The plan they'd concocted was a simple one. The Demacian would enter first and attempt to. With him possessing a sort of illusionary magic (he hadn't confided in him yet) and being skilled enough to contend with him, Erret figured if there were pirates ready to ambush them the Demacian would survive their assault. That left him to flank from behind and clean up any of the messes. And if the Demacian were to fall in the line of duty, he'd live to tell the tale.
So why was it, Erret wondered, that dread still crawled up his back?
As he watched unseen from the shadows, the Demacian stepped into the light. Though he held a sword in his hand, the Demacian was relaxed, seemingly apathetic to the situation around him. His heavy steps creaked on the wooden boards of the pirate hideout and the tip of his blade rasped against the stone walls. By noise alone the Demacian was making himself known. If there was a group, surely they would've noticed the fool prancing around their place and taken action, right?
Yet, nobody seemed to take the bait.
"Huh," the Demacian loudly muttered, and Erret briefly wondered if it were an act or if his partner truly was an idiot.
Seemingly not, for the Demacian immediately stepped into the office. With the small room having a single entrance, he'd be even more of a target; he could hardly run from such a position. Though Erret couldn't see what the Demacian was doing there, the sound of metal tearing metal and wood whining suggested the Demacian giving the pirates a taste of their own medicine. Sure enough, he walked out wearing a golden necklace with a green jewel.
Whilst you're at it, just pick up whole chest. That'll piss them off... Erret thought, And whilst you're at that... well, no, staying your puffed up self will help. Bigger target, less of a loss.
At least, from his point of view. Other than skill and power, which the Demacian clearly held, Erret saw no reason on Gerris' end to keep him around. He was... well, Demacian; self-righteous, naive, honorable, foolish... Despite (and it put a bad taste in his mouth to admit it) being one of the better reckoners in the warband, even including Erret and Gerris, the Demacian seemed to hold distaste for the warband's second job. It wasn't apparent to the others; the Demacian was as competitive with them as any other of Gerris' men; but when it came for the executions, the Demacian's disgust was evident with each restrained stroke. It was bittersweet; the fool could slap him silly in half their spars without an ounce of deceit in his movements, but was soft enough to hesitate against desperate criminals. And he never once made an attempt to hide it.
Whoever taught you how to fight did you a service you were undeserving of; if not for it, you'd be a deadman by now.
But I suppose… did I deserve my training?
Erret pushed those thoughts to the side with a growl. Of course he deserved it. He practically ran street corners; by the time Gerris picked him up he hadn't gone hungry in months, maybe a year; such was his success in stealing and fighting. And when he'd bite more than he could chew in picking a fight with Gerris, he lasted far longer than he should've; if the worst had come, he probably could've ran away with his life. But, he stood his ground and made a good enough impression to… he was worthy, and that was the end of it.
Whilst the Demacian wasn't aware of Erret's judgements, his performance did little to change his opinions. Wandering around with the chest in his hands, the Demacian walked to the mound where Erret suspected a bomb was planted and tripped on it. Perhaps it was an attempt to make himself look even more vulnerable, but it seemed too obvious to Erret. Even more obvious was the "huh" sound the Demacian made when he looked to his feat to the dirt mound, and Erret could only frown deeper at the performance.
His breath quickened, however, when the Demacian started digging at the mound.
Though he was able to control himself enough to not burst on the scene and reprimand the Demacian, Erret couldn't help but draw out his knife.
You idiot! You need to be able to react if someone actually bombs you! Not to mention that at least underground there was less risk of a bomb igniting.
And yet, Erret's muscles tensed, and he prepared for someone to take the bait. As much as the Demacian's actions disgusted him, surely the ridiculous act would be the perfect bait? Someone would have to take it, surely. Erret's eyes watched the walls and shadows; every opening into the room. It could be a cutlass shaving the dark, or a musket's bayonet poking through the black. Or…
A steel ball with a lit string.
As soon as it landed, the Demacian heard its hollow thud and reacted. His eyes widened at the sight of the bomb, but rather than run, he pounced on it. That was as far as Erret saw, but he did hear the Demacian yell in pain, followed by a dull plopping sound; he'd grabbed the bomb's fuse with his dirty hands, perhaps stifled the fire, then throne it into the nearby lagoon. An impressive display, even considering his prior experiences with the Demacian's reflexes in an arena.
But Erret payed it no mind, for his concern was the source of the bomb; right behind him.
