Will of Iron, Heart of Gold

by Chaos Productions

In a world where ideals are embodied by entire city states, one man is on the verge of losing his battle to be different. When a freak accident mere moments from death grants him the power to stop running, and fight back for what he believes, he sets out; With an iron will and a golden heart, he will find his place in the world - and his role in the future to come.

4. Chapter 4

Pre-Chapter A/N: I'll keep this brief as possible - after all, there's an even bigger A/N at the end of the chapter. Oh joy.

Ahem. I'm still alive, contrary to popular belief. Life contacted me, and told me to take a break. I told him "No" but Life is petty, and we got into a fight. Life used cheap tricks like sickness, internet problems and rolling blackouts in my country that cost me upwards of 1500 words per blackout. Nonetheless, I emerged victorious, baring a new chapter - and a heavily bruised face. What can I say? Life has a mean right hook.

Secondly, you'll notice in this chapter I took certain liberties when it came to an official League match. I did this because the run-of-the-mill incessantly mechanical type of League fic is boring. Rather, I'm basing the combat in this League match - and each and every one hereafter - on the A New Dawn cinematic. So... yes. Expect lots of exaggerated power and impossibility. Because it's cool. And to hell with limitations.

Lastly... This is a very, very long chapter. For that I am truly, truly sorry. Nonetheless, I suggest you make yourselves comfortable :)

Onwards!

---

Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
Chapter IV
First Blood

"Never too early, never too late" had been one of the phrases the Grandmaster at Arms had grown to appreciate in his time at the Institute of War. True, some of the more 'restrained' and 'conservative' Champions had stated that those six words summed up his personality rather well – and often times in response, The Champ would show them that yes, indeed, it fit him better than they first thought: While it was never too early nor too late for Jax to be spending time at the bar – it was never too early nor too late for Jax to hop onto the Fields of Justice and wipe the floor with them, either.

As such, Jax found himself sitting at the counter of his favourite bar with nary a pesky presence to draw his attention from appreciating fine grog. It had become almost a way of life, really – if you came to bar seeking audience, or camaraderie, the Grandmaster would respond by sliding a mug your way, and if you came to the bar to pick a fight, well, you'd find yourself outside the bar faster than you entered it – and you'd be missing a few teeth.

And bones.

And fragments of your memory.

But hey – to each their own.

The Champ's next tryst on the Fields of Justice was only scheduled for later, in the evening. He had plenty of time to spend in the bar, slurping on grog and flirting shamelessly with every attractive young lass that came stepping into the bar (which was quite an often occurrence, he noted dryly). In all honesty he was waiting on Gragas to finish up the match the old drunkard was currently participating in. Last Jax checked his old buddy had gotten into a skirmish against that mad robo-dude from Zaun, and, well, Jax was rather certain the old tin can would need more than a laser to melt through that belly.

So good luck, and good riddance – booze doesn't give two shits about science, anyway.

After that, though… That was when the good stuff would begin. Today was, after all, a really, really important day – Garret's first 'practice battle' would be taking place today. It was actually more of a test, really, to see whether Garret and Furia's little 'theory' of swapping control would actually work out, but in all honestly, battles were battles – especially when they took place on the Fields of Justice. The Grandmaster's plan was to retire to one of the Relay Lounges and watch the battle from afar – after all, the Chickadee testified that Garret was a right crafty little bastard, so whether Furia actually managed to take control or not didn't matter – Jax would be seeing something entertaining either way.

Or so The Champ thought.

Under the din of shuffling glasses, muted morning conversation and drunken slurs of people who came the night before and simply hadn't left, Jax heard something odd. The front door to the bar had opened, but with none of the usual ruckus you'd hear from someone who actually came to the bar to get slammed. No, Jax associated this kind of bar entrance with an entirely different intent – it was the type of entrance he'd grown accustomed to over the years.

"What, didn't I kick enough ass last time?" Jax asked aloud, spinning around on his bar stool to shoot a pseudo-glare at the Summoner who had so expertly infiltrated his favourite bar. "If this is about that little power spat up North, I'll say again: Find someone else. Those three are more trouble than they're worth."

The Summoner before him, a wizened old man with a beard long enough to reach his waistline, merely offered a wry grin, showing slightly stained teeth and an amount of wrinkles around the lips you'd only find on someone who lived a long, healthy, definitely-not-a-soldier's life. "We are well aware of your policy regarding the Freljord, Grandmaster," he spoke, his voice pocked with the signs of old age. "This does not regard that. Rather, it regards your new friend, Garret Hillock."

"Well ain't he popular with you people," the Grandmaster commented. "Whaddya want?"

"For you to lend an ear, if possible," the old Summoner said with a courteous nod. "High Councillor Kolminye, under advice from High Councillor Mandrake, has suggested I approach you with this matter. It regards Garret's practice battle today."

"What, you worried he can't take the heat?" Jax guessed, reclining back on the counter. "If that's the case, old man, then I can tell ya: Forget those thoughts and move on. Don't tell me you're one of those dumbasses who thinks he's 'pure' and 'innocent' just because he's got manners. What, ya think he survived thirteen years on the run by being nice and kissing ass?"

"Oh, no, I have the utmost faith in Mister Hillock's abilities," the Summoner said in a reassuring tone. "He has killed, I am aware. He does not know battle, true, but the young lad has a strength of spirit that makes him more than compatible with our little system. No, the matter I wish to discuss with you is far more pleasant; none of that 'doubt' and 'hesitance' nonsense Vessaria faffs about so much."

"Heh. Pretty accurate," Jax noted cheerily, ordering another mug of grog. "Well start talkin' old man. What have ya got for me?"

"An offer," the Summoner replied with a smirk, procuring a dark, leatherbound file from the insides of his robes. "Mister Hillock's practice battle will take place on the Twisted Treeline. While the High Councillors believe his theory in control alternation is sound, they wish to make sure that the mechanics between Garret and Furia operating a single body in turn are clear and precise, so as to avoid any… complications, in the future and during the larger battles, on the larger Fields."

"So it's your run-of-the-mill three-on-three rodeo. Nothing new," Jax said with a simple shrug. "Again: Why are we talking about this?"

"Because, Grandmaster," the elderly Summoner smiled, "Mister Hillock knows very few people in the Institute. The High Council has decided it would be in his best interests to have someone he trusts nearby, in case his agreement with the spirit in his arm… fails, as you might say. We have no doubt in our minds that Garret is resourceful enough to survive on the Fields of Justice, however… plans going awry often leads to inadvertent panic, and very few know him well enough to help ease that panic."

Uttering a bemused 'hum', Jax grabbed the leatherbound file and started fidgeting with the small zipper that kept it sealed. "So, what, you want me to hop in and show him the ropes?" He asked, as the zipper finally reached the end of its course and the file popped open. Immediately the smell of ink and worn parchment wafted out from within, a tell-tale sign that this document had changed hands many times.

"Indeed," the Summoner answered with a grin. "We are aware you are slated to participate in a match later today. The High Council has agreed to find a… suitable replacement for you should you agree to this arrangement."

Jax quickly thumbed through the various pages, observing several key details as he went. Indeed, there a profile hidden between the pages that fit the old Summoner before him, and indeed, it seemed as though the old geezer was going to be the one 'supporting' Garret during his little happy-time fun-time in the Treeline. He also saw several theses on Furia's origin, a safety-oriented document bearing the Judicator's signature – in fancy, posh red ink, at that. Pft. What a snob. – and… He stopped when he found the page detailing the individuals Garret would be up against. He uttered a low whistle as he read the names. "Shit, old man," he said somewhat worriedly. "You're really pulling out all the stops."

"Brute force and restraining and-or hindrance capabilities," the elderly Summoner clarified. "Just in case Mister Hillock's little spirit-friend was… less than honest with us, and decides to indulge in similar activity to what you saw in the ruin near the Serpentine River. Merely a precaution, I assure you."

"Tell that to these assholes," Jax responded, tapping on the page with his finger. "At least two of 'em's gonna be out for blood. That or insanity, in this one's case…" He said hotly, tapping a name on the paper a bit harder than necessary. "I can see why you didn't approach Soraka with this. She's strong, make no mistake, but against these folks… Tch. She ain't gonna last a minute."

"Our reasoning exactly," the old Summoner intoned. "This is why we approached you. Although…" He trailed off, and another wry grin bloomed on his cracked lips. "If the prospect of helping out your new friend is not enough, I can assure you there's something on the next page that should… pique your interest, at least."

For but a moment, six glowing lenses focused warily on the Summoner, and with a grunt, Jax turned the page. He took but a moment to read over the page before uttering an amused 'Heh'. His posture slackened a bit and he reclined back against the countertop. "You people just love your irony, don't you?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that, Grandmaster," the Summoner digressed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I take it the circumstances are amusing enough to make you consider compliance?"

Jax looked at the old Summoner a moment or two longer before turning his gaze back to the documents he held in his hand. On one hand, given the people involved, it seemed as though it could be an amusing, if ironic venture – something The Champ rarely had the privilege of partaking in. On the other hand though, the little 'practice match' was promising more chaos than one would normally find on the Twisted Treeline – the three individuals chosen to oppose Garret's team were not the kind usually used for practice battles. With a juggernaut, a sadist and a rather peculiar dark magic user on the same team…

It seemed as though the Treeline would be even more twisted by the time the match was over.

That fact alone made The Champ reach his decision easily.

"Y'know what? Fuck it. Count me in, old man."

---

"Once more your mind seems ailed by emotion, Garret."

It took all of Garret's self-control and willpower to quash the immense feeling of discomfort his tenant's voice had spurred before it could even take root in his heart. It had barely been three days since he had established contact with Furia's spirit, and it was taking… well, it was taking quite a while to adapt to having the spirit of a battle-crazed lady of violence sharing part of your being – especially when she could so easily interpret what he was feeling at any given moment. Furia, it turned out, was quite docile when there wasn't a skilled, powerful combatant near to excite her, and it was in the centre of this docility that she seemed to turn her attention to the first available source to alleviate her boredom – namely, his own state of existence.

'Nothing too negative, if that is what causes you worry,' he responded, a bit too quickly, he realised. He was seated in a rather confusing room, he admitted – he had been all across Valoran in the past thirteen years, and although his stops were quick and hushed, he admitted he'd never quite seen anything like it. It seemed both plain and incredibly lavish, both spartan and greatly furnished – from the golden inlays on the one-tone carpet to the lavish murals carved into the ironically unnoticeable columns dotting the walls, it was all rather vexing. Despite intricate attention to detail it seemed as though anyone entering the little chamber would be focused on one sole thing – the somewhat clandestine little podium in the centre of the room, housing standing place for about five people. There was a small, narrow hole in the centre of the podium, containing a glistening, bubbling (and boiling) mess – it looked awfully similar to mercury, but the fact that Garret himself was not gasping for breath, losing control of his muscles or suffering from some form of respiratory distress clued him in otherwise. 'I am merely… concocting something.'

"'Concocting…' Wordplay has changed much since I walked amongst the living."

Garret bit back a chuckle. Literally the first day of their partnership Garret had discovered that Furia was, indeed, positively ancient – it lead to no small amount of amusement whenever she would find dote and fret over modern concepts she considered alien, which in turn lead to him feeling bad when his mirth caused the she-spirit distress. 'I'm creating different scenarios,' Garret clarified, 'and case studies – I digress, as an intellectual I am more suited to history and linguistics than actual battle strategy and science, but… well, it can't hurt to try. Everything I have done in life, I've done with some degree of planning – and as much as I have… 'faith' in your own abilities I would rather have some semblance of a plan prepared either way.'

"Why bother planning?" Furia asked hotly. "All that extra effort, Garret… You already have me – our victory is all but assured." Said any other way, the she-spirit's claim would come across as boisterous – arrogant, even. But by now, Garret had learned enough about Furia to know it was more than an idle boast. Even without a corporeal form the woman's confidence seemed to eclipse any other trait of hers when it surfaced. Degrading as it may have been towards their eventual, inevitable foes, Furia wholeheartedly believed her claims.

