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Chapter 8
Homecoming
Ephrial's senses tickle with familiarity. An aura of tension, the smog in the air, and an especially potent tug of instinct to watch his back. The light fades, and his bleached view becomes a haze of visible outlines and shapes. His sight gradually comes back into focus, and voices of excitement begin to surround him.
Who is that? Where did he come from? What the hell is going on? Voices clamor and murmur as they form a rabble.
He shakes his head, recomposing himself. Sharp eyes quickly scan his new surroundings…or rather, an old setting he once left behind, long ago. The ill-kept roads, cracked walls of buildings, a gloomy sky… The spontaneous malfunction of the Master Nexus has landed him into the depth of Noxus, and in one of the especially less-than-charming neighborhoods.
"Aye, that's 'im! No mistakin' it!" a gruff voice calls out.
"It's the half-blood traitor!" The crowd of people slowly turns into a mob as the voices continue to call out in revelation to his identity.
Half-blood 'traitor'…? An ironic twist to a paradox born from his mixed bloodline, and turning his sword against the half that would see him dead. As a living balance between opposing natures, Ephrial is a unique contradiction in a variety of ways, but treachery is not one of those aspects. After all, how could someone betray a nation that loathes his very existence? A nation that saw his kind as targets for extinction.
The mercenary-knight rises to his feet, a hand swiftly grasping the hilt of his blade. A glint of steel and lick of fire; the ardent sword swings around, covering the back of his neck from the crudely serrated edge of a zweihander.
Only moments after his arrival, and tools of destruction already threaten his life. No hesitation…only action that dictates life or death in a moment's notice. He expects nothing less from the unforgiving backstreets where the shadows of night offer only bloody daggers, and the sun invites the public display of violent duels in open view.
A blazing sword pushes off the opposing weapon, and with a fluid turn, he spins around, rushing the hilt of his blade into the gut of his assailant. A non-lethal measure, effective at taking the man out of the scenario before he can even react. The rest of the crowd slowly gathers closer, taking arms, while shop owners subtly reel in their stock out of the way of what will soon be a battleground.
"This isn't good…" The swordsman thinks to himself, surveying the sharp weapons closing in. "I need to get out of the city…and fast."
There's his opening—a tall, metalworker in struggle with his career, bearing a custom pike in his hands. What others may see as an impassible wall, Ephrial sees as the least expected course of action, serving his escape in calculated measure. Noxians are taught to go straight for the biggest and most formidable opponents, proving their might, and earning glory through the pride of taking down the toughest foes. Most Ionians, such as the tribe of Ephrial's heritage, prefer avoiding violence, viewing it as a path of self-destruction. In moments like these, both disciplines work hand-in-hand.
He twirls his sword around in a quick motion, surrounding himself in a brief ring of fire; a flashy move to give himself space, causing the circle of Noxians to take a step backwards from the heat. The withdrawal presents the opportunity for the half-blood to make his move. Quick steps charge straight towards the blacksmith, provoking the anticipated response of lurching his spear right towards him. A nimble swordmaster dips out of the way of a brutal set of spikes designed to maim and murder, landing him well-inside of the man's guard. With the Noxian unable to use his polearm up close, the opening allows a steel-plated shoulder to smash into his chest, knocking him back over like a falling tree.
Mid-descent, Ephrial jumps onto the chest of his chosen target, and uses him as a lift to bound over the men behind him as they fall like dominoes under the heft of the stalwart spearman. The remaining crowd begins chase, being briefly disrupted by the stumbling of the break in their ring. It's not the biggest delay, but any bit of distance kept from a riot of murderous intent is to be treasured.
The Blazing Swordsman runs through estranged streets, past lanes of memories, and turning corners of blood-stained cobblestone. The enormous skull-faced castle of the High Command stands tall in the distance behind Ephrial, as if stalking him like the dark shadow of his past, once more watching his escape from the city-state under a moonless night.