Erret didn't even bother look; the blade had to be coming. The Noxian ducked a swift swipe, rolled past a downward follow-up, and threw his dagger. It missed, but his attacker - a stocky bald pirate with an eyepatch - leaned away all the same. With a war cry the pirate charged, only for his cutlass to meet air and for Erret's broadsword to meet his gut. Of course, that wasn't the end of the fight; two more pirates stepped from the shadows; a woman armed with a musket and a man armoured in scraps. Below in the lagoon the sound of blades clashing echoed, interspersed with splashes and magic ignitions; the Demacian was also engaged. But it wasn't as though either of them could help each other.
The second pirate to charge wasn't much better than the last. Using a large scimitar, his blows would've been intimidating to a civilian and mighty to the average warrior. But after seeing blades of similar size being thrown at him in quick succession, Erret wasn't impressed. The pirate's bulky armor slowed things down considerably; both in his movements and in Erret's capacity to kill him. But without hands to hold his blade and eyes to see his foe, the pirate might as well have been killed. It was easy work.
So of course, that's when the crossbow bolt hit him.
Halfway through his fight, the second pirate had started shooting at him with a crossbow. They were slow enough that Erret could move around them (or simply hide behind the armoured pirate's large frame) but with the armoured pirate fallen on the cave surface, he was open. And, as much as he hated to admit it, the armoured pirate wasn't too terrible. He was able to exhaust him enough to get hit, after all.
Of course, he was able to dodge. But, the dodge only prevented a kill shot. As Gerris and taught him, wounded legs might as well be kill shots. Unable to stand, Erret could only growl in pain and crawl to his fallen foe. If not for the crossbow pirate's long reload, Erret doubted he'd have made it in time. The pirate's follow up bolt broke through the armoured corpse's neck, but didn't pierce. His leg burned like hell, but Erret paid it as little mind as he could. He instead focused to the floor, and heard dull thuds and the hinges of a crossbow load. Whilst the pirate still had a ranged weapon, she was coming closer for the execution. That meant he still had a chance.
Erret hugged the corpse of his foe closer, heard the steps grow louder, then rose up quickly. He flicked his knife and struck true, breaking the pirate's crossbow. Unfortunately, she wasn't so easily dissuaded. Producing her own knife from her coat, the pirate pounced on Erret like a drake-hound. Erret raised his good leg to stop the attack, but that only gave the pirate leverage to flip him to his side. Despite the burning in his other leg, Erret kicked the pirate's shin with it, tripping her. Quick reflexes were the only thing that kept Erret from being stabbed, but the pirate clearly had some ground experience. Despite landing an elbow to her liver (or at least, that was where Erret was aiming), the Noxian found himself under a mount.
Shit, dagger, dagger!
The knife came down a third time, and Erret wasn't able to dodge. But, wounded as he was, he was still stronger than the pirate. At least, he assumed he was; between her choice of weapon and thin, light build she probably wasn't accustomed to fighting like this. Erret's theory was proven correct when he stopped the knife by intercepting the pirate's wrists. Pulling them to stab beside his head, Erret was able to shove away the pirate. Erret then rolled to his side to pull at the pirate's knife, embedded in the stone.
An arm went under one of Erret's armpits, and another under his neck. Panic gripped Erret's mind as he stabbed behind himself to no avail. With his free arm he tried to find another elbow strike, but found air. He couldn't fight, so flight would have to do. His relative strength meant leaning forward wasn't too difficult, but with his vision beginning to grow dark… darker…
Shit, shit, no... I'm not dying like...
A scream pierced the empty cave.
The pirate's grip on his neck loosened, but his grip on the pirate's dagger had weakened much earlier. By the time he could hear and see clearly, the dagger was back at his throat, with the pirate behind him yelling orders.
"Let him go!" She cried with indignant rage.
But who… oh.
Standing surrounded by corpses, the Demacian stood. Unlike Erret he remained completely untouched, with his only losses being the weapons he left in his foes' bodies. Only one of said foes lived, breathing heavily with the Demacian's boot on his belly and his knife embedded in his shoulder. From the cruel smirk on the Demacian's face, he imagined the defeated pirate's remaining life could be measured in seconds.
Which meant so was his.
From the pain and fear in his captor's voice, Erret believed the Demacian's foe was some close friend; maybe family, maybe a lover. The specifics didn't matter; once the pirate was dead he'd be too in retaliation. Not that it would dissuade the Demacian much, Erret imagined. Ironically, he'd be the one to go back to Gerris to report his rival's death in the line of duty.