The problem with beliefs, though, is that they are not always entirely flexible…

'And should the transition fail?' Garret asked wryly, idly lacing his facing amongst each other and reclining in his seat. 'If you fail to take control? What then? Give me a blade and I won't even need a foe – I would be much more likely to injure myself.'

"Such negativity is unbecoming of you, Garret," Furia scolded lightly, scoffing as she finished. "If your spirit is already crushed there is little hope for victory. Besides, did you not claim this battle would be an experiment?"

'True, true,' Garret acquiesced, nodding once to himself. 'Experiments, however, tend to fail as often as they tend to succeed. Often the simplest solutions and theories are the ones that tend to crash and burn, and that is when one needs to turn to the more complex applications of knowledge, skill, technique or any combination of the three. Needless to say, the thought of our little experiment becoming more complex than predicted is one that gives me pause.'

"This is why I choose not to share in your mind," the spirit of battle groused. "Redundant thoughts and needless worry… Even during my life you humans tended to over-complicate and overthink matters… To see that this has not changed is not reassuring."

'I've told you many times before, I am a man who fights with his mind rather than… Wait,' Garret trailed off, realisation slamming into his being with all the grace and subtlety of one of Piltover's steam engines. '"Share in my mind"? What does that even mean?'

"Our union transcends the physical realm, Garret," Furia answered, somewhat hesitantly – a fact that didn't go unnoticed. "We are two souls in one vessel. As our spirits share a body, so do our minds. Should you wish to look into my memories I do not doubt you could do so with ease – an ease which I can mirror should I desire to see your own thoughts."

'And yet…' Garret trailed off, resting his chin on interwoven fingers, elbows perched neatly on his knees as he slumped forwards. 'Yet you claim you choose not to. With all the time you've cried boredom I am… pleasantly surprised you have not simply helped yourself and gazed away.'

"I… do not wish to overstep," the lady of battle said, somewhat sombrely. "I… I do not know what compels this hesitation. In life I had little care to offer for the rights or privileges of humans. Their boundaries, individual or otherwise, were meaningless. Now, however… You freed me. You are offering a degree of freedom… Even I cannot take such a gesture for granted."

'Warrior's honour, maybe?' Garret guessed after a while – if only to say something to shake off the stupor Furia's proclamation had left him in. With every conversation he shared with the she-spirit he realised more and more just how wrong his initial (decidedly fear-stricken and addle-minded) opinion of her was. Of course, there were times she proved him somewhat right as well – any time she'd rant about engaging Jax or the Judicator in 'glorious battle' came to mind, because honestly, those descriptors she used were better suited to fine things like art or culture rather than all-out combat – but the keyword there was 'somewhat'; while Furia had proven to be decidedly bloodthirsty with liberal amounts of mania and innocently intimate gestures and sayings mixed in, she wasn't outright malicious – at least, not as far as the innocents or the noncombatants were concerned. Outside the craze of battle the woman was downright level-headed – if a bit unwary of modern nuances. 'Whatever it is, I will not question it – your honesty regarding the matter is much appreciated, Furia. My past… well, if the need arises I will let you 'see' whatever must be seen, but… as things stand now… For better or for worse, whatever happens in our practice match, and whatever happens after – that's something new. The first page of a new book. My past… is a chapter I'd rather not look back to right now.'

"As you wish, Garret," Furia spoke, accepting his action without thought of motive or reasoning. "But again… Why must you be so hideously eloquent? Can you not simply say 'start life anew' like any other human and let it be?"

Once more, Garret found himself fighting back a chuckle. Furia had proven herself to be a very, very simplistic being when the 'art of battle' was not involved – she had little use for things like wordplay, slang and jargon when it came to communication. It seemed the height of the complexities in her existence only bloomed when the prospect of combat was near. 'This is how I have spoken all my life,' he said inwardly, shrugging. 'It comes with the territory of exploring modern linguistics. Uh, that is, well, you tend to be overly eloquent when you are learning-'

"Garret," Furia interrupted, sounding… exasperated? "I may not understand why you do it, but I am aware of when you are using wordplay. It is an action not exclusive to humans. I am more than capable of deducing what 'comes with the territory' alludes to. It merely irks me that you have found so many complex ways to state such simple things…"

'I… Of course,' Garret surrendered quickly, realising that there was, in fact, such a thing as putting too much thought into something. 'I apologise. I am still… getting to know you.'

"You will know more than you could ever wish to, in time," Furia responded. "Humans always claimed there were no greater bonds than those forged by fighting alongside one another. I admit I did not experience this personally – but I believe we will discover the truth of the situation in time."

'Time,' Garret started, perking up as he heard the tell-tale scraping sound of a door being used, 'that seems as though it may come early,' he said as the door slowly swung open. Garret found himself frowning – these Summoners all looked the same from a distance. True, there were varying identifiers a skilled eye could pick apart, such as the varying patterns on the shoulders, the length and quality of the robes themselves, the lavish inlays on the sleeves and – worriedly – the curve and shape of the hood, but alas, the scholar found himself distinctly lacking the knowledge needed to accurately identify who was who.

At first he felt rather miffed about this – after all, a scholar without knowledge is akin to a mage without actual magics.

This feeling persisted all of a handful of seconds – until Garret recognised the long, scraggly beard which was obviously – obviously – a violation of some kind of dress or neatness code.

"Ah, Mister Hillock," the familiar Summoner greeted him jovially, hints of a smile shining through the undergrowth of facial hair. "Normally our newer Champions need to be escorted here. One can hardly blame them, they do not know the interior of the Institute, after all, but most of the time, the majority of preparation time is spent finding them. Finding you here ahead of time is… well, it's a pleasant surprise."

"Jax told me some stories about Champions getting lost coming here," Garret agreed with a smile, standing up from his seat. After all, his father had taught him it's only polite. "I memorised the route here about two days ago," he admitted. "After all, I would so hate to cause more effort than usual, so, well… Here I am."

"Here you are," the elderly Summoner agreed with a grin. "This is delightful, actually – I heard you were planning a little experiment of sorts, and I was hoping I could aid you."

"Oh?" Garret was intrigued – his decision to attempt coexistence with Furia had earned him no small amount of disapproval, from no small amount of sources. To hear a Summoner was willing to try and aid him was rather gratifying.

"Yes, yes, of course. Wisdom is a rare thing where I come from – not many live long enough to achieve it. Then again, not many find themselves attuned to magics there either, so I guess I'm a bit of a black sheep, eh?" He said with a subdued chuckle. "Anyhow, see, in the past we had a special little tradition when it came to the newest Champion's first test match. We'd allow them into the Fields of Justice ahead of time, if only marginally, so they could familiarise themselves with the terrain and, if necessary, gain a hint of understanding of the magics that would be sustaining them." He paused. "Well, we used to do such a thing, until that manic little girl Jinx almost blew up her own Nexus before the match even started. Suffice it to say the practice was abolished with… great vehemence after that little incident, but I hardly believe you are the type to draw destruction wherever you go, are you?"

Garret didn't quite know what to make of it all. Granted, he still didn't know what the Summoner's claim to wisdom had to do with the tradition he spoke of, and a noncommittal noise from his tenant clued him in he wasn't exactly alone in that train of thought – but still, what the Summoner was offering was something extraordinary. "Such an action is allowed?"

"Of course," the elderly Summoner said with yet another chuckle. "I appealed directly to the High Council for this matter – they gave their blessing rather quickly. Especially Councillor Kolminye – she seems to show great interest in your union."

"Of course," Garret heard Furia muse as the Summoner spoke. "You humans have always shown a fascination for things you could not comprehend."

"Besides, your final teammate proved to be… difficult to find, so he will be a tad late – and it would be nothing short of rude to make you wait on account of our own disorganisation. If you will?" He motioned to the podium in the centre of the room, and strolled towards it. Garret followed suit, equal parts excited and wary.

"I am… a tad confused, sir," Garret spoke up as he moved. "Granted, I do not know much about the Institute of War, but I've heard and seen enough to know that it is one of the largest, most powerful factions on Runeterra. It strikes me as odd that something as simple as a test match could spur disorganisation."

"As it should," the Summoner replied jovially, stopping once he reached the bubbling pool of liquid. "Mister Hillock, yours is a very, very unique case. As it stands you will not be fully inducted into the Institute – as a Champion, at least – until we are completely certain you are capable of transitioning with your spirit friend as effectively as possible. While most of the Champions of the Institute are fairly heroic and more lawfully aligned than most, I regret to inform you we have several combatants who are… less than sporting, and will outright leap on the window of opportunity a failed switch on your end provides."

For but a moment, what little remained of the Demacian in him wanted to say "Like every Noxian ever?" Alas, of all the darkness he'd seen in his travels, the Noxians surprisingly ranked quite far from the top. As things stood, Garret would rather take a night in the slums of Noxus before going anywhere near some of the more suspect places he'd encountered in life. Zaun in particular qualified – slaving away at making a living in Noxus was a far, far cry from people disappearing in the middle of the night to fuel some madman's experiments. That, and the smell… Ye gods, the smell…

Rather, he pondered exactly who – or what – the elderly Summoner could have been referring to. Jax and Gragas had told him about the varying factions and civil strife and unrest in Valoran, and they'd told him much about the pool of independent combatants who had come to the Institute. Jax himself was one such an independent, and depending on Garret's preference he'd be falling into that exact same pool. His charges may have been cleared, after all, but he was still far from ready to try to return to the Golden City.

"So, rather than the usual standard, we have decided to… 'restructure' your little team for this match, to ensure those with the correct capabilities of aiding you are here to ensure your little experiment goes as smoothly as possible," the Summoner intoned. Garret thought he could see another smile, but beneath the jungle of facial hair he couldn't quite be sure."

"And that is why there are delays," Garret summarised. "Of course. Restructuring any kind of team or organisation on such short notice is a rather trying affair. Nonetheless, I… I am thankful you have taken it upon yourselves to try and aid me."

"Think nothing of it," the Summoner spoke again. "Yours is a very unique situation. If anything I believe we have not seen such a case since the Arrow of Retribution joined our ranks, and even he is not a carbon copy of you. Then again, I digress I have not been the most observant regarding the newer Champions so I may have missed one or two with certain similarities. Bah. It hardly matters now," he said, nonplussed. With a flourish of his hands – and by extension, the ridiculously oversized sleeves they were hidden in – the boiling pool of unidentifiable liquid-stuff swirled and churned before rising from its circular holder.

It was almost sentient in its movement – a glinting trail of bright silver flowed around the aged Summoner, expanding and twisting, writhing and calming, ever-changing in both function and action – and yet, there was something profound about how it seemed to do nothing while doing everything; even that which liquid should not be capable of doing. It split apart at the tip, forming into three separate tendrils of spasming magic; it solidified into varying forms as the triplicate tails swirled around their wielder – one fragment would form a square, another would form a circle, and others formed shapes ranging from more mundane to more amazing. Garret was certain he saw several rather alien shapes as well.

Finally, though, it seemed as though the fluid material tired of its graceful display – with several loud cracks it shed its metallic skin. Shapes lost form as flakes of silver fell away and dispersed into nothingness, leaving only waves of the most brilliant azure surrounding the old man. Slowly the strands of magic drifted towards the wizened Summoner's outstretched palm, and they seemed to fold upon each other as they took form. One after the other the wisps of arcane energy condensed, and within mere seconds of it shedding its metal coating, Garret found himself staring at a brilliant sphere of light, not at all unlike the one used when he first made contact with Furia.

"Human magic has come far since I lived," he heard Furia speak. There was a grudging tone of admiration in her voice. "Such magics took days of preparation then."

"Well, Mister Hillock," the Summoner spoke up. The sphere illuminated his face, enough for Garret to identify a grin with all but unwavering certainty. "As much as a casual chat would amuse me, your match is starting soon." He held the orb forwards, hovering it between his hands as he took a few steps back. Only now did Garret notice the faint runic circle etched around the podium – undoubtedly also magical in nature. "So if you want to familiarise yourself with the Twisted Treeline, well… Time's ticking away, as they say. Or at least I think that's how they say it," he mused with a confused expression. The circle of runes lit up as the old man stepped away – it was, from an aesthetic approach, rather lavish. Rows of thorns and twisting lines were interwoven with symbols and glyphs from tongues long forgotten.

