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Chapter 26
A Riven Path
"Why…? Why did I hesitate back there? Absolutely inexcusable…"
The pondering Exile reflects on herself with a sense of shame. Questions race through her mind as she puts one foot in front of the other, traveling North. Large rows of the peaks that belong to the Ironspike mountains flood the horizon far ahead.
Like a whisper, a slight breeze caresses the viridian grass of the expansive rolling hills. A spear-headed eagle cries out from above, passing through the open sky. Nature's calmness dwells in every corner of the ambience.
However, Riven is far from peaceful, as old wounds have opened anew. Her days in the Ionian Campaign follow her wherever she goes. A grim gaze stares on ahead as the images of the past play before her, as they so often do. The heat of battle, the pressure of being surrounded on all sides, and the clamor amidst chaotic confusion of an ambush. Dazing explosions rippling the very ground, screams of agony, and the foul stench of death hovers thickly in the air.
So clearly, she remembers the caustic weaponry dissolving the very faces of her former allies—her own unit…her friends. Stumbling with nearly every step, dodging the explosions and stray arrows raining down upon her, she witnesses the horror unfold before her eyes. Losing herself in a maelstrom of bemused anguish, Riven did the only thing she could do at that time…she ran.
Nothing was right about that battle…by all means, the Ionians should have won. They had the right strategy…the numbers…the strength. To have resorted to cheap tactics of catapulting chemicals from afar was not a true display of might. It was not the Noxian way… Of course, neither was abandoning the battle. The injury to her pride is only matched by the pain of having lived a lie for so long. She fought, killed, and bled for it, staining her hands with atrocity. Her whole life has been dedicated to one creed, and one alone: strength above all.
The familiar sting in her heart pulsates further as she ruminates the battle at Kalamanda. Many times has she contested overwhelming battles and foes since joining the League. Even facing legendary creatures such as dragons and a replica of Baron Nashor never caused her blade to paralyze. Why, then…? What made her so incapacitated?
Perhaps...the cause lies within the absence of the League. No coming back after death, and no Summoners to bail her out with a quick Flash away from danger. Unlike the previous battles of her life, the ones on the Fields of Justice guaranteed the ability to live to see the next day. The League took away the reality of war…the very essence of it. Perhaps that's why she joined to begin with…to fight on her own terms, but without bringing more death unto the world. A way to cheat death and murder to avoid her hands from becoming even more stained with blood and sin.
Is that the reason why she hesitated…? For the first time in so long, it felt…real. The unexpected ambush of overwhelming proportions, allies yelling out of struggle and pain, the racing heartbeat of dread that comes with being on the losing side. It's the genuine terror and possibility of death that made it so different from the League…and it made it so much the same as in Ionia. One moment, she was in Kalamanda, and the next, she was back in full-uniform, leading her unit to meet with the rest of Fury Company during the invasion. The sudden blast of reality was just too much to bear, and the shame of freezing up stings her even more so.
"Only the strong survive…" Riven reminds herself through gritting teeth.
As she summits a hilltop, a curious view of wreckage lies ahead of her. Scraps of twisted metal and debris streak across the grass, leaving a cindered trail of ashes and ravaged dirt. Riven scans the area, noticing no signs of struggle nor battle, and proceeds down the hill, turning to follow the path of destruction. Articles of machinery and fragmented sheets of various alloys become more prominent as she steps toward a crash site. The scrutinizing eyes of a soldier begin piecing together a scene as the Exile begins examining the area.
These are clearly the remains of an airborne vehicle that had met its end two, maybe three days ago. It's not a very large ship, meaning it could have been a recon unit, or a privately-owned vessel. Riven stumbles upon a set of footprints in the torn soil, and pursues them to the demolished chassis. The tracks appear to mix and mingle around the imprint of something heavy, like an object that was dragged off of the platform, and onto the ground, then loaded onto a horse-driven wagon. She enters the skeleton of the grounded airship, stepping over scorched upholstery and remains of the fallen crew.