The fact that the Demacian would actually be telling the truth only bruised Erret's ego more.
The Noxian flailed in the pirate's grip, but with a growl the pirate secured her hold on him and poked the knife deeper into his neck. Not enough to wound, but enough that Erret felt a drop of blood trickle from the cut.
"Let him go, or I swear I'll gut your friend like a fish!" The pirate snarled. Erret believed her.
"Hmm..."
The Demacian's gaze hardened as he transferred his attention to Erret and his captor. The look in the Demacian's eyes was suffocating, and Erret felt as though his heart would burst from dread. His life was in the Demacian's hands, and he could end it with a word.
The Demacian spoke, and Erret could scarcely believe it.
"Well, it seems we're at an impasse," the Demacian's smirk returned, "But if you'd like your pal here free, well, heh... you first."
Even as Sylas channeled his ice magic to free Xander, Erret's nerves didn't leave him.
How could they, when a psychopath stood before them?
Of course, Xander would argue about that. He's only being emotional, he'll say; he'll know we can help him get what he really wants, he'll say... well, wasn't it that a term people use for insanity is madness? Sure, the things that happen to Demacian mages would piss off any moral soul not indoctrinated by the system. But, just because Sylas had a good reason to go crazy didn't mean I'm let off said craziness with a free pass.
Crazy means unpredictable, after all, and that means dangerous.
And yet, Xander seemed all to happy to see the revolutionary. Admittedly the bearded man held a face of cordiality that even Erret found warm, and he had freed Xander from a possible death. But that was because Sylas saw in Xander a mage - a fellow comrade. Would that amiable nature remain when Xander revealed his allegiance? Erret couldn't say.
Sylas helped Xander rise, pulling him up with a shackled arm.
"I haven't seen such magic before," Xander mused, gazing intently into Sylas's eyes. Erret couldn't see them from his perspective, but given the magic displayed he'd have betted that they were an icy blue.
"A recent acquisition," Sylas replied, "Now, yours isn't a face I've seen before. I take it you're a recent initiate?"
"You could say that," Xander answered, "I've been on the run for my magic for a while, but I only linked up with the revolution a few weeks back. They were hard to find."
"Then the loyalists haven't found them. Good news," Sylas paused for a moment, "What's your name?"
"Imuren Sha at your service. And my friend here's Ermen."
Erret fought the urge to flinch as Sylas turned his gaze to him. He found his prediction was correct as the revolutionary gave him a cold, analytical glance. Thankfully, Sylas' expression warmed after a moment's pause.
"You're not a mage," he noted, "And yet, you stand by your friend. If only the rest of Demacia followed your example."
If only Demacia followed the example of an untrusting killer who'd do anything to preserve the good things he has in life?
Actually, isn't that just Demacia, just without the talk of justice? I'll have to talk with Xander about that... but the point I was hoping to get to is that they really shouldn't...
Erret didn't speak his mind, and only nodded with a chuckle, "Someone has to look out for him. I mean, he was crazy enough to go up hear looking for you. No offense to you, of course."
"I find it admirable that someone shares my conviction for the cause," Sylas replied, "It can't have been easy to find me. But I suppose having a fire mage helps matters along."
Xander frowned like a street rat caught stealing from a fruit stall, "Actually I'm not a fire mage."
Sylas squinted at the admission, "What? Then-"
A rough woman's voice stopped the conversation in its tracks. Erret turned to face its source and found... well, he'd seen more intimidating mounts than a massive boar, but unarmed as he was the drüvask still made him gulp. There were two of them; one with an empty saddle (presumably Sylas') and another with a young woman atop it. With bodies more lean and muscular than their livestock contemporaries - the drüvask's frame reminded Erret more of a hound or a mountain lion than it did a pig - and fangs that were dwarfed only by its massive tusks, the beasts before Erret seemed like natural predators. That only spoke of the rider's accolades in Erret's eyes. For Silas he'd heard much, but the newcomer didn't seem green either. The woman was relatively less clothed, with a sleeveless coat and arms fully exposed to the elements, save for a handful of charms, bands and totems. She looked upon them with cobalt eyes more vibrant than Sylas' yet twice as cold.
The woman spoke in a rough tongue, to which Sylas responded in a clearly imperfect accent. The revolutionary clearly made some sort of mistake in his reply, prompting a teasing gaze and a repetition of the mistaken word. The exchange almost distracted Erret from the band of Freljordians that appeared from behind the rider; including two more drüvask riders.