"This podium… This is how I'll be transported?" The scholar asked, unable to keep the slight hints of trepidation from his voice.

"Indeed," the old Summoner confirmed. "When you are ready, you must merely take a step onto the platform and let the magic take you. I am present, and focused, and we have a group of Summoners monitoring the system around the clock." He was smiling again. "It is natural to be somewhat hesitant at this part, but I assure you – nothing will happen to you. Well, at least not during the summoning," he said candidly.

Garret cast his gaze down at the runic circle, and despite himself, he found himself biting back a shaky laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Barely a month ago he was a fugitive on the run – now, here he was, about to step onto the Fields of Justice, battlegrounds reserved for heroes and warriors without equal, in order to grant the wishes of a spirit that had merged with him via an absolutely laughable yet admittedly amazing series of events. Had someone told him weeks ago that he'd even be on speaking terms with the Institute of War, he'd have laughed at them and made note to bolt from that particular village as soon as humanly – and somewhat inhumanly – possible.

Now, here he stood, with an ancient, violence-hungry spirit trapped in his arm, and about to step into one of the Fields of Justice.

Were he a lesser man he'd have claimed irony had its knife in for him.

"Garret," he heard Furia's voice echoing in his mind. "I do not wish to pressure you but time is running out – and I admit I am rather eager to see whether our plan is successful."

'I suppose it is rather meaningless to keep delaying it,' Garret agreed, nodding to himself, odd as the gesture may seem. He had a tint of red to his vision, he realised – a cloud of crimson peeking out just past the edges of his peripheral vision. With but a hint of trepidation he took a step forwards. 'Well… Witty one-liners have never truly been one of my strengths… So I guess we're doing away with that. Are you ready, Furia?'

It was more a question to delay just a bit more, and for but a moment the scholar feared such an action would tick her off. Fortunately, though, the first response he heard from her was a soft trill of laughter – almost inaudible. "I have been ready since the moment you freed me, Garret."

'Okay, then…' The prospect of stepping onto the runic circle still loomed overhead as a very, very daunting prospect – on one hand, he could always cut his losses and flee right away. After all, such is how he lived most of his life. On the other hand, though… He had given his word. If Furia was willing to compromise, so would he – a coward he may be, but damned if he wasn't going to try his best to be an honourable coward.

So in a moment of blind, somewhat self-spiting resignation, the scholar closed his eyes and took that final step forwards.

A stream of light exploded beneath him the moment both feet stood firmly on the stone platform. It was as though the runic array had been waiting with bated breath and barely-concealed excitement – the sheer force, the sheer volume of the magics blew his long hair upwards and even caused the tails of his duster to flutter behind him akin to boneless wings. A whirlwind had seemed to erupt into the small chamber – even the elderly Summoner's robes fluttered as though they stood in the eye of the storm.

It was at that precise moment that the light intensified.

And as if to accompany him on his Summoning onto the Fields of Justice, he could just barely hear the old magus' voice.

"Best of luck to you… Mister Hillock."

---

'Vertigo' would be an apt way to describe the transition from chamber to battleground – pseudovertigo, to be exact, Garret thought as he stood amidst the blinding lights of the Summoner's magics. While it might not be listed as anything 'official' Garret could, at the moment, think of no other way to describe the incessant sensations of dizziness one would normally attribute to the affliction. The intensity of it all was almost staggering, really, and the worst part was that the scholar could actually feel the different sensations whirling about in his head. Idly, amidst muttered curses and somewhat discomforted groans, Garret managed to mutter his hope that this was a one-time thing.

And then, almost as soon as it assailed him, the affliction dissipated.

The sensation of dizziness evaporated into nothingness and a wave of cold washed over him. The light around him had reached its utmost peak, shining brighter than ever before, and the howling gales of the pseudo-hurricane that had been whipped up in the small summoning chamber fell silent, replaced by a low ringing sensation, a whine in the endless expanse of white.

And just as the light began to dim, the scholar saw something before him – impossible, unimaginable in his own opinion, but so close, so seemingly real he could almost touch it.

For but a moment, wild, dark locks of hair splayed out before him, and hazel eyes met his own emerald ones, displaying an enamouring warmth and just a slight hint of mischief. Narrow lips sketched an intimate smile on tanned cheeks and an angular face, and for but a moment, Garret could have sworn he felt a hand cupping his cheek.

Farah…

The light faded away – and with it, the illusion of the woman he had grown to love over his long trek across Valoran. Darkness and shadow pierced the white expanse created by the Summoning, and what little remained of the illusion – a faint outline and faded colour – blended into the ebon haze that permeated the run-down little camp before him.

He stood there for a while, unblinking, breath held – before exhaling shakily, his shoulders slumping as he did so. In a way he was happy such a thing had happened – after all, memory could only serve so much – but a part of him, embittered by loss and sorrow, harboured a small, small amount of ire at the gesture. It was, after all, still rather painful to be reminded of that cruel loss.

"Someone you held dear?" Furia's voice echoed in his mind, smooth and controlled, and yet… just a tad sympathetic.

'Those words are not enough to describe it,' he said, taking note of how glum his voice sounded. He'd have to change that, and soon – Farah would give him an earful and a half if she knew he let her memory haunt him like that. 'She… I cannot describe how much she meant to me.'

"For what it is worth," the she-spirit spoke, "from the glance I was given – she was quite beautiful. Nonetheless," she trailed off, "I will leave the matter – I can sense speaking of her causes you distress."

'I… I appreciate that, Furia,' he said sincerely. 'I… I appreciate everything, honestly. You... You have been nothing but cooperative since we established contact. You have not pushed or prodded – gods above, you've even left my privacy intact. I… Such gestures mean much to me.'

"As the freedom you offer means much to me," Furia responded, and Garret could have sworn he heard the makings of a smile on the she-spirit's lips, had they existed. "Now, shall we divert our focus elsewhere? The battleground awaits, and I yearn to stain it red…"

For but a moment Garret paused, mouth open and ready to comment on just how morbid their conversation had turned – but in the end, his jaw snapped shut and he merely chuckled, some of the foulness in his mood already evaporating. Leave it up to Furia to go from sympathetic to bloodthirsty at the drop of a hat. He resolved not to think of all the hijinks this could cause in the future.

No, instead of trying to psychoanalyse the bloodthirsty spirit that now constituted part of his being, Garret decided to analyse his surroundings instead. He seemed to be on an elevated altar of sorts – there was an enormous statute of… something or another behind him, its clawed hands holding on to a dull, lightless, lifeless crystal undoubtedly designed with a magical purpose in mind. He noted two sets of stairs – one on either side of the altar, and both looking as though they had seen many, many better days. With a somewhat resigned shrug, he descended down the ruined stairs and into the small camp waiting beneath.

There was definitely something morbid about this place, Garret realised – admittedly, he had not been foolish enough to believe it would be a battlefield laden with fields of flowers and pretty waterfalls and oases and all those lovely things when he first heard the words 'Twisted Treeline', but still…

He strolled past the large crystal at the centre of the camp – obviously some sort of integral part to the match – and walked right up to the waist-high wall at the edge of the camp. A grisly sight met his eyes – had he been a lesser man he would have claimed the canopy of bare, mangled, downright ominous branches and the seemingly endless coat of fog that blanketed the area storeys below him was an affront to nature – if not an outright anathema to it. Truly it was a macabre sight – it almost made him wary of descending the muted gray roads leading out of the small base camp and into the horrifying undergrowth that the perpetual blanket of mist undoubtedly hid from his vision.

"This place… Its mere existence is a blight upon creation," Furia spat, the distaste in her voice ringing through Garret's mind, and for but a moment, he felt her disgust at the area before them. "And yet… it is oddly fitting. Everything here is dead… Everything here is already damaged. There is nothing of importance to destroy, nothing of value to preserve. A battle here would be unbridled – no limits, no restraints, nothing. The idea of fighting here…" she said somewhat glumly. "It is both insulting and exciting. I can only hope our opponents are of greater quality than this provided graveyard."

'Speaking of,' Garret wisely steered the conversation away from any topics that could further embitter the battle-lusted spirit, 'Time runs short. We should see if our transition succeeds, no?'

"Indeed…" Furia responded – and confusingly, only silence followed.

'Uhm… Furia?' Garret ventured, reaching out to his tenant. 'Isn't this… Shouldn't you be trying to take control now? Like you did in the ruins?' He questioned. 'Heavens know I am not resisting… Although I am certain there needs to be something to resist before I can actually resist.'

"You… feel nothing?" The question he gained in response did nothing to set his mind at east – if anything it instilled the faintest sliver of panic in him.

'…No?' he answered truthfully. 'You have been trying, then?'

"Tirelessly," Furia replied, a hint of panic in her voice as well. "I… I was aware this would not be simple but I was at hoping for at least a hint of progress when we would start!"

'Now, now, calm down,' Garret tried to placate the spirit of combat, ignoring the fact that he was slowly losing his own calmness made him more than a little bit hypocritical. 'This is why I spent all those minutes concocting plans and contingencies, remember? I was also aware this wouldn't be a simple task, and I am more than a little disheartened by the lack of initial progress, but as much as the situation scares me I refuse to give up just yet.'

"Garret?" There was a note of curiosity in Furia's voice, a hint of confusion regarding his actions.

'I gave you my word, didn't I?' Garret responded glibly. 'We reached a compromise, after all – you upheld your end of the deal and I'll be damned before I abandon mine. It is going to take a lot more than the threat of danger to make me break my oath.'

For but a moment, Garret received little response. The silence in his mind, caused by the absence of stray thoughts, was almost deafening, and for but a moment he feared they had somehow lost their think – an absolutely catastrophic possibility – but after a while, the she-spirit broke the hollow void in his mind. "I… You… You surprise me more with every passing day, Garret," she finally relented, with the slightest modicum of docility in her voice. "…Tell me about your plans."

Deciding not to push the topic, Garret merely allowed himself a nervous smile. 'Well, I have one somewhat concrete theory. I do not like one bit but, I admit, thus far it seems to be the thesis with the most credibility behind it. See, I have taken the liberty of looking into Jax and Lady Quinn's recollection of what happened in the ruins, and… Well, their testimonies contribute to the validity of the theory greatly.'

"If it involves the ruins I already despise this plan," Furia offered.

'As do I,' Garret agreed, his panic hitching somewhat. 'However, such is the way the process of elimination works. I would reckon…' He paused, trailing off a bit. 'Gods above, I cannot believe I am about to suggest this, but… I would reckon my physical state has a lot to contribute to our little experiment. So… Well… What I am trying to say is… Well, I think some physical trauma is in order - at most a state of near-death.'

"Preposterous," Furia's immediate response was short, curt, and to the point. "You will be facing different foes here – they savour the kill more than they savour the price. You… You would not last past your first breath."

'Well, I never said I wanted to,' Garret argued, somewhat feebly. 'Gods above, the mere thought of putting this little theory into practice terrifies me.' And it did, if he were completely honest – with capable individuals like the ranger Quinn, Jax, and – dare he say it – even Garen Crownguard partaking in these battles, Garret was rather surprised the thought even being within fifty feet of them when they were armed didn't make his legs quake instinctively. 'But as cowardly as I am, I am also logical – and going by my logic, our little switch was only ever possible when I had been shredded by a shotgun and left to lose vital amounts of blood. Let me ask you: Back in those ruins, had I not been grievously injured – would you have managed to take control as you did?'

For a few moments, stillness echoed in his mind once more. "I… I do not believe I would have been able to, no," Furia finally admitted. There was a hint of bitterness in her voice.

'So,' Garret started, rubbing his palms together and trying to ease away the trepidation and instinctual hesitation that normally came with plans the likes of which he was suggesting. 'If you took over while I was injured and claim you could not if I am in perfect health – relatively speaking – then factually, as grim as my suggestion is, it is also the only theory that has so far come to fruition, so to speak.'

"Factually, you nearly perished as well," Furia helpfully reminded him, "had it not been for our merging."

