery of talking a lot without saying anything. His heart was filled with bitter rage, so he stuck near the Aarenbergs long after the conversation had ended, making sure to always be within three meters of his father.

Eventually, people would start to notice. The two men were the same height, and by a strange coincidence, their outfits were somewhat similar. In fact, they were as if someone had pained the same portrait twice and forgotten to colour the second copy. Vladimir entertained the lady of Du Aarenberg, played with his nephews and even demonstrated some of his magic to them.

"You can call me uncle Vladimir," He smiled viciously at the intrigued boys. To them he was a fairy-tale come to life.

Eventually, as enough heads had turned and enough awkward whispers had been shared between the people, Vlad decided he had ruined his father's evening enough and left for a breath of fresh air in the back garden.

He sat there, in the cool embrace of the evening air, twitching with adrenaline and grim satisfaction. He was about to get up when he heard a series of footsteps approach him from behind. Whoever it was, they were agitated. He could feel it in their blood flow.

"You; Vladimir," the voice of Gehrman. Vlad turned his head, looking the darker man in the eye.

"Gehrman. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Vlad's voice was almost sing-song with satisfaction, he hadn't needed to even get up.

"Don't pretend, cut the bullshit." The man's disposition was suddenly rougher than inside the ballroom. "We both know who you are and what you want."

Vlad's brow raised, as if beckoning his father to continue, but he wasn't. He wanted to wear the man down, break him. "Oh never mind that for now, I wanted to ask you something." He paused. "Where is mother?"

Gehrman took a mental step back, but held his ground. His lip curled in disgust as he looked towards his son and brother sitting on the steps. "She's dead. She died because of you." The older Noxian made a growling noise before continuing. "Years after you'd left the city, a pack of dogs took it upon themselves to 'cleanse' our upper society of what your existence implied. We're not obsessed with keeping our bloodlines pure, so you and your entire being were abominations. Of course, you were gone, so they took action against the next best thing; her. The servants found her strapped to her bed with multiple stab wounds in her chest and stomach." Gehrman kept his gaze fixed upon his kin, glaring at him as though he were a monster in human skin.

Vlad felt a great upheaval of mixed emotions. On the one hand, he felt almost vilified, the ones who'd brought him into the world and subsequently ruined his life as best they could had suffered, at least partially. On the other hand, his mother was dead – the only person in the world he'd instinctively sought approval from. He wanted to be named, if only to be acknowledged as belonging somewhere and being closer to her. His gut twisted into all kinds of inhuman shapes, and his blood boiled.

"How…is that my fault!?" The anger took hold of him, luckily the guests inside couldn't hear his rage. "I didn't ask to be born into this world!" He seethed, now standing and facing his father down. "And you, how old were you? 15, 13, 11!?"

"It's all past now, boy. You were a mistake that deserved to be erased. I will not name you as one of my kin, not now, not ever." He turned his chin up a bit. "You will leave now, and never set your eyes on me or my family again. I've worked hard to get the military and the rest of the nobility on the Aarenberg's side, your existence will not put that in jeopardy."

Through clenched teeth, Vladimir swore. "I would have forgiven you, had you agreed to name me. We could be friends, brothers. Why would you not welcome one of the most powerful mages in Noxus in your family?"

"I'll say this one last time. Should you approach me or my family again, there will be consequences." Gehrman cut him off, moving forward and hoisting Vlad by his collar.

Instinct gripped the haemomancer for but a second, but that second was all that was needed in order to compose the next set of events. Vlad's arm swung upwards and his fist caught Gehrman on the side of the cheek. It wasn't a great punch to be honest, but since it caught the older man by surprise he yelped in pain and dropped his son. His hand raised to brush against the wound and surveyed it. His eyes turned fierce as he glared at the pale man once again.

"You little shit."

At this point his son was moments from plunging into a murderous rage. He had been attacked by the man he'd sought to negotiate with, but worse, the exchange had opened a grievous, bleeding wound in his honour, his newly acquired pride. Seeing the opportunity to hit where it hurt, Gehrman continued:
"Go on, fight me. But don't you dare use your gruesome sorceries, face me like a man for once."

The brawl between the two was unrelenting and frightful. Each man would go as fast and as hard as they could, bloodying and battering the other in a bid to make them fall first.