Get out unseen and before they lockdown the only gates allowing passage through a massive wall. A goal, simple in wording, but starting amidst the most inconvenient of situations. How the blood-infused curse follows him in forms of irony. As a warrior versed in the mastery of two arts of two separate nations, taught by the very prodigies of their respective representatives, he has surpassed both teachings in an unlikely harmony born through his internal chaos. A set of circumstances and skill that have left his deeds carved on a host of villages and cities in Valoran, and blossoming into a household name through all of Runeterra after his abrupt appearance in the League's broadcasts. Such a figure of hard-earned strength would normally be celebrated in Noxus, despite his ties with other factions, save Demacia. Even Mundo, a Zaunite butcher of people, including Noxians, with no conscience and no regard for life, is championed within the walls of the city-state, granted free roam for his sadistic science. However, because Ephrial is half Ionian, his achievements are seen as a mockery to Noxus, as his supposed 'weakness' and 'impurity' have dealt blows to the pride of the nation that had blamed his kin for ruining the Noxian way with teachings that oppose brutality.
"Over here!" a woman cries out to her fellow mob, chasing him through an alley and down the trash-filled slums.
For Noxians of underprivileged backgrounds, claiming the swordsman's head is a means to ascend from the gutters, and to be mounted in a place of honor. He is but a trophy to them. Even after Swain had changed Noxus with the defeat of Darkwill, and his zealous, axe-wielding follower severed the heads of the nobles and monetarists seen as obstacles, some citizens continue to struggle to survive days of empty stomachs and inadequate shelter. Killing, if not just stealing, is their only means of seeing the next day. None can attest that better than the League's champion that goes by the title of 'The Blade's Shadow'.
An intrepid peddler comes into view ahead, pushing a cart of lantern oil across the dark road. This fortunate development brings forth an idea of desperate measure. Ephrial unsheathes his blade, brandishing the flames of incarnate willpower once again. The commotion catches the merchant's attention, and he begins to move faster in an attempt to heave his inventory out of the way. The window of opportunity the half-blood mercenary cannot afford to lose begins closing swiftly. He hurls his weapon ahead of himself, sending it spinning in the air like a loose torch, landing it between the wooden spokes of a fleeting wheel. The cart owner jumps back from the near-miss by his foot, letting his grip go as he retreats from the flaming armament that locks his cargo in place.
Ephrial lurches forward, diving feet-first with his hand extending towards his sword. The slick coating on the stonework left behind by an earlier rain carries him forward as he reclaims his blade, slashing through the cart as he slides under it. Giving into the damage done, the wooden frame breaks apart, scattering glass vessels of flammable liquid along the ground. The oil rides along the water, spreading swiftly into a blanket of flames, rendering it impassible to the swarm of pursuers, and forcing them to turn back and alter their course through a nearby alleyway.
With time bided by a stroke of fortune, the mercenary returns to his feet, and dashes down the lonely, cold road of a residential district. Without breaking a step, he grabs a shaggy cloak left unattended on a barrel, swinging it around his out-of-place armor. Though clandestine in appearance now, he is far from safe. The watchful eyes of Noxus are everywhere, and word travels very quickly. The opportunity to grab a bounty within the grounds of their homeland is too great to pass up. After all, the chance to kill a champion of the Institute does not often appear outside of the Fields of Justice.
"I need to get out of the city before they block the only exit…" mulling over his situation as he pants heavily.
Having fought all day between a League match and the assault on the Institute has greatly taxed his stamina. Confrontation must be avoided, and his sword must remain sheathed if he is to keep from unwanted attention. Through cunning and the will to persist, he must escape through speed and stealth alone. Down the street, across the intersection, he begins crossing through his next barring obstacles. He leaps through a shattered window, the fragmented glass crunching beneath his boots upon landing. Keeping as straight of a path as possible, he runs through a broken wall and sprints across a large cafeteria.
The layout, not unlike the one of the school he had once attended, strikes the mercenary with memories as he weaves through the dilapidation. Noxian schools are not like those of other nations. The primary study is war, in all its fashions; tactics and strategies especially. Noxus does not rely on just having brute force, but the knowledge of how to use it. Most nations are constructed through or after war, at one point or another during its foundation, and especially their preservation. No existing nation at the present date can contest that fact. However, this brutal city-state keeps war as a tradition, as they have so displayed with Ionia and Demacia.