'And I am eternally thankful for it,' Garret quickly responded, pinching the bridge of his nose with his abhuman hand. Some tension evaporated at that moment, and only then did he realise just how nervous what he was suggesting made him. 'Alright, so obviously this little theory is not going to be put into practice – not deliberately, at least… Although I admit I am not disappointed by the outcome. I cannot help but feel I have been pardoned from the headsman's block.'

"He who goes willingly cannot be pardoned," Furia said testily. "What else? You must have more than one plan."

'Have a little faith, Furia,' Garret responded. 'I would be a rather poor intellectual if that was as far as my planning went. Although I must admit, my other theories and plans are… slightly more complex. They are not as easy as letting others bash me around a bit. My physical health was only one part of the equation of what happened in the ruin – there are deeper physical levels, and other levels entirely. Apart from my physical weakness, anything could have contributed to the transition – blood loss meant my body was slowly but surely shutting down, but I recall there were also physical responses based on my emotional state. I… I recall feeling panic, fear… Sorrow. Especially sorrow, I recall – I kept thinking how unfair it all was, dying like that in a ruin after all my years of running. I have no doubt my body mirrored these emotions with physical responses. Unfortunately, I took to linguistics and history more than biology or science, so… I am afraid I cannot clarify anything more than 'erratic heartbeat' and 'irregular breathing'.'

"Emotions…" Furia seemed to ponder. "You speak too much, and say too little," she promptly summarised sourly. "How will these plans work?"

'…Through being put into practice,' Garret admitted, rather reluctantly. 'While I have some control over my emotions I can't elevate my heart rate at will. And the few things that can trigger such things now… well, I can't help but feel my reaction to them would be rather… detrimental, in this environment.'

For but a moment, the battle-crazed spirit sharing his body remained silent. This silence, however, was not deafening in the least – had he not known better, had he not known that there was some kind of fancy magical explanation for it, Garret would have sworn he could feel the lady of battle thinking. "I… will not pry," Furia said finally, once more slightly subdued, almost… wary? "These plans of yours… are disconcerting," she admitted, however.

'The idea of even being on the Fields of Justice is equally disconcerting,' Garret admitted, noticing his conversation with Furia, and the admission of the practical nature of his plans, did little to ease the hollow pit forming in his stomach. 'Especially now. It matters little, however – I may have spent my life fleeing from it but I assure you I am quite used to danger, of all sorts.' He paused for a moment, resting his hands on the waist-high wall before him again. 'I am trying to find a way, to devise some kind of plan or theory that will let us 'switch' before we encounter any great threats, but…' He sighed, a gesture showing every ounce of frustration, trepidation and wariness he was currently feeling. 'The only solution I can think of now is putting it all into practice. I… I was overconfident in our initial progress, and now it seems I am about to reap what I have sown in that regard.'

"I do not approve of this," Furia remarked, more grudgingly than anything else. "This is a battlefield. The chances of you dying horribly are great."

'Well…' Garret mused, shrugging in a silly manner. After denial came grudging acceptance, after all – at least, as far as he was involved. 'At the very least the death won't stick.'

"That does not placate me in the slightest," his tenant replied sourly. "Can you think of nothing else?"

'…No,' the scholar replied, a bitter taste in his mouth. 'Our transitioning… It appears it encompasses more elements than we originally thought it would – too many to dot down and decipher in one sitting. I theorised that we'd make more initial progress due to the fact that we have already transitioned once, and I even factored in the lack of that suppressant chain. I based all my possible plans off the chance that we would make more progress initially, that I would have more to work with, but…' He trailed off. He snorted softly at the unfairness of it all. 'It seems I was wrong – which means we're flying blind here.'

"I do not like that alluding tone," Furia responded warily. "What do you mean?"

'It means that we should prepare for more than one sitting,' Garret responded lowly. 'Trial and error is the only way I can see for us to go now.'

"Trial and error?" Furia parroted, and for but a moment Garret swore all the eagerness for battle in her voice had all but dissipated. "What, do you intend to rush in and die until we find a solution?"

'I do not intend to die at all,' Garret responded, standing upright. His gaze slowly drifted across the ocean of mist before him. 'As things stand I am banking more money on emotion being the trigger. I have been pursued before – there's a remarkable likeness between being chased by someone intending to reduce you to a near-corpse and… well, actually being reduced to a near-corpse. With any luck, said pursuit should trigger some emotional similarities. Then… Then we see if it works or not.'

"And if it does not?" the battle-crazed spirit inquired.

'We… will cross that bridge when we reach it,' Garret responded, folding his arms behind his back and slowly backing away from the wall.

"If… If you believe that is best…" Furia spoke, struggling with her words. It was obvious she wasn't too keen on seeing her new 'anchor' to the physical world dying anytime soon. "Then I will not argue."

Garret nodded in response. There was a degree of bitter-sweetness in their mutual agreement – the fact that his own error was running amok with his tenant's emotions and outlook left a rather bitter taste in his mouth. Their advantage was shot right to hell as well – exploring a bit ahead of time and learning the terrain of the battlefield meant nothing if they could not transition so Furia could utilise it. He cringed inwardly – that old Summoner purposely sent him in ahead of time so he could gain a bit of an advantage, something to make the match a bit easier. Now it was going to waste.

It seemed irony's knife had a very jagged edge.

Any further thought was interrupted as the altar behind him exploded into light and life again. A pillar of glowing magic pierced the darkened skies above, basking the small camp in its arcane glow, and once more a plethora of different winds buffeted the scholar where he stood. Such theatrics, it seemed, were par for the course when it involved summonings. 'It would seem our allies have arrived,' Garret thought morosely.

"What will you tell them?" Furia inquired.

'The truth,' the scholar responded. Despite all the hesitation and trepidation he was currently feeling, he'd opted to go with honesty as far as the Institute of War and its Champions were involved. After all, over the past thirteen years he'd lied enough to last him two lifetimes. 'The old Summoner did say the team was restructured – maybe they know about our connection… If so, they might understand our predicament as well.'

As if on cue, the magics died down – the pillar of light dissipated in a final great gust, and soon the shadows set in again. The dark clouds above became undistinguishable from each other, and the small camp returned to is lifeless, ominous state of inactivity.

Then, with a loud, almost gleeful screech, a large Demacian eagle took flight, soaring into the skyline.

'Oh, no,' Garret cringed, the hollow pit in his stomach expanding to such an extent the mere backlash from it made him feel dizzy. One hand covered his face, and he released a soft, almost pained groan. 'Of all the people they could have chosen…'

"I recognise that bird…" Furia spoke up, her tone one of curiosity and perplexity.

'You should,' the scholar responded glibly, still hiding his face behind his hand. 'It was quite eager to gouge Jax's eyes out back in the ruin.'

"Indeed. I trust it knows restraint," Furia spoke up, more nonchalant than anything after recognition did its work. "If not I have no qualms with feeding it to our opponents."

'Furia, no,' Garret responded, although the objection lacked any resoluteness or spirit. If anything it sounded almost resigned. 'Lady Quinn and her eagle are… well, they're a team. As such both of them are our allies.'

"Preposterous," the spirit responded, sounding offended. "I will not treat a beast as my equal."

That, at the very least, offered Garret a peculiar bit of insight into Furia's skewed versions of morality and honour. It coincided rather well with some of the more ancient texts and murals he'd deciphered, depicting humans utilising animals for food, legwork, labour… and little else, especially not as a 'partner' in combat. The scholar ventured Furia must have lived in such a time – and thusly, it proved the battle-crazed woman was, indeed, ancient.

'I am not asking you to,' Garret spoke, his voice regaining just a bit of the life it had lost upon realising that the Demacian Ranger he'd pulled a gun on was going to be fighting alongside him. 'However, I must emphasise something – transition or not, we are still part of a team when we step onto the Fields of Justice. That is something I know to be absolute. So please, Furia – I am not asking you to view them as equals. I am merely asking that you work with them.'

"I suppose I can oblige," the she-spirit intoned. "After all… The glimpses I was offered in the ruin showed me the falconer is quite skilled."

'That does not even begin to describe it,' Garret responded. Still, his hand remained placed over his face, and not even the tell-tale sounds of footsteps coming down the stone stairs could make him move it – not yet. In a way, he harboured the futile hope that some way, somehow, keeping his face hidden could just make him sink into the earth and disappear. The footsteps were precise – controlled and even, and deathly soft. The scholar was rather certain they would be near-silent if the dead area around them didn't cause even the slightest sound to echo.

"…Garret?!"

The Ranger's voice sounded roughly the same as he remembered it from the ruin. A tad softer, smoother, maybe, but that was due to the lack of cavern walls for her voice to echo off. Nonetheless, even that change could not mask the shock, confusion and the barest, barest hint of outrage present in the falconer's tone. Going simply by vocal indications, Garret assumed that the ranger was not notified of who she would be fighting alongside. Apparently she'd been kept in the dark.

The scholar found he couldn't quite blame the Institute for that.

With an almost inaudible sound of resignation, Garret removed the palm from his face and turned his attention to the stone steps. True to form, Quinn stood there, clad in the same garb she'd been wearing when she had so tirelessly pursued him through the ruin near the Serpentine River. Even in the Treeline's perpetual murky darkness, her face was still very easy to see – and the emotions showcased on it, even more so. "Lady Quinn," he addressed her, hoping to the high heavens his voice did not betray just how paranoid and uncomfortable he had started to feel just now. "Well, er…" He fumbled with his words a bit, cursing the sudden knots his tongue formed. Quinn's gaze intensified, emphasising the confusion hidden there, and still that bare hint of subtle outrage taunted him. It was all he could do not to shrink away under her stern gaze. "I… Well, this is… unexpected…"

"That's an understatement," the Ranger responded, hopping off the last step and taking a few short yet dutiful strides towards the scholar. "What are you even – I don't even know where to start."

"You're not planning on harming me, are you?" Garret ventured, taking a tentative step back. "You know… for pulling a gun on you? I would… Well, you see, I cannot truly claim to know you, and for all I know you might not be like, well, that at all, but…" He rambled, once more fumbling with his words. "Had I been in your situation, well… I would be rather mad."

For but a moment, the expression of surprise on Quinn's face faded away, replaced by momentary shock – if only for a fraction of a second – before her brow furrowed into a frown. She opened her mouth, primed to speak, or reprimand, or perhaps even argue the point, before snapping shut abruptly with an audible click. For a moment longer her stern gaze lingered on him, before she finally found her voice. "My targets have done worse than pull a gun on me," she said, her voice a mixture of stern assertion and fatigued resignation. "I've learned not to take things too personally. But if I'm going to be mad about anything, Garret, it's because you decided to be stubborn when your life was on the line!"

The scholar warily took another step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. It seemed as though he'd managed to push one of her buttons despite his best efforts to avoid doing so. "Well, you see," he started, his mind turning blank, apart from a soft chuckle, no doubt from his spiritual tenant. "Well, I had been shot, after all, and, well, last I made the effort to do any research on the subject, er, buckshot didn't exactly work wonders in promoting… certain diplomatic thought processes." He would be the first to admit he was grasping at straws here – his defense was starting to sound flimsier by the minute, even to his own ears. "I… was not in my right mind," he summarised.

"Evidently not," Quinn agreed, her ire not residing in the slightest. "You even refused treatment! Dammit, Garret… Things could have turned out so much differently if Jax hadn't shown up. You could have died," she stressed. "What… What were you even thinking?"

For but a moment, the scholar paused, pondering the question. He had no doubt he could concoct a somewhat convincing little cloak-and-dagger tale to throw her off his back, but… it became evident no lie he could fabricate could ease the tension between himself and his former pursuer. With gritted teeth he decided that it was better to be honest – a solution he found himself turning towards quite frequently nowadays.

"…My brother was… well, he was one of you. A Ranger," Garret spoke, his voice dropping in terms of volume and conviction. "Sometimes he'd come home, all angry and depressed, and, well… He would talk. I…" He trailed off. "I know what happens to people apprehended by the Rangers. It is… not always pleasant."