Did those footprints belong to scavengers, perhaps? If so, what could have possibly survived this mess to have been worth taking? The insides seem barren, as if the only thing that was flying in this ship was the crew itself, which appears to only be a total of six. Fighting the images of the past, she ventures further, reaching the cockpit. A deceased pilot bears her first clue—the insignia of the 'City of Progress', sewn into the sleeve of his charred uniform. Riven's eyes narrow with suspicion.
"What is a Piltover airship doing all the way out here?"
She surmises that such a vessel is far too small to be a cargo zeppelin designed for trade between nations. Even if it were, it's way off course to any normal landing depot. Nothing about this site sits well with Riven, and she begins wondering if Ephrial may be onto something with his supposed lead. Before she can turn to begin exiting the wreckage, voices from outside approach.
"Why do we always have to clean up their messes?" a tall, stalky man groans.
His partner, much shorter with a hefty build, replies through some form of breathing mask. "It's what we're paid for. I already told you, that was the deal. We erase the trail, and so long as nothing traces back, they're happy…and if they're happy, we're happy."
"Yeah, but…did we really need to launch at our own men?"
"Hey, that's plenty more shares in our pockets! Besides, when did you start growing a conscience, anyway?"
"All I'm saying is…if they counted them as expendable, then what are we to them?"
"As long as they keep filling my pockets with gold, I don't care. The moment they try something funny on us, we'll disappear like we always do."
Riven peeks out between a narrow space in the zeppelin's remains, examining the approaching pair. Their clothes are shabby-looking with wear-and-tear, but heavily padded for protection. The stout one has clearly seen better days, with a large apparatus covering the majority of his face, from the bridge of his nose, downward. Tubes run along his friend's shoulder, connecting the flesh of his torso with a mechanical arm in the stead of a missing limb. On their backs, they lug tanks connecting to a dispersal device of some form, like that of a gun. Everything about them screams Zaun, only feeding further into Riven's growing speculations of this airship's fate.
The tall one sighs. "All right, let's just get this over with, Luper."
Always one for head-on combat, the former posterchild of Noxus decides to take the direct approach. She emerges from the wreckage into plain sight, with a sharp, piercing gaze. The rough experience she has had with Zaun in the past, as well as the ones in the League, hardens the grip on her runic blade.
"What the—!?"
"A survivor!?"
"No, wait…that's…!"
"Are you the ones responsible for this?" she shoots daggers with a fierce gaze.
"Who the hell are you!?" the distorted voice behind the mask yells back.
Nervously whispering to his partner, "That's Riven, Luper. She's in the League of Legends, remember…?"
"Ah, right. The Noxian soldier that fled from battle, leaving her men to die. You're a long way away from home, little girl!"
"I'll ask you one more time… Are you responsible for this?" Riven slowly steps forward.
"Don't let her get too close, Luper!"
"Relax, Valken. We've got these, remember?" gesturing at the dispersal device in his hands. "Melt her!"
The two take aim and pull the triggers. An extremely caustic substance spews forth, and Riven dashes to the side, behind the cover of the fallen zeppelin. Sickly-colored ooze douses the spot she had evaded from, and a bubbling, sizzling sound follows. A noxious odor floods the air, and part of the airship begins corroding at an alarming rate.
The Exile's heart skips a beat with the realization that her foes bear the weapons of her nightmares. "Were they a part of Singed's regiment in Ionia…? Why would they be here?"
Questions will have to wait. The legendary Noxian weaves through the mangled skeleton of the airship, dodging blasts of chemical sludge. This substance reacts far faster than it did so long ago. Zaun sure hasn't let up one bit in their development of unorthodox weaponry and experiments. She shudders at the thought of what this new concoction does to flesh and bone.
Luper laughs and taunts. "That's it! Flee! How does it feel to know you're about to die like all the rest!"