Ephrial springs over a smashed table, recalling the many bruises and bloody lips he had endured when defending his sister from those that would target her. Cerina was a shining reflection of their mother; bright-minded and beautiful, but too kind for her own good, and ever the pacifist. Ever the example Noxian prejudice preyed upon with blame for weakening them as a nation. Such conflict forced her twin into routing gangs of bullies to the point where it became a casual occurrence. A brutal string of lessons and conditioning that forged and tempered persistence and endurance to a level where his blood-imposed enemies were forced to see the direction opposite of Ephrial as the path of least resistance…and injury. Of course, it didn't help that instructors would actually encourage such confrontations, seeing them as the very demonstration of the Noxian code. However, the propaganda against his heritage undermined any mote of prestige he earned that would have been otherwise granted to a pureblood. Steps over a row of collapsed beams, and through an open door, lead him back outside to the present world.
A city-state is not without a buzzing nightlife, and Noxus is no exception. Beyond the strip of worn-down school buildings is the beginning of the main market district; the outskirts of the Ivory Ward. Anything from a simple loaf of bread to a set of dragon-scale armor, one can find in this place. As a middle-to-upper class area of business and varying prosperity, it is a constant target for the neighboring desperation. Sticky fingers and cloaked daggers are always lurking here.
The retreating knight makes a seamless entry into the crowd, pulling a hood over his head. He is now one of the patrons in the long streets of the various stalls and buildings set for transactions, blending in with the assemblage. Perhaps a bit too well, as a passing citizen mistakes him for the child pickpocket that quickly brushes between them as their proximity closes in.
"What the—my coin pouch…!?" the man's temper quickly boils. He turns to see the innocent swordsman, and grabs his shoulder, stopping him. "There's only one punishment for a thief in Noxus…"
Ephrial merely raises his hands to show he has nothing in them, much less any intent on running like a guilty man.
"Don't try to deny it, whelp. There ain't no way a street rat like yourself could afford a sword like that without stealin'," he attempts to seize the shining hilt as payback.
A firm grip stays his wrist. "I have no intention of repaying a crime that which I did not commit," Ephrial tosses the man's built arm aside.
"Oh, a price will be paid, alright…in blood!" the agitated consumer brandishes a hidden blade from his sleeve, taking a swipe at the hooded mercenary.
A sidestep and an open palm dives out of the way, while effortlessly pushing the attacker off balance. The man stumbles into a few small empty crates, cracking them open, and leaving him in a pile of humiliation. The noise attracts the attention of a passerby who calls out against the defending swordsman.
"Hey, what's going on this time?"
"Thief!" the dagger-wielding man cries out.
"A thief? More like a perfect opportunity to test out my new mace!" the new combatant joins the fray.
Ephrial's piercing perception quickly notices the oncoming man's attire. Dressed quite similarly to his accuser, and being so eager to brawl in another person's affairs, something is not quite right. In Noxus, fights happen all the time, in almost any street. No one is ever willing to help out a stranger unless… There it is—the link that ties them together: a small tattoo subtly placed on the left wrist. This isn't just some coincidence created out of being in the wrong place at the wrong time…this is a setup. One to make it appear that their chosen victim is branded a thief in order to publicly kill for their possessions, all while making themselves out to be blameless of an outright murder. Clever dastards.
"This has to be ceased quickly, and without drawing my blade…" Ephrial avoids dragging more attention by bringing bright flames to the mix.
He waits for the mace to reach within bludgeoning distance, carefully timing his counteraction. As the weapon swings down, he steps out of its way and grabs the hilt, forcing it to swing down and around, at an angle off to the side, forcing it out of its owner's grip with a rough twist. A quick swipe across the man's face, and teeth scatter across the cobblestone before being joined by a regretful skull. The heavily-used dagger rejoins the fight, and dives in from the side, missing its nimble mark. The gang member refuses to be denied satisfaction, and turns the assault into a tackle, knocking the mace out of Ephrial's hand as they tumble over rainwater and an empty market stall.