Quinn seemed ready to rebuke him the moment he had started speaking – but somehow, some way, the mention of his brother seemed to pluck her from her bout of irate scolding. Her mouth closed again, slowly this time, and she averted her eyes, at least a bit. The scholar, remarkably, picked up on this. "You… You know, I take it? About my family?"

"I do," Quinn said, nodding. It seemed she had calmed down, if only just a touch – her voice still held remnants of spice, but at the very least, she wasn't being confronting anymore. "Captain Crownguard put the puzzle together. He noticed one of your brothers' name from the Vanguard's records. After that, well… A lot of the higher-ups involved in your pardon know your story now."

"I thought they would," Garret said, lowering his guard somewhat. "The High Councillor told me the Captain would be present for my judgement." He let the words linger somewhat, wrestling with himself to find a way to steer the conversation away from the old wound. "Nonetheless," he said suddenly, a tad firmer than when he spoke moments earlier, "right mind or no, I… I realise I was wrong to reach for a weapon. You were… just doing your job, after all. For what it is worth, I am sorry – for complicating your assignment."

Once more, surprisingly, the scholar managed to throw the Ranger for a loop. What once was a frown turned into an expression of sudden shock, before it furrowed again into a frustrated, less threatening scowl. "Just… Ugh. You didn't complicate it that much," Quinn relented, shaking her head. "It was nothing I couldn't handle. Jax, however… was not."

"I get the feeling Jax complicates everything he gets involved in," Garret said glibly, chancing a smile.

"I had a broken arm that could testify to that," Quinn mumbled in response, but the makings of a wry grin were there, tugging at the corners of her lips. She sobered up suddenly. "What are you even doing here, Garret? Are you the new Champion I was told about?"

"Me? Heavens, no," Garret shook his head, almost violently. Then he rose his mangled arm – which, Quinn seemed to notice with no small amount of wariness, was missing the suppressant chain it was usually adorned with – and pointed to it. "She is," he said plainly.

"'She'? What do you – What does that even mean?" Quinn asked, confusion overwhelming every other emotion her voice could possibly display.

"Well…" Garret started, averting his gaze. "It is quite an interesting story. A touch morbid, maybe, surely, but still, I think it is quite a story indeed. It is just… Well, it is a very, very long story, and I fear we might not have the time to get everything straightened out and summarised, as it stands."

As if to prove his point, as if fate itself responded to the mortal soul who had dared to tempt it, the altar at the far end of the camp exploded into life and light once more. The dark clouds above were torn asunder by a wave of brightness and once more the scholar felt the tails of his coat whipping up behind him. He chanced a glance towards the Ranger and saw her clasping down her little helm-like-contraption with one hand. The way the feather-like decorations on her uniform ruffled and bunched up, making her seem like an angry bird puffing up its feathers, was rather comical – he was certain the sight would have caused him a chuckle or two if the situation were not so awkward.

Then, the tempest died down – and their third ally voiced his presence with a type of gung-ho grandeur that could only belong to one person.

"Well, ain't this cozy?"

Garret saw Quinn's hand flex as though it were only a natural reflex, and a sheen of annoyance, frustration and something that seemed a lot like despair flashed across her hazel eyes. The energy seemed to seep from her form as she cast her gaze upwards, at the small wall surrounding the altar and the ever-arrogant, ever-confident figure perched atop it. Recognition and no small amount of relief brought a smile to the scholar's face as ever-defining purple garb fluttered in the slight breeze above, and six blue-hued lenses gazed down at them in amusement.

"Jax?" Garret addressed the self-proclaimed 'Champ' above them. "You're our third ally?"

"'Course!" The Grandmaster acknowledged as he leapt from the wall, landing before the scholar and the Ranger with a barely-audible tap. "What, you think I'd trust her with lookin' out for your neck? No offense, Chickadee," he said, effectively silencing the Ranger before she could even respond to his vocal declaration of distrust. "Trust me, the folks who're gonna come after you here are bad shit. One little girl with a chicken and a peashooter ain't gonna do much. Thus, The Champ is here."

"Eagle," Quinn ground out. "Valor is an eagle-"

"Eh, still squawks like a chick when he eats lamppost," Jax shrugged her interjection off as though it meant nothing – which, in Garret's experience, it likely did, in the Grandmaster's own opinion. "Anyway, the match is gonna be starting soon. You and your little spirit-lady-friend get things sorted out?" He asked. "On that note, have you told Chickadee everything?"

"'Spirit-lady-friend?'" Quinn parroted, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Wait, wait, are you referring to the thing that tried to kill us in that ruin?"

"Yup," Jax answered eloquently, before Garret even had the chance to further explain. "Poet Boy here gets all talky sometimes so I'll dumb it down for ya: That crazy bitch in his arm is his new friend and this," he motioned to the battleground around them, "was organised so they could try switching. Now before you ask," Jax said, jutting his lamppost in Quinn direction when it seemed as though the Ranger was going to interrupt, "she's cool. Well, not exactly 'cool' but she ain't trying to possess Poet Boy here so Poet Boy in turn decided to let the crazy bitch vent, by using the Fields of Justice – because insane as he is, he's a real swell guy like that."

The urge to press his palm against his face returned with vengeance in mind, Garret noticed. True, there wasn't exactly anything wrong with Jax summary of the situation, per say – well, apart from that 'insane' bit, he took exception to that – but there wasn't exactly anything right about it either. 'Jax…' He groaned inwardly. '…why?'

"Why what, Garret?" He received the response from his tenant. She seemed oddly amused. "I see no flaws with that statement."

Ignoring Furia's input, Garret dared to sneak a glance at the Ranger beside him. Perplexity was the name of the emotion and Quinn's face displayed it in full force – it seemed even those participating in a glorified gladiator's arena filled with warriors, mages, archers and gunmen (and even rampant spirits, by the Judicator's admission) could be surprised. Tentatively, she turned to face him, her expression the epitome of confused expectance. "Is that… Is that true?"

"Most of it, yes," Garret admitted, slumping slightly. "Though not the part of me being… well, mentally challenged. You just… Well, I'd say you just heard the bare-bones edition. The truth of the matter goes much deeper."

Her mouth opened then, primed and ready to fire off a sharp-tongued retort, he reckoned, only for her jaw to snap shut once again with an audible click. She inhaled deeply, then, as if steeling herself. "How, then?" She asked simply. "How do you intend to 'let her vent'? And can she even be trusted?"

"I ask the same question of her," Garret heard Furia respond. "Is she not one of your hometown's agents? Her loyalty should be obvious. Take caution," she said firmly.

"I trust her," Garret announced, his voice firm – much firmer than it was previously. "We reached a compromise, and she honoured her end of the bargain. This," he motioned to the dark clouds and twisted trees around them, "is my way of upholding my end. I'm looking for a way for us to switch – like what happened in the ruin. I get my peace of mind; she gets her trysts in combat or battle. It is not ideal, I admit, but it is… better than the alternatives."

"Speaking of," Jax spoke up, "I heard you got booted into the Treeline earlier than usual. How's your progress?"

Garret hoped, hoped to the highest of heavens, that his two allies had not picked up on the way he blanched at that question – alas, going by Quinn's sudden look of intrigue and slight worry, and the sound clunk that followed Jax's palm smacking into his helm, it seemed fate was not intending to be kind to him. "We… have made minimal progress," Garret said, somewhat sullen. "Actually… We have made no progress at all. I was overconfident in our ability – I assumed too much, and now…"

"Now it's biting you in the ass," Jax summed up, removing his palm from his helm. "Well, it's no biggie. This is a practice match, after all. I also know you by now – you're a smart guy. You've got plans, don't you?"

"I do," Garret admitted, hoping he could somehow lock the sheepishness out of his voice. "I do not necessarily agree with them – heavens know Furia doesn't either – but as things stand they are my- no, our best bets at achieving this." He paused for a moment, glancing around. "How long do we have until the match starts?"

"Couple 'o minutes," the Grandmaster responded.

"Okay then," Garret said, steeling himself. "Here's what I have deciphered so far…"

---

"So, that's it?" Jax asked, seemingly unimpressed. "Just get your heart pumping, lungs working, all that adrenaline-related shit? Bud, I dunno if I said this before or not, but the folks we're gonna be fighting are out for blood," he said. "I bet it'll take one little run-in with one of them before your whole 'emotions' theory gets put to the test."

"And if that doesn't work?" Quinn interjected, sounding sceptical. "There's a major complication waiting on us if emotional state isn't the trigger for their little transition."

"What's complicated?" Jax retorted. "Sit back, let the baddies smack him around a bit until that crazy bitch in his arm gets mad, and boom. She comes out, we go in, all the enemies die, and we win. Simple. 'Demacia!' and all that shit."

"Garret," Furia chose this time to speak up. "That man is becoming less endearing with every word he speaks."

'That, er… Pay no mind to it,' the scholar responded inwardly. 'That's just how Jax is. See it so: He is not eager to see me harmed – he is merely confident in my plans.' He turned his attention to his allies, then. "While I am not exactly eager to put that particular plan into action," he said warily, "I am not so foolish as to ignore the fact that it recreates the conditions of the ruin near perfectly."

"He's got a point, Chickadee," Jax threw in his two cents, bracing his lamppost over a shoulder. "I mean come on. If he could survive all that I'm pretty damn sure he can survive a bout or five on the Fields of Justice. Hell, he might even die less than you do, on a regular basis!" This last comment, Garret noticed, earned Jax a glare from the Ranger that could be described as nothing less than arctic – and yet still, the self-proclaimed Champ remained unfazed. Offhandedly the scholar wondered just how he did that. "Hey, ya know what? The way I see it – Poet Boy here's very good at running. If all else fails he can just bait our enemies to me and I'll take care of the rest."

"You mean 'us', right?" Quinn interjected. "And 'we'?"

"Nah, I mean 'me' and 'I'," Jax brushed her off. "Don't need your chicken shitting on me because a Yordle scared it." Then he turned to face Garret, speaking before the Ranger could even think to voice her outrage at the not-so-veiled insult towards her 'partner'. "Listen, bud, I mean it when I say I'm here for a reason. Now I'm sure your little lady-friend in your arm is as capable as you say she is and hell, I'm pretty sure Chickadee here doesn't fuck up as royally as she did in the ruins on a daily basis," he said matter-of-factly, once again ignoring the strangled cry of outrage he managed to elicit from Quinn. "But if you and that crazy bitch can't trade places? This is going to be a very uneven fight – so don't focus on fighting or helping out if the shit hits the fan. You need to find a way to make your little magic trick work – and that's why I'm here; to buy you the time to do it."

Garret, to his credit, nodded resolutely the moment Jax had finished speaking. "I had that concept in mind since the beginning," he answered truthfully, likewise trying his best to ignore the dip in air temperature that Quinn's glare was causing. "It… It was the implementation that had me hesitating a bit."

"Relax, bud," Jax said heartily, waving off his concern. "That's why we're here. We're with ya every step o' the way. Ain't that right, Chickadee?" He said, his voice inflating somewhat as he turned to face the Ranger as he finished speaking. Quinn's glare still seemed as though it could thaw true ice, although the expression of anger lasted a fleeting moment before she sighed in a resigned manner, her shoulders slumping somewhat as she managed to put the entirety of the rather unsavoury conversation behind her.

"He's right," she admitted, in a surprisingly docile tone of voice. "I can also see why we were chosen," she admitted. "We were there, after all. We know how that…" She trailed off. "Well, we know how your friend fights."

"As I know how she fights," Furia responded in kind – and for but the briefest of moments, Garret felt a pang of anticipation, the ever-familiar buzz of excitement, thrumming in the pit of his stomach, before fading away completely; so quickly he had no choice but to pass it off as his imagination. "I look forward to meeting her in battle – her, and that loathsome beast."

"We should prepare," Quinn said suddenly, her head whipping around, towards the stone staircases that led into the damp, murky undergrowth of the twisted forest before them. "The battle will start any moment now, and if our enemies are going to be as riled up as Jax says, we need to capitalise on a head start – get the jump on them, so to speak," she said, strolling over to a dusty patch of dirt near the first staircase. "Garret, come here a sec – I need to show you something."