Vlad's style was wilder, more desperate and more ferocious. As often as he'd swing with a fist, he'd swipe with an open hand. His whole body would lunge with each thrown blow, his momentum unmatched, but his style unrefined. Gehrman in contrast was deliberate in his movements, his fists stayed raised to fend off face-ward attacks from his younger, and his strikes were straight and true. He did not feel as if he was fighting his kinsman, but rather trying to fend off and defeat a wild, rabid dog.

At first it seemed as though the fight was fairly even. In truth, the only thing keeping Vladimir in the fight was his desperation, and his fury. He wasn't even channelling his magic, but he could feel each heartbeat send a quake-like throb through his network of veins. Gehrman might have been older, but he was at the prime age for a fighter, more formally trained in Noxian martial art, and hadn't spent years of his life malnourished in the mountains. As the fight lasted longer, this disparity showed and soon, Vlad was losing.

By the end of the brawl, both of them had small rivulets of blood running down their skin and through their clothes. Bruises adorned each like badges and their heavy breath gave the fight a musical backdrop. They stared into each other's eyes, wishing cruelty against them. Their hunched over forms were tell-tale of who had won and lost. Gehrman's fists were still raised, despite his back arching in pain. Vlad had been forced to take a knee and place one of his hands on the ground to support himself, but he didn't tear his eyes away from his kin.

"Had enough?" Gehrman spat.

"That's quite enough, boys. No more."

Their brawl was suddenly interrupted by a lonely clap in the night, and a voice to accompany it. The two men looked to the darkness of the gardens, and a curvaceous figure emerged from the gloom.

She was pretty, very pretty, and she knew it. She knew how to walk to draw all the attention in a room, and even when she was commanding she smiled in such a way that was hard to ignore. She was older than him, Vladimir could tell, but he couldn't tell how much older at all. Her pale skin was unlike Vladimir's pallid complexion; even in the night she was radiant, and her hair looked as if the shadows had draped themselves atop her.

It was Gehrman who spoke first. "I'm sorry miss, but this isn't some mere quarrel. Forgive me for continuing." He raised his fists again, betraying his dedication to Noxian-style pugilism.

Vlad simply narrowed his eyes and let out a long, slow exhale. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then Gehrman's eyes widened in horror. The streams of blood flowing down Vladimir's brow stopped, then began to flow in reverse; back into his skin. His face and clothes soon were cleansed, and his wounds sealed themselves shut before his father's eyes. He stood tall again and flexed his arm, showing off the writhing veins beneath the skin.

That's…blood magic? Gehrman thought, fearful.

So that's blood magic. The woman though, intrigued.

Vladimir was captivated by the woman, and for these few moments he completely forgot about his furious, bloodied father and even the joke that was his childhood. The small demonstration of his art, which cost him more energy than it seemed at first, had precisely one purpose – to impress the radiant vision before him.

And it seemed to have succeeded, or at least so he inferred by the interest she was studying him with. As Gehrman snorted out a curse and left the gardens, Vlad rose to his feet, and, encouraged by her curious eyes, bowed gently and introduced himself:

"Vladimir, Crimson Reaper, Champion of the League of Legends, at your service, beautiful lady. I do not believe I've had the pleasure?"

"You can call me simply Evaine for now… Vladimir," she said as she offered him her hand.

He bowed down and placed his lips on the porcelain skin, feeling a mild shock of electricity run through him as he felt the smooth, cold texture. Magic.

"I apologise if you found the accident distasteful or unfitting of your evening walk. Please, let me lead you back to the hall."

She nodded courtly and followed him. The lights of the ballroom failed to pierce the shadows which engulfed her. Intrigued, the blood mage sought to infect her with his touch, to breach her impeccable surface. They were in the middle of the ballroom then, and a dance had just ended.

She stood, tall and splendidly perfect, and as Vladimir attempted to take hold of her bloodstream, a stronger shock ran through his body, one that almost made him lose his balance. He blinked, unbelieving, and measured her head to toe, looking for an explanation.

She did not even make a sound, and did not regard the event as if anything had happened. Her seductive, glossy lips pursed as if for a kiss… or he may have been imagining that.

Later that night he strode home, side by side with Alastor, completely forgotten about his incident with the Aarenbergs, but instead completely captivated by the strange lady.

"Alastor," he started, "Have you, by any chance, heard of or met a sorceress, a mysterious weaver of shadows and illusions, who introduces herself as Evaine?"

His butler blinked for a moment, attempting to recall all the mages he had encountered. His memory almost served him, and Vlad caught the look of recollection in his eyes. To the lad's surprise this look instantly melted, as if a mystical barrier stood in the way of him remembering.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm afraid I don't."