One hand pins the mercenary with a firm grip on his cloak and the other raises high the large knife. "Die, you worthless Noble!"
'Noble'…? Must be a glimpse of the golden hilt of his blade that gave him the thought. Ephrial has never known what it is to be of such high status. His father's disgrace to the ranks of the Noxian military peaked at the birth of he and his sister. They were later forced to relocate into a middle-class district, though treated with far less privilege. 'Strength above all'…unless you're at all part Ionian.
The knife plunges downwards, and a protesting hand contests it. With the other arm keeping the murderer's vice from moving towards his neck, Ephrial fights the descent of the blade poised toward his eye. The two lock in a test of true grit, using nothing but raw strength and endurance. A variety of obstacles overcome from the prior hours leave the knight worse for wear in such a position.
Something about the very air brings him back in time. A time of different strife than what he had grown accustomed to over the years of traveling. The part in his life where conflict was imposed on him, rather than when he began to impose himself on it. He is brought back to the chapters of the past before he began his journey to find a safe place for his sister to live. The familiarity of the streets, the gloomy sky, the smell of blood and sinew. Only the strong survive here…and it is this place that taught him how to be strong enough for two.
The fire within begins to stir with an echo of a loved one long-departed. He cannot lose here…there is much to be done. Words with everlasting purpose announce a second wind.
"For Cerina…for justice!"
Degrading steel begins yielding away from the burning oceanic eyes of determination. Ephrial's grip starts clasping with enough force to begin causing the thug's wrist to crack, causing him to forfeit the dagger. The Blazing Swordsman casts the disarmed limb out of the way for him to reach the leather straps around the man's chest. A hard pull yanks him inward for a brutal headbutt to the face. Fervorous force sends the Noxian recoiling back, and Ephrial kicks the bandit off of him. Wasting no time, the mercenary-knight winds and swings his legs outward, recovering to his feet with renewed vitality.
Blind fury and Noxian rage numb the pain with adrenaline and enmity as the market thug reveals a face doused in blood. Ignoring a severely broken nose, he begins charging in a frenzy. With a quick stance adopted from his foreign half's martial arts, the unwelcome swordsman readies an appropriate takedown. A rampaging fist launches toward his face, and with precision-crafted technique, Ephrial knocks the devastating assault directly upward with the heel of his left hand. A unique, defensive uppercut renders the attack useless, while firmly standing his ground in order to play into his follow-up. In a display of fluid and disciplined execution, the half-blood steps forward at the peak of his redirection, rocketing a swift set of knuckles into the gut of a wide-open guard. The masterful form aligns the body for maximum force, sending the man flying backwards a few yards away with the impact, and into a cluster of barrels.
"No fighting in the marketplace!" Noxian guards cry out from a distance as they approach in full armor.
"There he is!" another party calls out from a different direction. The bloodthirsty paupers-turned-bounty hunters have caught up with him.
So much for avoiding confrontation and unwanted attention…
Ephrial uses his regained stamina in a steadfast retreat, jumping over wheelbarrows and stalls to avoid crossbow bolts and hungry blades. The chase continues with no room for slowing down. The size of the market seems much larger than Ephrial remembers, just now passing by the steel mill located in the heart of it. A small group of soldiers appear from the alleyways ahead, attempting to cut his path off. As if an automated response, he speeds up rather than slowing to change course. Instead of blazing through with a streak of fire, risking his identity to a larger audience, he resorts to an old trick of his Ionian mentor.
"Fire in the hole!" he whips a small pouch into the ranks lying in wait just ahead.
The Noxians immediately fall to their training, moving out of the way of an explosive concoction of magic and alchemy. With a sound of a rustling jingle of coins, the sack falls flat, succumbing to gravity and nothing more. Ephrial dashes through the opening unopposed, leaving the soldiers to blink in confusion as he whizzes past.