"Recent initiates?" Xander asked, and Erret had to stop himself from slapping his boss.
The first rider approached, her drüvask snorting at Xander. The rider squinted and spoke in accented but otherwise perfect Valoran.
"Initiates?" she asked
Sylas sent an amused glance Xander's way before answering the Freljordian.
"Friends," the revolutionary said.
The rider curtly nodded before turning to face the rest of her tribe. One of the other drüvask riders - an older woman with a blinded right eye, scars upon her face, and a mount bigger than the first rider's - approached and began conversation with the first rider.
As the two Freljordian women spoke, Sylas addressed Xander and Erret.
"In a sense. I've convinced them that we share a common enemy in the crown; they'll fight for us."
"With us, I assume you mean," Xander glanced mischievously to the Freljordians as he commented. His tone darkened right after, "I'm not sure this is a good idea. I doubt most Demacians will approve of us using raiders to, well, you know... raid?"
"It will be necessary," Sylas said, "The revolution can't win on our strength alone; the Mageseekers hold too much influence, and the armies too much petricite. We must be resourceful."
"Well... sure, boss," Xander sighed, then glanced at the Freljordian riders, "What are they talking about? Me and Ermen aren't gonna be some sacrifice to the gods or something, right?"
Sylas laughed at the jest, "Quite the imagination you have. No, nothing like the stories. They're just discussing whether to let you in the tribe."
Erret spoke up, "The alternative being?"
"Trailing behind us, having to fend for yourself and cook your own food... that sort of thing... I lasted that way until they had me join a raid. Initiation, if you will." Sylas heard another comment and glanced to the riders. The one on the larger drüvask stated something which prompted a grimace her supposed inferior, who turned to Sylas with a sigh.
"Are your men strong?" She asked, "Can they survive?"
Xander spoke up, "We got this far, miss…"
"Thorva," the rider looked down on Xander from atop her steed, "Your arrival does not suggest strength. One needs fur, fire, food and sense only to trek the Freljord."
At the last point, Thorva glanced at Sylas. Whilst he didn't have Xander's ability to scan the subconscious to read subtext, Erret figured Sylas had done something stupid on his way up. Regardless, Thorva continued.
"You must fight to survive. Can you fight?"
Erret found himself scoffing, "Can we?"
Xander cleared his throat and worded the reply more diplomatically, "We do not wish to, but if we must we can fight hard."
Thorva gazed at them analytically before moving on to Sylas.
"They are your men," she declared, "You will care for them."
You are responsible for us, you mean…? Ah right, she's probably new to the language, never mind my criticism then.
Sylas nodded. With that, Thorva addressed the rest of the tribe, much to the apparent distaste of the scarred rider. As he beheld the sight of the rowdy would-be barbarians cheering loudly, Erret kept his ears open. He noted names he learned from Xander were being invoked by Thorva; Avarosa, Serylda, and Lissandra, the sister founders of the Freljord (allegedly); Volibear, Anivia, and Ornn, regional gods who Xander claimed were real…
Thorva's speech ended when the scarred rider raised a hand. The cheering ceased, and the rider spoke curtly. It reminded Erret of an encounter he'd had with General Darius during Rell's rebellion. The Warband had been partaking in drinks and small talk to celebrate a recent victory, but as soon as Darius made himself known, the party hushed respectfully. Clearly the scarred rider held similar authority here. She regarded Sylas, Xander, and Erret cooly, barked an order, and the men soon began to march.
Thorva waited for Sylas by his drüvask, which he mounted.
"Come on then, we march," the revolutionary called, "I'd offer a seat, but their traditions…"
"Understandable, we can walk," Xander said, "But, would it be much to ask for help with the bags?"
"You got this far with them," Thorva teased, "You can last until you tame your own mount. If you tame your own mount…"
With that, Thorva went off. Sylas glanced to them and shrugged.
"I trust you'll be able to catch up."
"After what?"
"... on second thought, that tent won't hold up in a storm. Just bring your bags; you'll stay with me until we get back to Demacia."
With a snort, Sylas' drüvask began to move. Xander briefly watched then turned back to the cave to scavenge what he could. As the cold seeped back into his bones and the gap between them and the Freljordians growing, Erret could only grumble.
"Well, I guess we made it," he muttered.
"That was the easy part," Xander replied, voice muffled from the snow.
""Why do you think I'm pissed?"
Xander laughed, equal parts bitter and amused, "Just get over here and help. Sooner we're back with Sylas the sooner I can get my work done."
