A Swain - Sylas Lore Fusion. Prompt from Curious Cat.


He'd heard it calling to him with tempting voice after they'd beaten him half to death once again. It desired something of him, a fragment, it hungered greedily after it. But Sylas of Dregbourne would not be consumed by some nameless shape in the dark. He'd survived the horrors of the Mage Seekers's prison too long for that to be his end.

That haunting cry had stuck with him throughout the months, haunting his days, ceaselessly tugging at his mind. While its whisper ran as a chorus underneath his thoughts, it began to reawaken something in him, something the Mage Seekers believed torture had broken him of. Stirring inside was the will to escape, to tear himself from his shackles, and lay waste to those who were his captors.

He stood resolute, growing bolder, feeling as though fate now guided him, and spit in the face of the guards threatening him. That voice now turned companion, a friend even, whispered a long-forgotten secret to him as he lay battered and bruised, staring into the deepening darkness. And when the time came, he used that secret to make good on that promise he'd made to them over and over in the throes of agony, to make each of them pay for every moment of it. As he emerged into fresh air for the first time in his adult life, he swore a new oath, to find that voice and bind it to his will.

Arduous months of travel, secretively passing through Demacia's allies, and then speeding toward his destination had brought him to where his goal would lie, Noxus Prime. That which he sought he could still feel, scratching around his mind, that ever-present lingering tug leading him across the whole of the continent. Before him stretched a yawning darkness and a staircase that seemed to never end, the path to his future.

He took a moment to adjust the pack on his shoulders, and steel his courage. Inside the pack were the hated chains, once his prison, they were to become his weapon. He cast yet another suspicious glance around, still hesitating at his task. He had not expected the ease with which he had gained access to the forbidden fortress at the heart of the city, but he had found the guards few and far between. Another deep breath, he'd come too far to turn away.

A last look behind and he placed one foot onto the first step with a thud that resonated like thunder in the silence. When nothing happened, the second joined it, and then again the first moved forward with utmost caution. And so on it went, marching down to his destiny. His single guttering torch barely piercing the darkness of the descent. A gust of wind impossibly assaulted it, leaving it fighting to shine on. For a moment he despaired, and that's when the whispers began, brushing against the edges of his mind, taunting him. For a moment he felt as though his resolution would fail him, still he pushed on. With every step the whispers seemed to grow in strength, turning to a cacophony of voices, all vying to share with him something of great importance.

As the last tiny sliver of light faded, leaving only blackness above and below, the air grew dense and each breath drawn by struggling lungs felt thick and heavy. Hours passed on those ever-spiraling stairs, perhaps even days. His legs ached and trembled, even with the time on the road to strengthen them. Still, the voices shouted, now feeling like needles driven into his skull. His back stooped, and the torch burned low, despair threatened. Finally, he halted when that dying light suddenly revealed a door.

It was simple, an ordinary door with a plan latch holding it shut. No guards stood watch, no magical sigils barred the way, no last great obstacle to overcome, only a red light emanating from the other side. A slight push and a weary creak, his quarry, at last, revealed to him, the voices stilled.

A thunderous noise greeted him, like thousands of ravens crying as they soared through an open sky. It was before him, bird-like, yet not. It pulsed with eldritch power as it thrashed about as though stirred from a great slumber, terrible wings beating relentlessly against the air, but carrying it nowhere.

Slowly, hoping to avoid provocation, he removed his pack and withdrew the chains of pretricite. With their help, he should be able to drain this...thing of its power and grant himself an unfathomable well of magic to draw on. He took a tentative step forward as a shadowy like appendage swiped out stopping him cold. Doubt welled up inside of him.

"You can do this Sylas, I believe in you." That voice, where did it come from? Within him or behind him? Soft and feminine, it had a comforting familiarity to it. He shifted about, trying to ascertain the source. "Demacia needs you to set it right." Her voice.

"Luxanna." He whispered. No doubt it had come from his mind. The creature's effect on him must be causing this strangeness.

Demacia, Luxanna, they needed him. He would bring a reckoning to those who so callously wielded their power and played with the lives of others as though they were gods. Wrapping the chains around his wrist to secure them he stepped forward and the demon cried out again. From the darkness, a pale face observed with a keen interest in her golden eyes.