The swordsman smirks at the ruse, sacrificing a meager amount of coins, leftover from the day's earlier League match, for a quick escape without losing velocity. This bluff was taught to him by an Ionian sergeant he had met during his wayward journey to find his sister's murderer. By chance or fate, Ephrial had encountered the dutiful man already skirmishing with a group of Noxian soldiers. Joining him in the midst of battle, their strength prevailed against their numbers, and sparked what would turn into a partnership. He would accompany the Ionian soldier on his way to Demacia to seek their aid for an impending Noxian invasion, based on reliable intelligence. Along the way, the swordmaster of the island nation would instruct him the ways of the time-honored martial arts of his family. Being a prodigy of the blade by hard determination, not freely-gifted talent, Ephrial achieved mastery of the new style in their temporary time together. The bond of friendship between the two swordmasters was cut short, however, during an improbable encounter with a Noxian force lead by Darius himself. Ephrial's newfound skills freed himself from the onslaught, losing sight of his friend in a forced retreat. Knowing he would be unable to acquire Demacia's assistance on Ionia's behalf without the proper documentation, the half-blooded swordsman diverted back to his wayward journey, once again alone, haunted by his losses. Through all the times since then, and all yet to come, the memory of Zelos remains.
Down a steep, inclined road, and around the corner, Ephrial lands out of sight of the pursuing parties for just a few moments to spare. With a slow pace, a small caravan drawn by a saber-toothed mountain lynx rides in the opposite direction, toward where he had just come. A risky opportunity to juke the mob may just be what he needs right now, and he takes the chance.
Avoiding feeding-distance with the big cat's head, he squeezes himself in between the large feline and the walls of the archway, and rushes to the back of the wagon, taking a casual seat on the back as if he belongs there. The approaching clatter of metal gear shuffling with each step arrives around the corner, and the chasing men and women stumble with the sudden sight of a dangerous predator walking past. With careful haste, they stay out of the creature's way, hoping not to set it off, and begin their sprint again when appropriately distanced.
In the clear for the moment, and still making progress while being able to take a small respite, his guard remains vigilant. The roads are quiet once more, and Ephrial peers off into the distance ahead, gauging how much further he must go to reach the outside.
`*~\-~vVv~-/~*`
With a helpful kilometer of distance traveled, the exotic beast halts in front of a well-lit manor. The clandestine swordsman is now in a luxurious residential district, reserved for families of nobility and wealthy monetarists.
The half-blood steps off the back of the caravan and resumes the treacherous path that awaits. This part of the city is illuminated with many ornate lanterns, one of the few places in Noxus where fighting and bloodshed usually concern disputes on family honor rather than survival and banditry. His pursuers will be looking for someone sticking to the shadows, so he figures walking out in the open may prove to be more camouflage in his current setting. Walking with purpose, measured steps tread the fine stone with the speed of someone in a hurry, but remaining inconspicuous, as if merely on an errand.
A familiar lamppost gilded with a battleaxe directly into the stand brings forth a vivid memory. It has been many years since he had last traveled this street, but there was no mistaking this place. Just ahead, he sees the very spot in the middle of the road where he beheld the last sight of his parents. On his way back to his home at the time, he discovered the first casualties of the Noxian prejudice against Ionia. The disgraced Noxian Commander and the benevolent Ionian priestess, face-down in a pool of blood, clasped in each other's arms.
The ghost of his younger self from that fateful day brushes past him, running back home to his sister in a desperate race, with the fear of worse turning to worst. Steps of the famed swordsman keep pressing on, unable to spare the time to pay his respects once again. No…not just due to lack of time…but the sentiment they left behind in their lessons. 'Keep moving forward. You don't have to forget, but don't stop. Just keep moving forward…'
With his past in Noxus behind him, he raises his eyes to the lights of the remaining portion of the city ahead. A small swarm of torchlight in the distance moves from one side towards the city entrance. Are they cutting his escape off already? No…the news could not have reached that far already. The movements aren't even coming from the right direction. There must be some other commotion going on down there. Better reach the gate before they do.