"Bossy, ain't she?" Jax pondered aloud, loud enough for the Ranger to hear him, and once again Garret was left to wonder whether Jax was just blissfully oblivious, unfalteringly lackadaisical, or just downright spiteful. "Best go see what she wants. Prolly it's got to do with that giant chicken she's got roaming the skies."

Acknowledging the advice with the barest of nods, Garret strode forwards. Quinn had lowered herself down, now kneeling next to the dusty pile of earth. He noticed she was drawing several figures into the dirt with two gloved fingers, her other hand clutching her trusty crossbow. "Keep your eyes on the sky," she advised him as she continued sketching the odd figures. "Valor will signal if he spots an enemy – these are his flight patterns in case he does. They are 'Mage', 'Warrior', 'Ranged' and 'Assassin' in kind. Knowing is half the battle – if you know what's close, you can prepare for it." She paused. "Although I don't think I should be telling you this. That trap with the dead rabbits and the wolves was… ingenious."

"Many thanks," Garret said with a smile. "So… Mage, Warrior, Ranged and Assassin. Understood."

"You sure?" The Ranger asked, her brow just slightly raised.

"My memory is quite sturdy," the scholar answered. "These will be rather easy to recall. My chief concern now is not having a line of sight at all. Those trees look as though they can be quite obscuring – even if their branches are a bit bare."

"You've been on the run a long time, haven't you?" Quinn asked. "You're smart – I think you know how to deduce intent regarding an animal's cry. Listen for Valor, if you can't see him – see if you can read intent from his shrieks. That should make this easier as well."

"I can do that, yes," Garret nodded, glancing at the figures in the dirt one last time before straightening out. "I'm no 'lord of the wild', true, but I think what you suggest is within my capabilities. I… well, thank you, Lady Quinn," he said earnestly. "This gesture is… well, I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," the Ranger responded, rising to her feet. "And please," she said, somewhat strained. "Drop the 'Lady' part? I'm just a Ranger. Just Quinn is fine. There's no need to be so formal."

The scholar, surprisingly, acquiesced without further argument. "I… As you wish, Quinn," he said, with a slight tug at the corners of his lips.

"All done?" The two were interrupted by the usual bombastic voice of Jax, who came strolling over as though he was about to engage in a lovely walk through a park rather than a battle on a hellishly twisted battleground. "Flight patterns and warnings, huh?" He observed, glancing at the figures on the ground. "Heh. Your chicken might be helpful after all," he said, starting to descend down the arcing stairs.

"Aren't you going to memorise them too?" Quinn called out.

"Don't need 'em," the Grandmaster casually replied, stopping at the last step. "Thing about your bird is, he can't see what's under the trees, can he? I think I'll trust my own eyes on this one."

Any chance of a reply – be it grudging agreement from a timid scholar or barely-veiled irritation from a headstrong Demacian Ranger – was outright obliterated by a downright raucous roar that echoed across the twisted landscape beneath them. It was a hollow, drawn-out yet utterly voluminous bellow, the type which echoed in the ears of those who heard it for many, many minutes afterwards. Garret fought against the instinct to cover his ears, knowing full well it would be futile despite his body's natural reflex. His mind quickly matched the bellowing roar to a source – he recognised it as a type of battle trumpet, albeit one with a much deeper, much louder report. That was the kind of soundwave that would wreak havoc on one's ears regardless of how much they tried to block it out.

Thankfully, the grating drone of the battle-horn soon died down, and when the scholar turned his attention back to the camp, he witnessed a display nothing short of magnificent. The dull, almost dead crystal he had observed upon entering the Treeline had suddenly flared to life, bathing the camp in an almost ethereal violet glow. The chunk of arcane crystal itself slowly spun in place as it rotated, and the runic engravings on the structure it was perched on had shimmered to life in a spectacular display of colours matching the greater crystal. Even to his own mundane senses this structure radiated magical energy.

"That's our Nexus," Jax helpfully supplied. "Two o' those puppies keep the battle going. Without two, there's not enough fancy magicy shit to keep the Treeline sustained, and the fight ends. So if we wanna win, we gotta trash the enemy's Nexus before they can trash ours. Bonus points if we kick massive amounts of ass while doing so."

"That sounds… quite fair," Furia mused in Garret's mindscape, and once more the scholar felt that ever-familiar pang of excitement, for a moment so brief he would have paid no mind to it – had this not been the second time he had felt it.

'Furia,' he addressed his tenant, keeping track of the banter that had suddenly broken out between Quinn and Jax. 'Are you… are you excited, by any chance?'

"I am, Garret," the she-spirit responded, and this time, the scholar noticed the anticipation bubbling beneath her normally collected voice. "What the alien one said… Our enemies will be out for blood… That mere notion excites me beyond words." She trailed off for a moment, before speaking up again. "Garret, I might have a way to aid you."

'Oh?' This, Garret admitted, was an intriguing piece of news. He kept his gaze neutral at the sight before him – apparently Jax had said something that was making Quinn struggle very hard to maintain a professional demeanour. 'What have you found?'

"A… A compromise, as you might say. When I try to take over… You said something about a 'transition'. When I tried to attempt this earlier I was trying to expand our common link. While this has proved rather fruitless, now that you have removed that damnable chain, I may be able to manipulate our tether. Hold out your hand, Garret."

The scholar fought back a wave of wariness at this. Suddenly the notion of trust being more than just vocal slammed into him with all the mercy and benevolence of a Noxian siege engine, and once more that little ball of ice in the pit of his stomach grew, and expanded. The cowardly part of him, which he had managed to bury under lock and key since entering the Treeline, was hammering against the door, and the threat of that part breaking free was very, very real.

"I assure you, Garret – I will not harm you. With all you are sacrificing, and shouldering for my sake… I would never harm you."

This admission, surprisingly, ended up soothing some of the turmoil Garret felt. With a shaky inhalation, he steeled his nerves and raised his left hand – his human hand. He was about to admonish himself for the admittedly instinctive gesture, but the almost merry chuckle that suddenly floated in his mind made him reconsider that notion. Then he felt it – a feeling of almost comforting warmth enveloping him, seemingly travelling through his very veins as it encompassed him from head to toe. His vision tinted red, suddenly, and he noticed both Jax and Quinn were alert as could be, all pretence of teasing and outrage halted in the face of something threatening – and something very, very familiar.

It was at that point that Garret noticed the red was not tinting his vision at all – rather, it was all around him, like a mantle of crimson smoke, the same ominous, cloudy vapour he had been surrounded by when he first made contact with his tenant. It was much thinner, he realised – more akin to a mist than actual smoke, and he noticed it was doing something different. Instead of the twisting, writhing motions the smoke had made in his mindscape, it was… simmering? Could smoke even simmer? The mist around him twitched and jerked, somehow becoming tenser, tauter, with every errant twitch. It shrank, then, condensing around his outstretched hand, curling around his arm and slowly wafting off it, hovering a few inches away and then returning to coil around the outstretched limb, like a snake.

Slowly, the mist moved down his arm, centring and anchoring itself in his open palm and splaying outwards like a ball of fire. Fire, Garret noticed, was an apt descriptor – the mist intensified in his palm, turning to the same thick smoke Furia had hidden in during their encounter, and to his shock – and wonder – the smoke started cracking. The twisting, writhing motions suddenly returned as the smoke expanded, and narrowed, a good three-and-a-half feet long and narrow enough for him to wrap his fingers around. The smoke shrank once more around the area he gripped tightly – and all of a sudden, the smoke flared.

Red flashed white for but a mere moment…

…and then, Garret noticed, he stood with a perfectly forged crimson sword in his hand.

"It worked," Furia's voice reached him, all of its usual calmness and smoothness lost in the shakiness and increased pitch spurred by excitement and just barely contained joy. "It worked…"

"Holy shit." Jax was the first to voice his opinion of the scene. "Garret? You there, bud? Or is the crazy bitch in control now?"

"Wha…?" Garret shook his head, clearing away some of the stupor that had enveloped him. "Uh, no, no. I mean – It is – I'm still, well, here but… I…" He sighed, his grip on the sword in his hand slackening. The tip dipped to the ground, impacting it with the expected sound of heavy steel impacting against rock, but at this point Garret noticed that, even in his normal hand, the sword was light as a feather. "I… I have no idea what happened now," he said honestly, raising the weapon in his hand to glance at it. It seemed both masterfully crafted and shockingly primitive at the same time – it very much fit the archetype of 'sharpened slab of steel with handle' befitting some of the older warriors in history; the blade even lacked a proper cross-guard.

"Wonderful," Furia mused from within Garret's mind. "It is… It is better than I expected it to be. It might still shatter after a few uses but… I am very pleased with this. Now… Now I know I can arm you." The she-spirit sounded downright giddy. "Now I know you will never be defenceless – not while I am with you." There was a subtle, very subtle undertone of relief to her voice. "Garret… There is one more thing I can try to do, to help you. However… it involves your mind, our minds. I… I realise you may not be comfortable with such a thing, after… After what happened when you were confined to the sick-bed. If you do not wish it… then I will refrain."

'…No, no, it is…' Garret started, fumbling with his words. 'I… I have no reason to distrust you now,' he admitted, once again inspecting the sword held in his hand, marvelling at just how light it was – as though it really were made of smoke and nothing else. At that moment, though, what Furia had offered came to the fore. He had expected something like what happened in the hospital wing – a flash of intent from the she-spirit in his arm, something that twisted and distorted his view of the world and spawned a knee-jerk reaction, a sort of instinct within him.

What he received instead… was much different.

The world before him remained unchanged, and yet, it was as though reality threatened to fade away as sweet, sweet remembrance overtook him. His nose twitched slightly as his mind recalled, in perfect clarity, the scent of sulphur and burning wood mingling with an oddly sweet, metallic scent. He recalled a familiar weight in his hand, and he could almost feel the leather-decked hilt of a blade or an axe clasped firmly in his hand. His mind's eye recalled dancing steel before him, glinting flourishes signalling a sword dancing around before him with practiced ease, a pseudo-ritual to 'break in a new blade', as his recollection told him.

Almost instinctively, his hand tightened around the hilt of the sword in his hand.

At first it was clumsy – something that could pass as a flourish in the eyes of a rookie, a child hoping to one day be a 'big man' and join the army or some-such. The blade itself nearly tumbled a few times, or it would have if it actually weighed enough to make gravity kick in. The second time was a bit more refined – slow, much too slow to be of use in 'breaking a blade in', but there were no fumbles, no twitches or tumbles; while it was certainly not elegant, it wasn't a complete failure.

The third time was the charm – the sword danced before him in a pattern he vividly remembered, flashing and flickering as it spun and twirled in his hand. It was a near-perfect flourish, in all honesty –

- and then Garret noticed, and realised, that a deadly weapon was flailing about in front of him, mere inches from his own person.

With a startled yet short yelp the scholar backpedalled as though the sword might animate itself and attack him – the weapon slipped from his grasp mid-flourish, and remained suspended in the air, slowly finishing the twirl it was performing as Garret stumbled back, as far away from the sword as possible. Fear-stricken eyes glanced first at the sword, then at his hand, and the scholar wondered just what the hell had happened.

"Shit, bud…" Jax summarised. "That was… fancy?"

"I thought…" Quinn spoke up, her expression both wary and a tad confused. "I thought you said you'd never held a sword before?"

At first Garret could not answer. His mouth opened and closed futilely, no sound escaping. He took a moment to calm his erratic breathing, and to recompose himself, before answering. "I… I can… I don't…" He started, fumbling about like a drugged loon trying to sweet-talk the asylum orderlies. "I have not," he admitted, sounding disbelieving even of his own words. "I can honestly say I have not… never, actually… The… The largest blade I have ever held was a small, a small knife, not a sword…"

"Maybe not you," Jax intoned, "but I'll bet your lady-friend kicked a lot of ass in life. I'd reckon a little performance like that was, what, downtime amusement for her?" He paused. "So what does this mean? You guys can't 'swap' places, but… you can share shit?"