Erret sighed, "Forgive me then for wanting to delay things..."
As it turned out, Erret got his wish.
Though the day's march had ended half an hour earlier, Xander and Erret remained at the back of the tribe. Sylas was busy leading the tribe closer to Demacia; he was far to busy to deal with them. That was fine by Xander; it'd give him more time to figure out how to approach the topic of his allegiances. The large berth between them and the main pack also gave the Left Hand a semblance of quiet to think with. That and Erret still radiated his healthy dose of caution; no need to make him overdose.
"You're going to tell him, right?"
Xander didn't look to Erret as he responded.
"Of course. But how is the question. Ideally I'll be able to get him into a dream state, but... It'll be hard enough convincing him. Now with the Freljordians?" Xander huffed, "I don't even know what they want."
"They seem to respect strength," Erret noted, "And Sylas convinced them to tag along so... do you know what he offered?"
"That they could raid easy bountiful targets in Demacia. That's it," Xander answered, remembering what little lore he could, "Issue is that they accept that but wouldn't accept... well, Darius is still busy on the eastern front."
"So their decision making makes no sense in regards to Noxian rule?"
"Basically."
"What else is new."
Xander chuckled, but internally frustration bubbled within him as well. Not just at the Freljordians' lack of seeming logic, but at his own lack of vision. He couldn't have known it on Earth, but had he known he probably would've focused more on Freljordian lore than he did.
But then again, would that have helped? The Freljordians were, at the end of the day, a tribal society; at least, the part not ruled by Lissandra. They were superstitious survivalists that were unorganized and inconsistent, interspersed with enough ice magic to legitimise the local faiths. At least, that's what he recalled… Point was, there were too many conflicting motivations in the Freljord; the traditionalists who prayed to their gods, the raiders who seemed to get off on killing and stealing, and Ashe's crew, who Xander recalled to be relatively pacifistic… all of them just wanting to survive.
We're dealing with the second option though, if I'm not mistaken. Though from the chanting earlier they may be some faithful around. How irritating…
Hearing a laugh, Xander's gaze transferred to two Freljordians who'd been watching them since they were assigned the rearguard. Sat by their own small fire, the two men grinned at them like wolves cornering a deer; they didn't seem to expect them to last very long. Never mind that the remaining firestone they had could keep one of them safe by its ambient heat… so long as a storm didn't rise, but surely they'd get a break?
…And yet, not nearly as irritating as them… idiots are universal.
From the main tents of the tribe, two figures approached. Though the faces of their would-be caretakers wasn't particularly uplifting, Xander feigned a smile all the same. It would help ease relations, after all.
Sylas spoke first, "Sorry to keep you at the back of the pack. Their leaders dislike me as is, so..."
"Keep us out of sight until we prove ourselves," Xander assumed and was met with a nod from Thorva.
"You will have your chance by morning," the Freljordian answered, "There are no safe targets to raid between here and Sylas' path. You will fight with the tribesmen."
By his side, Erret chuckled, "We'll be more than ready for it."
Thorva curtly replied, "For your sake, I hope. Do not die."
Thorva then departed. Xander squinted, confused, but eventually just shrugged shook his head. Sylas caught on.
"Her Valoran isn't perfect, so we've been teaching each other our native languages," Sylas said, "She means well; she's the only one really standing up for us, actually."
"Truly?"
"Her and the scarmother are the leaders of this tribe; that's the old woman on the large drüvask. The scarmother would rather kill us, I think."
"And Thorva?"
"She says her gods brought her to me, and I to her-"
"How romantic," Erret deadpanned.
Sylas chuckled at the jest, "Our relationship hardly of that nature. But because of her faith she believes I'll help her and her friends."
Xander raised an eyebrow, "Do you intend to?"
Sylas shrugged, "Well, if we are successful in defeating the loyalists, I don't see why we shouldn't share our Demacian wealth."
Xander opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out of his mouth. If they really were going to use the raiders - and Sylas seemed pretty keen on it - the proposition surely wasn't a bad idea.
Probably better than giving Sylas a reason to kill him for no reason other than appeasing a misplaced sense of honesty.
Xander cleared his throat, "Could you show us to your tent? It's getting rather cold out here, not to mention the bags are rather heavy."
"Oh, of course. Follow my lead," Sylas continued to speak as he walked, "I've already spoken with the tribe leaders, so we won't need to worry about any interruptions for the rest of the night."
"That's good," Erret mumbled, watching his steps so as to not trip on Sylas' chains, "We have a lot to speak about."