Ephrial tilts his body forward for a full-on sprint, dashing down the quiet road, and leaving the residential area as the lights around him begin to disappear. The thin layer of water beneath his boots splash with every step, going down the slope of the path, with gravity working in the favor of his momentum. Aging warehouses and prestigious buildings dedicated to the trades of respected crafts fall behind him as he makes his way into the main plaza. He keeps to the ring of close-knit buildings that circle around a large statue of Swain, complete with his cane in-hand, and feathered menace resting on his shoulder.
The gate is within view at a reasonable distance, and clamor of soldiers bearing swords and torches fill the scene. Superiors shout out orders, and horses gallop through the humming crowd of citizens.
"Where did she go!?" a mounted captain surveys a handful of dead soldiers with massive gashes in their bodies. "Find her!"
"There's an intruder besides myself…?" the half-blooded mercenary questions in thought.
Another group approaches from behind, calling out to the others.
"Did you get him!?" a market guard yells out.
"The hell are you talking about? Don't you know a woman when you see one? Go back to your post in the market, you cannon fodder reject!"
Now's the time to act. A breweing feud allows Ephrial to slip through the crowd of onlookers unnoticed, still keeping away from the view of those searching for him. His exit still remains under high alert, rendering it impassible in this state. There has to be a way…something to divert their attention elsewhere.
"Check the sewers!"
Interesting… Their mark did not escape through the front door, but rather through the underground network. That explains the gates remaining open, but they surely won't be kept that way for long. There must be a means to direct their suspicion away from the gate. Ephrial takes a wide view at his surroundings, looking for possible options.
There it is. The perfect diversion lies everywhere. With rising tension in the air, and military officers present, many Noxians might find themselves eager to catch their eye in hopes of recognition of their strength. Ephrial moves like a phantom betwixt different areas of the crowd, snatching coin purses and placing them in the unsuspecting possessions of others. A push here, a nudge there, and people are already barking at each other with accusations and death threats. There's only one more thing needed that will set this pool of sharks into a frenzy… Blood. At the very least, some notable bodily injury.
The captain of the soldiers will have to do. His incapacitation will have his soldiers scrambling to contain the resulting riot. But how to do so without being too ruthless. He is still trying to save the city-state from itself, after all.
Armored underlings leave the captain unattended as he issues orders to disperse the crowd, granting Ephrial the slim opportunity to graze past in close proximity of the officer without being seen. Like setting up a shot with an arrow, he waits for the horse to align for a straight path into the thick of the rabble. One loud slap on the mount's rear, and the armored creature bucks, flinging the unsuspecting man to the floor. The panicked steed plunges wildly into the crowd, dragging his rider by a strap caught on his boot along with him.
"Secure the captain!" one of the soldiers cries out, sending the population into an all-out brawl.
Two diligent soldiers remain at the gate, barring its path as the guards stationed up top work the winches to close the massive door. Ephrial approaches them as calmly as one would advance someone with a simple inquiry, hood covering the majority of his face. It's now or never.
A cautious sword points his way. "Halt right there! No one is to pass until these matters are—"
With the back of his hand, the mercenary-knight swats away the weapon by the flat of its blade, simultaneously affording him the opportunity to wind up a heavy strike from up close. A blinding fist meteors into the soldier's visor, sending the man backwards into the rapidly closing hunk of steel fortification. An unconscious guard falls limply to the floor, one solid blow felling him with newly-formed dents in his helmet.
"Hey, what—!" the words of the second sentry are cut off by an expeditious kick to the stomach, leading into a shoulder toss to land him on top of his downed partner.
Following with a quick dip and roll below the giant gate just before it closes, he makes a narrow escape just in time. With the commotion keeping the crowd's full attention on the inside, Ephrial walks at a casual pace down the long stretch of a stone bridge that leads out into the open land.
He can almost feel the unblinking gaze of the giant skull of Noxus' inner-keep beaming down on him, watching him as he walks off into the distance. The Blazing swordsman doesn't look back. Instead, he takes off the borrowed cloak, letting the wind carry it away. Once more, the half-blood departs the city-state, like a ghost, leaving behind the past where he had spent within those formidable walls. He must keep moving forward. He will not forget…but he cannot stop.
He can only keep moving forward.