"It…" Garret's mouth went dry as he spoke, and still he kept his gaze locked on the primitive yet somehow sophisticated blade hovering before him. It was still twirling merrily in mid-air, seemingly oblivious to all the tension its creation had caused. It twitched and jerked every now and then, spontaneously spasming under the scholar's questioning gaze. He could not exactly deduce why but it seemed as though this weapon was… waiting for him? It was one of the most alien things he had ever felt – here he stood, looking at a sword, a weapon he'd never held before, and yet he felt some semblance of attachment to it, some pang of sentimentality and companionship no sane man would reserve for something as simple and inanimate as a blade.

The blade twitched again, violently this time, as if responding in outrage to the scholar's thoughts. Garret didn't know if he was the only one who felt it but he could have sworn the blade was radiating emotion. Somewhat timidly, he raised his left hand again, palm open and fingers curled. The crimson blade before him halted its relaxed spin, hovering idly for but a moment before shifting itself. It turned where it floated so the hilt was pointed straight at Garret's hand, and slowly, almost carefully, the blade floated towards the scholar. It was an almost mesmerising sight, seeing a sword move of its own volition to a most unlikely wielder. Soon it had reached its destination, and the clench of a fist was all that separated the weapon from the scholar.

Garret took yet another deep breath, and grabbed hold of the sword.

It seemed to thrum under his touch, adjusting itself to him – the scholar felt the hilt shift, growing narrower and sleeker to fit a human hand untouched by the trials and pressures of a soldier's life. The blade first widened, then narrowed and sharpened, changing itself and almost adapting to its wielder's stature and strength. Almost…

Almost as though it were an extension of himself.

"Alright," Jax interjected, sounding miffed. "This is some Ionia-level bullshit going on here. Just what the hell just happened?"

"I… I have no idea," Garret responded, sounding every bit as shocked as his team appeared to be. It was both exhilarating and terrifying at once – he recalled holding a blade in the past, to such an extent that he could adequately describe every tiny detail from the pommel decoration to the wear on the blade itself; and yet, he knew it was impossible. "It was… I can recall doing that in the past, but, but… It cannot be! I've never even used a sword before…"

"…But I have," Furia's voice filtered into his own thoughts again. "I hoped to pass my knowledge down to you. I thought you could mirror my movements, and my skill, if you recalled it all as vividly as I do. Sadly, there is a complication."

'What kind of complication?' Garret asked her, somewhat wary of the response.

"The superficial kind," the lady of war responded. "Easily remedied in time. However, in this battle, it will still act to our detriment. Yours is a body ill-suited for battle, Garret. It lacks the strength, and the agility and the swiftness I had in life."

"Seeing as your eyes are going all freaky again," Jax interrupted them, "I'm going to bet your lady-friend just told you what the fuck is going on, eh?"

"It… It was her," Garret answered, coughing once to clear his throat and hopefully purge the underlying quiver threatening to plague it. "Her memories, to be precise. As it turns out, it seems we can share more than just a body."

"Well, that's…" Jax started, but trailed off. "Shit I dunno what to make of that."

"It's a reassurance," Quinn corrected him, although her voice held an edge of caution that betrayed her confidence in her statement. "A sword alone won't cut it against some of the people we fight against. If nothing else, that… Well, your new friend's knowledge can help you last a bit longer, at least until you figure out to trade places, so to speak."

"Also: baby steps," Jax intoned. "You can't switch places yet, but if you can use her fancy smoke tricks and actually learn a thing or two from her, hell, I'd say that's progress," he said, leaning against the railing of the stone steps. "You two might be closer to pulling a switcheroo than you think, bud."

"In any case," Quinn interjected, quickly darting down the stone steps and stopping a few paces into the dirty cobbled road. "The match has started. No doubt the other team has already embarked into the forest, and are on their way here. There are only two ways to go in the Treeline, after all," she said sternly. "I'll scout ahead. Keep your eyes and ears open – Valor will signal as soon as I find something. Or as soon as something finds me," she said, and for the briefest of moments Garret swore he could see her shoulders twitch slightly, as though she were shrugging. "Got it?"

"I… I understand, yes," Garret responded. In a way, the presence of someone capable of exerting some semblance of command was a major boon to his already fickle resolve. He was more than aware of the fact that it was one thing to speak of entering the Fields of Justice on Furia's behalf, it was another thing entirely to actually do it. Nonetheless, he offered Quinn an affirmative nod to accompany his own acknowledgement.

The Ranger nodded once, before turning around and sprinting ahead.

Jax took the opportunity immediately, and leaned forwards, scanning the Ranger's back as she went. He made a soft noise of approval, and stared on, seemingly content to watch her dash ahead into the Treeline. For a brief moment, Garret's more idealistic side wanted to believe that Jax was impressed by her hands-on approach towards the coming battle, an unseen affirmation after his earlier ridicule. Once Garret bothered to follow the Grandmaster's line of sight, however, he noticed Jax was, indeed, impressed by something of the Ranger – and it most certainly wasn't her approach to combat.

"Jax!" He hissed, quickly averting his own eyes.

"What?" The Grandmaster asked, and turned his blue-tinted gaze towards the scholar, innocent as can be. "She might be lacking a cup or three but damned if she ain't got a nice ass. Ya see the shape? Chickadee's rocking that bubble butt, I tell you…"

Had he known Jax for a lesser amount of time, Garret would have voiced disapproval and disagreement at the act. Unfortunately, a bit less than two weeks was time enough for the scholar to learn that perversity was to Jax what grog was to Gragas. So, with no small amount of resignation, Garret, merely sighed and shrugged, and descended the stone staircase.

It was an odd feeling, if he were being completely honest – with every step he took it seemed the murkiness and cold in the undergrowth seemed to intensify, as though the very negativity in the dead forest was trying to rear up and loom over him like an actual threat. The mist which had been nipping at his knees and coiling around his feet seemed to bite into his flesh all of a sudden, and the bare, sinister trees suddenly seemed double their usual height. That icy feeling in the hollow pit of his stomach returned with wrath, seeping into his chest and lungs and trying its best to numb his legs, and in response, he could faintly hear his own pulse all of a sudden. He gulped audibly, immediately recognising the feeling that was trying to cripple him:

Fear.

When he reached the final step, he stopped dead. Standing up there, by the Nexus crystal, in the relative safety of what could be called a 'camp' had made it quite easy to discuss methods and theories and hypotheses. He had Furia to talk to – she helped keep his mind occupied after the visions of his deceased lover assailed him, and afterwards, the muted confrontation with Quinn and Jax's lively entrance had all but quenched the fear he initially felt at the prospect. Now, though… Now that he was one step away from a battleground, one step away from glorified bloodsport where three undoubtedly powerful warriors were out to kill him… Suddenly, cutting his losses and agreeing with the coward in him seemed not only like the easiest option – it was a few urges away from being labelled an instinct.

"I know you fear, Garret," he heard Furia speak, from the recesses of his mind. "I know you doubt and hesitate. But know: I am with you."

"You alright there, bud?" Jax's voice broke him out of his fear-stricken pause, and Garret noticed the Grandmaster was standing right next to him. The unique mask locked away any sign of facial expression, but the question itself was laden with small bits of concern, masked by the mercenary's usual bravado. "You know that chicken ain't just for warnings, right? That thing'll dive down to help out, no matter who we're facing."

"I… It seems I am not as brave as I thought I could be," Garret said shakily – but nonetheless, but a steeled resolve, he took the first step towards fulfilling his side of the bargain. The soggy earth gave a bit under his heel, but it held firm, and with a single, purposeful stride, he took his first step into the actual Twisted Treeline. "No matter," he said, a sliver of resolve leaking into his voice. "I gave my word, didn't I?"

"That's the spirit," Jax said with a nod, twirling his trusty lamppost in his fingers. "You ain't alone here either, bud," he said confidently as he strolled ahead. "Come on. Let's go kick some ass, huh? I bet your lady-friend is eager to tap some blood, eh?"

And with those words, the hollowness in his stomach subsided just a bit, and that ever-buzzing pang of excitement bloomed in his stomach. Garret knew it was not his own emotion, just as he knew the sword in his hand was not of his own making, but… In a way, those facts seemed to soothe him. It offered a modicum of warmth in the coldness of grim realisation, and that was something he was all too thankful for.

As he strode forwards, following the Grandmaster's lead, Garret recalled a poem his father had adored in life – the order of words were lost on him, and the actual structure of the text had long since been forgotten. But there'd always been a part of that poem that fascinated him; an excerpt of bravery better suited to fairytales. It detailed a cavalry's charge against overwhelming odds, and how they so boldly rode into the jaws of Death itself, and right through the gates of hell.

One soul within him snorted in derision – and considered himself sorely lacking in both the 'bold' part and the 'bravery'.

The other soul within him thought the young man couldn't be more wrong.

---

"So how do the Summoners work?" Garret asked as he and Jax trekked through the coiling undergrowth of the Treeline. It had turned out to be an absolutely hideous place, with ferns resembling tendrils of darkness and trees with bark and branches that seemed to form monstrous visages at the merest flicker of shadows.

"See, that part's up for debate," the Grandmaster replied, casually swatting aside a stray branch with his lamppost. "This place is a fuckin' shithole… Anyway, some folks say they can 'hear' the Summoners talking to them, almost like telepathy. I call bullshit on that – if that were true some folks in this place wouldn't make such stupid mistakes… and maybe that Laurent woman would actually take a hint," he spat. "Nah, personally, I relate it more to a certain type of instinct. A gut feeling you know ain't yours, if I can put it that way. Call 'em 'guardian angels' if you really want to. They're like your 'sixth sense' when you're on the Fields."

"Sixth sense, you say," Garret pondered, sidestepping a pool of dark mud he seriously did not want to chance stepping in. "That might be complicated," he summarised. "With Furia always present and watching I might find it hard to differentiate between the two."

"Thought so," Jax replied, nodding as he swatted away another branch. "It shouldn't be too hard for ya, though. You and your lady-friend talk a lot; I've noticed. Your eyes are freaky so much nowadays it's hard to remember what they look like. The Summoners… well, I dunno how it's gonna be with you, but in my experience they don't talk much," he said. "'Sides, you're smart, ain't you? I'd bet you're used to the spirit-girl's yapping by now. So if you ever feel something, an instinct or a gut feeling, maybe, that ain't because of her yapping, you know it's the Summoner at work. Easy."

Garret pondered the words in silence for a few moments. Jax, despite being a goofball, was prone to moments of surprising seriousness and savvy. At first they almost always caught him off guard – but now, he noticed, the self-proclaimed Champ could be surprisingly wise and deducting when the need arose. "Actually, I think that 'sixth sense' is kicking in right now," he spoke cautiously. "I've had this feeling we're heading towards Quinn's location, only… Only there is no way I can know that for sure. Furia can sense people around me, yes, but for some reason they need to be close by. Quinn…" He trailed off, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Quinn seems much farther out, but… I cannot help but be sure we are headed in the right direction."

"That's the Summoners at work, alright," Jax nodded. "Here's the Champ's first tip for ya: Never ignore that instinct. It's a vital part of the battles here," he said, before shrugging. "At least for people who ain't me."

They were interrupted at that precise moment – a shrill shriek from above cascaded downwards and rang in their ears, and the two friends glanced up at the overcast sky. They could see Valor there, in the distance, too far to make out any details but close enough for them to decipher the giant bird of prey's flight pattern. He was darting back and forth, looping and rolling in mid-flight, forming a haphazard figure-eight on the grey skyline. After repeating the figure a few times the eagle righted its course and flew off to the side, uttering another shriek.

"Did you…?" Garret asked.

"Yup," Jax nodded, gripping his weapon with both hands. "Mage, by the looks of it." He followed the eagle's path of flight with a keen, trained eye, and immediately predicted where the thing was flying. "Shit. That chicken's just gone and given the game away. Remind me to cook it later," he said sourly. "Our enemies ain't stupid – they saw that bird as clearly as we did, so whoever that mage is, he knows we're close. Either we go to him, or he comes to us – and no offence, but I'd rather not have a mage flinging snowballs and other fairy shit at you when you can't swap out with that crazy girl."