"Current events?"
"Quite a lot, yeah..."
As they walked through the Freljordian camp, Xander watched. A few eyes followed them. Some watched with inconsequential curiosity. Others judgement, and even one with baleful disgust. Or was it envy? Xander could've sworn he'd seen one of the women eye up Sylas rather suggestively.
There were all those memes about how sexy Sylas was... figured people who actually saw him in their real lives would agree.
Eventually, they arrived at Sylas' tent. It seemed big enough to hold two people comfortably; three would be a bit of a squeeze. Made from the hide of some massive creature (probably a kill of Sylas'?), it seemed thick enough to withstand even the cold of a Freljordian blizzard. The tusks repurposed as pins surely would've held the fur down, Xander believed.
"Impressed?" Sylas asked, standing at his tent's entrance, "Another recent acquisition. The tribe needed food, so we attacked a pack of mammoth on our way. I saved the scarmother from this one's charge with an ice spike, so I was given half the coat for a tent."
"Where'd you stay before that?" Xander asked, smirking as he suspected the answer.
"Sometimes Thorva, sometimes Brokvar," Sylas absentmindedly answered, then flinched when he caught on, "No, my r-"
"Relationship with her is nothing of the sort, heard you the first time," Xander shrugged with a smirk, "Oh, and who's Brokvar?"
"One of the tribe's best warriors," Sylas replied, opening the flap into his tent, "I fought him when I first met the tribe; guess he respects me for it. You'll probably fight him tomorrow."
"How does he fight?" Erret asked.
"Well, he's a brute. Uses a massive broadsword that can kill if held by the wrong person. Thorva says its due to the 'True Ice' embedded in its hilt," a sarcasm of a sort seeped into Sylas' voice as he mentioned the magic ice, "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't try it myself."
"You tried?" Erret raised an eyebrow as he unrolled his and Xander's sleeping cloth, "How didn't you die, then?"
Sylas shrugged, "I sensed that Brokvar held latent magic in him, so I stole it. Combined with what I got from Thorva previously, I was able to manipulate ice, as you've seen."
Xander squinted briefly, but quickly recovered. He figured the Unshackled must've expressed his special magic openly in the rebellion to explain such an asset so casually. Perhaps he'd have to try explain to him how valuable keeping said power secret could be... but then again, none of the reports on the rebels Lady Elia had given him mentioned it, so perhaps that would be a moot point?
Sylas changed the subject, "Speaking of latent magic... you mentioned that you weren't a fire mage?"
"A-ah, yeah..." Xander shook his head - and let his nerves calm - as he let down his bag, "I'm not a fire mage."
Sylas squinted, "I could've sworn I sensed fire magic from the camp we found you in. Did you... lose anyone?"
"No, actually," Xander let some pride in his voice. This was something he'd figured on his own back in Noxus; he felt he deserved it, "What you felt were these."
The Left Hand gestured to his bag, where Sylas glanced with cautious curiosity. He knelt to open it and all but jumped up at the sight of its contents. Reacting to the mighty mage's presence, the firestone's rune glowed an ominous orange.
"This is petricite," the revolutionary whispered.
"Charged petricite," Xander elaborated sitting down to sort through the bag whilst Sylas was distracted - some trinkets were left unseen until he knew of his allegiance, "I... heard the stories of how you channeled magic from the Dauntless Vanguard's weapons. Combined with a passing wonder if non-mages could somehow share in our unique gifts - power to the people and such - I wondered if there was something that could make it so. I then came to the same conclusion I realize you did: that petricite doesn't mitigate magic; only drain it. From there the questions: does petricite have a limit for its magic charge, and can the charged magic be exploited?"
"Leading to this... a fire mage helped?"
"Of course! Every day before bed just pass by and give some magic, and now any magic user with this stone can use pyromancy," Xander explained, "Whether our non-mage brothers can wield it still requires some research; haven't got it to work yet. Control also needs work, but we have time."
"And contributing it holds no downsides for the mage in question?"
"Nothing terrible that my partners and I have observed. Same issues as simply running into a 'seeker's Graymark; slight pain, mitigated powers for a few hours at most, no permanent downsides."
Sylas took the firestone in his hand and glanced at its orange rune. The symbol's color faded as Sylas' eyes turned to volcanic cinders. With a breath he dropped the stone and returned its magic. Low chuckles filled the tent as he knelt.
"What was that you said? About the people?"
"Power to the people?"