A sensation of nausea fills Riven as old feelings begin rising to the surface like before. At the same time, the sense of indignation mixes in, as she is presented with an opportunity that can be taken as vengeance. Many of her friends and comrades died horrifically to this abomination of weaponry, and she has no intention of sharing that fate. The sensitivity of her past has never faded, and it is a huge mistake for this Zaunite to have brought it up.
Half of the airship is liquefying at a rapid pace, and Riven's cover dissolves with it. It's now or never. Her heart races, and with a blend of fear and conviction, she leaps out into the open again. A ferocious strike cleaves downward, severing Valken's prosthetic arm with a clean slice. The tubes around it begin to spill out green fluid, showering the soil in a biochemical support system.
The one-armed Zaunite wails in pain, releasing his grip on his device to grasp at his bleeding stump. With a swift flick of the large sword poising itself against him, he finds himself between his partner and the blade of the Exile. Nervously, he raises his remaining hand, shaking heavily, and slowly turns toward Luper.
"Don't you dare…" the stout Zaunite growls, holding his aim.
"Why are you here!?" Riven demands.
"That's none of your concern!"
"It's your concern to answer me!"
Valken beseeches, "Luper, just—"
"I got this!" frustration building.
Riven asserts for an answer by drawing her blade closer to the neck of her leverage.
Lupen appears to waver, relaxing his shoulders and lowering his aim. He pauses, thinking for a moment, and Valken takes it as a sign of a bargain for his release. The masked Zaunite lets out a distorted sigh, shaking his head and looking back up at his fellow partner in crime.
"We've been through a helluva lot over the years, Valken. Always bailing each other out of trouble, one way or another."
"Y-yeah, it's been a wild ride…" he answers with anxious reminiscence.
"…But you know how big this is, even for us."
"Wait…what are you saying?"
"Our orders are clear."
"You can't—!"
"No witnesses."
Without further hesitation, he raises his armament back up, and unleashes a torrent of acid. Riven lurches to the side, tumbling out of the way of a wave of unnatural death. The air crackles with a loud sizzling and bubbling of chemicals eating away at organic material. Shrill screams and cries of pain pierce the air, speedily dissolving into a less and less human-like vocalization.
"We're…bro…thers…!" the deliquescing man manages a gurgle.
Riven gazes at the sight in absolute horror, seeing vivid images of the past turn back into present reality, right in front of her. She recoils hard, forcefully tearing her gaze away, a heart throbbing with dread. The Exile opens her eyes again, just in time to see a hardened, Zaunite mercenary doing the same, watching the result of his actions. They pick themselves up from a brief, but heavy moment of realization, and take combative action, remembering the threat at hand.
In a split moment, a sharp edge carves through the dispersal gun, causing it to explode in the hand of its user. Caustic material splashes over the reeling man, and he falls to the ground. Writhing in pain, he thrashes around a growing pool of a terrible invention.
Riven, with a divided purpose, steps forward to bark an unanswered question. "Who sent you!?" asking half out of her current mission, and half out of a subconscious need for closure of the past.
Lupen wheezes through this mask, slowly meeting the same fate as his brother before him.
"Answer me!" almost out of breath, barely holding herself together from another paralyzing episode of haunting memories.
The only response she receives is the bubbling and gasping of a dead man as his life ebbs away. She can bear it no longer, and rips herself from the scene, stumbling as she goes. It's a sight she had been hoping never to witness again; something she wanted to bury forever. Yet, in reality, it is no surprise. She's well aware of Singed's involvement in Ionia, and knows that even if he is stopped, there will always be another in Zaun to take his place. The cycle of death continues…and so must she.
Riven wearily picks herself up, holding her head in one hand, and her keepsake blade in another. She looks onward, at the tall mountain range ahead. The future beacons her, and unknown conflict awaits. One foot in front of the other, she trudges, a torn spirit pressing onward.
Just what exactly lies ahead? So often does the clarity of her purpose fade in and out, between moments of resolve and the off-putting weight of her sins. It's a struggle she must bear, no matter how difficult it becomes. Broken, but still walking the path of the Exile, she marches on.
After all, a sword mirrors its owner.