It's a dream come true.

The audience, the laughter, the cheering and jeering of the masses. With a spin of his axe he can captivate the soul of Noxus; his reputation of never missing is known throughout the land. The onslaught of opponents coming at him is exciting, and the rush after defeating each and every one of them euphoric. Nothing in the world can compare to the gladiator's ring.

Though an executioner by trade, Draven cannot be confined to one simple title. He is an artist, a showman, and he must have a crowd. From a young age, to the bemusement of his elder brother, he would constantly find himself at the center of attention and loving it. Whatever trick, talent, and stunt he could pull was what he performed, and he was constantly trying to come up with newer and more exciting acts. While he lacked Darius's military genius and drive, he had a showman's hand and charisma. His brother lead by intelligence and strength; he lead by popularity and the mob. Both equally powerful.

He remembers the minotaur from when he was a child; a great beast, destroying everything in its path. It was the ultimate battle of any who were condemned to the gladiator's circle. As a child, he had cheered for the enormous monster known as Alistar, and hoped to one day be strong enough to challenge him in combat. Slaying such a powerful foe would have been his coming-of-manhood, his right of honor in Noxus. But, alas, the beast escaped before he could try. A servant girl assisted him, they later found out; Talon had been sent to assure her death.

With the formation of the League, Draven again was given a chance to show his true potential as an entertainer. With his mighty axes he felled his fellow champions, reveling in the most elite form of combat possible. But there as a part of him that would always miss those gladiatorial games; the Fleshings, as they were called: the true adrenaline rush of a deathmatch, with no revival, no healing, no safety barrier of the Fields of Justice. Just a man and his abilities standing against death itself.

A dream come true.

A living nightmare.

The screams of agony, the constant flowing of blood, the mocking cries of the crowds; all were torment to the minotaur's ears. His muscles ached and burned, his eyes stung as the sweat rolled into them, but he dared not take a moment of rest. Another man, another kill, and another day of being entertainment for the rich nobles of Noxus. Alistar's mind strained against the bonds of the summoners that held him in check; strength enough to fight, but not escape. His rage, though full of fuel, began to burn out, day after excruciating day. The mental torment would have driven him to complete insanity, had it not been for her.

Ayelia. A servant girl who had save his mind, and ultimately his life. Her continued compassion and gentleness had helped him through the long stay at Noxus, through his grief at losing his village and the helplessness of his situation. In the end, it had been by her had that he orchestrated his escape. There had been no time for thank-you's or goodbye's; he was simply forced to run and hope he escaped. And he had.

Years had passed since his time in Noxus, and with every free moment he had tried to find her again. The only recent clue he had to go on was a note, left in his room. Rather, it had been there when he had awoken, a small blade fixing it to the wooden door frame:

Search for her; she lives. Search, and bring Swain's use of the infernal Fleshings to an end.

He had needed no further encouragement for either order.

Alistar fights on the Fields of Justice, and he fights for justice. He fights to have his voice heard, to speak out against the crimes and atrocities Noxus and Swain had performed against him and others. He fights to gain recognition for what has happened, and continues to happen, under the mad man's rule.

But he does not fight to remember. Even now, years later, a cry of agony nearly throws his mind back into the abyss. The darkness, the haunted depths of his soul, shudder as his mind glances over them. And on his worst nights, they resurface again.

A living nightmare.