Sylas' laughter grew, "Excellent, excellent... truly. This... I almost feel foolish for looking for magic up here. The crown's days are numbered."
Xander couldn't help but feel pride swell in his chest, even at the mention of his old friends' potential murder. He smiled, then continued.
"Of course, bu-"
"Now, is the petricite only good for fire magic?"
Erret stepped in, "Of course not. It's just the most obvious one magic to channel; use power to make fire. Most other common magics involve control; hydromancy controls water, geomancy controlling the earth, and so on."
"I see," Sylas crossed his arms, a hand stroking his bearded chin in careful pondering. His eyes remained focus on the stone whilst the rest of his mind wandered. Unfortunately for Xander, the Unshackled's train of thought drove him to the question he was trying to delay, "And your magic... Imuren, what type of mage are you..."
Sylas' question died in his throat as he quickly stood up. A furious gasp slowly left his mouth. As per Xander's plan; his eyes glowed indigo he channeled a vision of Jarvan into the Unshackled's mind. In his mind's eye, Xander pictured his old friend fall to the floor, blood seeping from his mouth. Xander grimaced briefly before feigning a smirk as the vision disintegrated from his - and Sylas' - mind. As Sylas' eyes widened in realisation - a curious sign - Xander explained.
"I'm a dream mage. In the physical plane I can put single target illusions by causing day dreams. But more useful, I can stay steps ahead of army patrols by sneaking int-"
"Into people's dreams, just like..." Sylas chuckled, but a bitter tone seemed to underly it, "... You said you recently joined the revolution. I had trusted soldiers see personally to new recruits... who initiated you?"
Didn't... right, Aislynn left Sylas, or at least the main revolutionary group. Along with all the people who didn't want to fight... should I?
Well, I don't know anyone else.
"A woman named Aislynn. She's-"
"A dream mage, just like you," Sylas finished. A hopeful look flickered in his eyes, "She returned?"
"I... don't believe so. I found her through her dreams. We were then able to meet up, where I saw her leading a town's worth of apparent revolutionaries; mages and non-mages alike. They aren't as... zealous to the cause as people would have you believe."
"Perhaps you didn't see them fight?"
"I asked around. They... disagreed with how the rebellion started. The raid on the palace, all of that..."
"I see..." Sylas' face became the picture of disappointment. With a short breath, he seemed to push whatever regrets he had to the side in favour of curious analysis, "Aislynn, the other leaders and I often dreamt together to plan raids and travels, but that needed us to be in the same room for it. And you said you just... found her dreams?"
"It paid to be aware," Xander shrugged, "I don't know about Aislynn, but... for me it was a local leader, shall we say, that caught me using magic. With all the powers of office - including asking local mageseekers for help - I was hunted. Almost like he had a personal vendetta against me... heh. Had to adapt to survive. That meant asking questions, probing limits..."
"Indeed. That's very intelligent of you," Sylas complimented, "Hmmm... I suppose you'll want to continue your report in a dream?"
Wait, what? Oh, holy fuck, this is actually happening.
Xander could scarcely contain his excitement, "W-well, if that's fine with you. Why, I can put you to sleep immediately if you need to."
Sylas squinted, a mischievous smirk on his face, "You're not just going to knock me out, are you?"
"... Haven't really thought of it like that... but no, you're not at risk of bruising or brain damage on my part," Xander chuckled, eyes glowing and sparks gathering at his right hand, "At least, if you're already lying down. Now, nobody should be interrupting, no? Deeper dreams are hard to wake from."
"Shouldn't be," Sylas' glance went to Erret, "But just in case... Ermen, was it? Care to stay up a bit longer?"
Erret nodded with a frown, "Right... because I'm not the sleep deprived one... if only I had a sleep-based magic."
Xander shrugged, "I'll pay you back for it?"
"Just go to sleep, bastard."
Sylas fell upon a hammock in his tent's corner, lying in the swaying cloth, "Your sacrifice will not be forgotten."
With that final jest, he closed his eyes. Xander channeled his power, forming a rune he'd memorised from a Noxian tome and setting up the dream he and Sylas would speak in. For a moment, nothing indicated the Unshackled's transfer to a dream state. Then, his face relaxed, and his breathing slowed and deepened.
The moment didn't last. Sylas visibly flinched, frowned, and tensed; in his dream, he'd likely asserted a fighting stance. The sudden shift was understandable. Xander doubted the revolutionary had ever even heard of the Noxian method of dealing with his brand of warrior. And, of course, all things in Noxus were intimidating by nature; he could've dropped him into Yin's family's lavish mansion rather than the Noxkraya arena and Sylas still would've reacted with fear.
Yet, those observations faded quickly as the realisation of his accomplishment dawned on Xander. A giggle escaped the Left Hand of Noxus' mouth; a laugh that, if framed right, Xander presumed would sound and look truly malicious. He glanced to Erret with a smile, watching his friend exhale a sigh of relief.
"Well..." the saboteur shook his head, "Is that the hard part done?"
"Medium part," Xander admitted, laying down upon his spread-out cot, "Wish me luck on finishing this. Now, get armed and ready to leave. Feel free to sleep; I'll have Nocturne wake you if the worse comes to past."
"Got it. Good luck."
After nodding at his friend's statement, Xander lied down. Putting his hand over his face, the Left Hand closed his eyes and traced the rune. His dark vision opened to familiar golden sand, glorious shouts, and almost gaudy scarlet drapes. Xander had dropped himself and Sylas into a private room in the Noxkraya arena; the type only aristocrats or successful officers could afford. Not that he'd spend money on it; Xander'd only seen the room when Swain had invited him for a briefing on Black Rose movements.
Sylas was sat where he had been that day. Or rather, he was standing close to it, taking in the sights with increasing confusion and anxiety. Xander sat where the Grand General had that day, and, to his mind, did as close of an impression of the man as he could. Calm and collected, hands together leaned on the dining table before him, eyes watching ever closely.
Eventually, Sylas noticed him. His expression betrayed equal parts fear, rage, and disbelief.
"What the hell is this place?" He asked. Xander knew he didn't need to explain.
"Sylas..." Xander paused, considering the best way to continue, "Apologies for the sudden shift of scenery... Figured it was appropriate for what I need to share with you."
Sylas glared at him like a cornered animal and spat his words, "That you're not really Demacian?"
Xander frowned at the accusation; mostly because it could be true. He hoped his reaction communicated some level of guilt.
"I suppose..." A different frown solidified on Xander's face as his mind backtracked, "No. I may have joined Noxus, but I was born in Demacia; I am Demacian before all else."
"Is that so, Imuren?" Sylas snarled, advancing, "Is that even your true name?
Xander stood and felt his fear and magic rise within him. With a sigh, he dismissed it - but not before willing ice into the dream realm, freezing Sylas down where he stood. As the revolutionary reached down and tried to shatter the dream ice, Xander considered his options.
It's as I feared. But that he didn't immediately lash out... please mean that you're willing to listen. I... damn it, I probably should've figured something out before hand. Saying the truth and hoping for the best is such a limiting strategy!
And yet, realistically, it's the only one that'll get me what I want. Damn it, Sylas; don't fuck this up for me.
"No, it isn't," Xander answered the question set before him, "Now, please listen. I don't want to fight."
Sylas looked up from his frozen position and lashed out with his chains. As easy as it would've been to will a few of the links out of the Dream's existence, it was even easier for Xander to simply back away from the attack. Out of range, Sylas could only growl. His rage seemed to cool, however; from a growing blaze to smoldering embers.
"It's not though I have a choice," he spat out, "Go on then, Noxian; speak."
Xander sighed. Alright then. Here we go.
"I swear I speak the truth in this. My name is Xander, and I am here for a single purpose. For the good of our homeland, I've come to find you to propose an alliance."
Author's Note: Once again, sorry for the wait. Drafting this chapter took longer than usual, and I'm still trying to piece my work ethic together. At least I have scraps I can recycle for the next chapter; maybe I can upload the next chapter sooner? Wouldn't bet on it, but...
Now, a few random things I forgot to mention in last chapter. Rell got brought up a moment, but given the framing of Xander's timeline, he actually didn't know about her before isekai-ing into Runeterra. His Earth goes into nuclear hell before Rell is even announced; the latest champ he knows about is Seraphine, and only so far that she's a KDA member. If I ever get around to it, Xander wouldn't know about Sona 2.0's abilities or lore. He only knows up to Samira and Yone.
As for how he dealt with Rell, I touch on it briefly, but basically Xander got cold feet around her; he'd be a hypocrite if he ends one revolution without question then goes on to found his own someplace else. The details following that I hope to get to in a flashback in a later chapter, so I'll save it for then.
I hope you've enjoyed my writing thus far. Please leave a review; I appreciate any feedback I get for the fic, as it can help me improve or show where I'm succeeding. See you next chapter.