"You have a plan, then?" Garret asked, scanning his surroundings nervously. He had seen one or two mages during his travels and, mediocre as they were, their might still troubled him greatly. He did not want to imagine how powerful the mages fighting on the Fields of Justice were – even if he did have a sinking feeling he would soon find out, whether he consented or not.

"Yup," the Grandmaster replied flippantly. "As you said, Chickadee's real close. You're gonna keep going and meet up with her, and I'm going to go deal with that mage. Simple."

"Quite," Garret agreed. "This blade does not seem like the proper tool to defend against a mage's assault anyhow," he quietly intoned, raising the crimson sword up and scanning the blade quickly.

"You are right to be cautious," Furia remarked from within their shared consciousness. "But do not view them as deities, Garret – even the most powerful of mages die like mortals."

"So that's the plan," Jax summarised, snapping the scholar out of his reverie. "If you hear a fight breaking out, don't come running, bud. You can't figure out how your magic trick works if you keep dying, eh? Leave that part to Chickadee," he said casually.

"Understood," Garret said, somewhat reluctantly. Despite his cowardly nature demanding that he bolt before Jax could even hear the "Thank you and good day," he would utter in such a case, it still felt somewhat underhanded to send a close friend off to go face someone who could bend the very elements to their will. Despite this, however, Garret was no fool – he was perfectly aware that he was a liability in his current state. All the flashes of memory and smoke-formed weapons in the world couldn't save him from people of Jax's calibre – at most such things would just delay the inevitable end. "Just be careful. Please."

"Pah," the self-proclaimed Champ shrugged the warning off. "That mage should be careful," he said confidently, venturing off the beaten path they were traveling and stepping into the underbrush. "You just keep moving, bud," he said reassuringly, as the undergrowth swallowed more and more of him with every step he took. The purple grab he adorned himself with was darkening by the minute. "I'll meet up with you guys soon."

And almost the moment he finished speaking, the darkness of the Treeline swallowed Jax completely.

For a fleeting moment Garret pondered going after him, against his better judgement and his survival instinct. The various snarls and howls coming from around him, coupled with the demonic faces formed by tree bark and rock formations, convinced him otherwise – it was better to stay where there was a semblance of light to lead his way.

Besides – Jax was Jax. He was called 'Grandmaster' for a reason, after all.

Chancing a last glance at the direction Jax disappeared into, Garret exhaled shakily and turned back to the beaten path, breaking into a brisk stride as he went. Quinn was close by, he could tell, somehow. She was moving, that much was certain – the only variable was how fast she was moving. That alone motivated him enough to make his small journey towards her as quickly as possible.

After all, it would be nothing short of catastrophic if he encountered an enemy on his own.

---

Thinking back, he really shouldn't have jumped on board so eagerly when he'd been approached with the offer.

The problem didn't lie with his team – how could it? He was there, after all, and he was The Champ; any team with him in the roster was a force to be reckoned with, after all. His buddy Garret was there too. Granted, Poet Boy wasn't much of a fighter – wasn't much of a mage either – but that crazy woman living in his arm? Hell, if Garret could find a way to let her out for even a minute at a time it'd cover that handicap completely. Even if the bitch wasn't as skilled as Garret reported she was, at the very least there'd be no shortage of weapons with all that red smoke. Hell, Chickadee's presence even meant they had a perfectly good meat shield if shit went south too quickly.

All in all, this was one of the more coherent teams the Grandmaster at arms had been a part of.

No, The Champ's problem was less with the people and more with the locale.

Bluntly put: the Twisted Treeline was a complete shithole.

It was one of the few places in Valoran that the Grandmaster at Arms could safely say he hated – in fact, it ranked right up there with the slums of Noxus, the Winter's Claw territory way up in the Freljord, and pretty much anywhere within a thousand feet of that Laurent bitch. It was often said that the Treeline was 'carved from a part of the Shadow Isles', or some such flowery, fruity poetic bullshit that basically meant it was a shithole made from shit from a bigger shithole. It seemed designed to try and choke the life and light out of everyone who stepped into it – even the damn animals the Institute had placed in the wilderness were simply constructs of a magical nature, because even the stupid real animals were clever enough to stay the fuck away.

Nature itself in the Treeline seemed to mirror just how ominous, malicious and gloomy the place was. As Jax strode towards the area that damn chicken had signalled, he even developed a little game to play with himself – after every blink, he quickly identified the first thing in his field of view that stood out the most. He even spiced it up by identifying things other than trees. There was a rock that looked as though a man's screaming face was etched into it, and there was a fallen trunk covered with moss – kinda looked like a baby's crib in Winter's Claw territory at that. There was a bush littered with purple and green berries which were likely to inflict horrible, painful, yet slow death upon anyone who ate them. There stood the Fallen Angel, sneering at him as she took a step back and flexed her claws, her pale complexion shining under a ray of moonlight, and there was –

Wait.

Fallen Angel?

…Bah. Like he gave a shit.

There was a pile of dirt of that looked suspiciously not like dirt, and there was a tree that kinda resembled Vessaria's face. He stopped then, his gaze fixed on the tree. Truly, the resemblance was uncanny – he made a mental note to ask the High Councillor if she had a hot sister that was turned into a tree sometime in the past.

Then he stepped to the side, twisting his torso to the side, and casually dodged the smouldering bolt of binding black magic that had been fired at his back. It pulsated and bubbled as it flew past him, barely even scorching a single thread of his (admittedly awesome) little cape, and impacted against the tree he had been admiring seconds earlier. Bark snapped and splintered and wood charred and burned under the unholy assailment, and suddenly, that face didn't resemble the High Councillor so much anymore.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings," the Fallen Angel called from where she had attacked him. Her voice was one of the few similarities she shared with her sister Kayle, but Morgana's always packed that fierce, violent undertone. In The Champ's own humble and honest opinion, it was both arousing and creepy. Mostly creepy, though. "I expected more from the Grandmaster at Arms," she said darkly, her white eyes narrowed in a frown. Her mangled winged twitched in irritation – yet another trait she shared with her sister.

"Oh, I'm aware, babe," Jax responded flippantly, bracing his lamppost across his shoulders and kicking at dirt with his right foot. "I just thought you were part of the scenery, is all." Once more, he dodged to the side as another glob of binding magic seared towards him. He didn't break his stance – his lamppost remained perched on his shoulders, and apart from a slight twist of the midsection, his upper body barely shifted. "Alright, alright, I give," he relented, shaking his head exasperatedly. "I lied," he spoke, a lie in and of itself. "I was actually thinking 'bout your sister."

This time, at least, her assault made him put some effort into it. Immediately Jax leapt back, just as the soil beneath him warped and twisted into an unholy mass of unnatural gunk. It bubbled and boiled as tiny pieces of debris outright turned to dust in the tainted earth's muddy confines, and even the fallen tree trunk it touched spouted a lick of dark purple flame at the contact. No sooner had he landed when he had to dodge to the side again, seeing a volley of snaring bolts barrelling towards him. His lamppost spun above him in a graceful flourish as the first bolt speared past him without a hint of contact, and he danced to the side and dipped low as the second barely grazed the blue tousle on his hood.

The third was dead centre – an underhanded shot capitalising on his immobility after dodging the first two sporadic shots. Had his mouth been visible, the Grandmaster's smirk would be clear as day – true, this tactic might fool others; but it wouldn't fool The Champ. The lamp topping the post blazed to light as he swung it, spreading smoke and cinders into the mist around him, and with an audible thud it collided with the bolt of darkness before him. With a flick of the wrist and a twitch of the shoulder, the lamppost jerked to side, and the third bolt of magic missed – sent flying off course by a simple brass lamppost.

"What the hell, woman?" He asked, straightening out and spreading his arms out and revelling in the look of pure shock and outrage adorning the Fallen Angel's gothic features. "Can't a man imagine what's under that fancy armour?" He asked, before pointing his lamppost at Morgana's exposed pale flesh. "My mind tells me it looks better than that, in any case."

With a frustrated scream, the Fallen Angel loosed another volley of black magic blasts at the Grandmaster. Her clawed fingers arced around her own arcane energies and flung her attacks with abandon – and her anger just kept mounting when she saw the Grandmaster dodge or parry each and every one. "Mind your tongue!" she hissed, flinging her final orb – one which was sent flying into the sky by a simple twirl from Jax's lamppost. "Or mark my words, I will show you a world of pain!"

Jax let the words linger for the briefest of moments before responding.

"Awesome," he said. "I'm always down for hate sex."

The Fallen Angel's outrage peaked at this comment. Her lips split into a fierce snarl, her eyes twitched erratically, her breathing became ragged and shaky and her decaying wings outright spasmed, and with a furious roar she attacked. Dark magic bloomed around her; tendrils of indigo snaked around her arms and fingers and the very earth beneath her feet twisted and contorted, swallowing up the Treeline's soil in its blighted spread outwards. With a final screech of rage she flung her magic outwards, resulting in yet another volley of bolts flying outwards. "I will end you!"

Three of the erratically aimed bolts managed to barrel in the Grandmaster's general direction, and of those, all three missed their mark, joining the rest of the volley as dark magic tore the Treeline around the Grandmaster asunder. It was less of a calculated attack more of a blind bombardment, a knee-jerk reaction to mounting fury and frustration – and the execution of it testified to this. Finally the volley ended, and Morgana heaved a breath, glaring daggers and palpable hatred at the cloud of dust she had kicked up with her spontaneous bombardment. A slow clap slowly drifted through the settling chaos, a sound the made the Fallen Angel gnash her teeth with such strength the sound of it became audible.

The dust died down, settling onto the ruined earth before her, and yet, the Grandmaster stood unharmed – no worse for the wear.

"All done?" He asked casually, before gripping his lamppost and assuming a fighting stance. It was widely considered a very, very threatening gesture when Jax did such a thing – and despite the look of outrage on Morgana's face, a slight undertone of worry slowly dawned on her features. Once again, the lamp atop the post flared to life, and its light danced across the Grandmaster's dark garb. The six blue lenses of his helm seemed to shine just a little bit brighter – and a little bit more ominously.

"Good," he said, satisfied. "Now it's my turn!"

---

Garret flinched as the sounds of battle erupted in the distance. As far off as it had sounded he could identify a multitude of different sounds emanating from the impromptu warzone – trees snapped and shattered, rocks cracked and exploded, and there the faintest of sizzling sounds underlying it all. Suddenly the brawl sounded a lot closer than it was in reality – and the scholar quickly realized that, while Jax was perfectly capable of smashing trees up with that lamppost, he could not do so in such quick succession.

That meant the explosions were the mage's doing – and going by the sheer volume, it seemed as though he – or she – was geared to annihilate.

That fact alone was enough to make him hasten his travels – as things stood already, his knees and ankles protested at his brisk pace and offhandedly, he realised he was a small amount of speed away from actually jogging. Not that he paid much mind to that fact – his heart was hammering in his chest and his lungs were constricting with every breath under the oppressive aura of the Treeline, and the fact that the sounds of battle in the distance were the only sounds at all made those problems just that much worse. Even the animals had fallen silent – no snarls, no howls, no growls and no whines.

A battle for survival raged in the distance, and dead silence and shadow swallowed up all sounds of life around him – truly, this 'Twisted Treeline' was a most macabre place.

Almost instinctively, his grip around the crimson sword's hilt tightened just a bit.

"Calm, Garret," Furia attempted to placate him. "Regain control – you are your own worst enemy now."

Harsh as it may have seemed, it was the cold truth. Countless times in the past Garret had nearly been caught – or killed – because of his lack of self-control as far as his emotions and emotional responses were concerned. Gritting his teeth, he took a few deep breaths and slowed to a halt. He bent forwards slightly, resting his palms on his knees as he tried to regain control of his breathing. Deep breaths, he thought – every gasp of air seemed to set his lungs on fire as the constricted around themselves but at the very least, the sharp, stabbing pains were a good way to ground himself. If anything could pierce fear's cold, clammy vice, it was pain – and the scholar knew this all too well.

Slowly but surely, he felt his heart calm, if only marginally – enough to make it stop hammering in ears. The burning in his lungs also dissipated somewhat, leaving a paradoxically pleasant sting in place of the agonising sear his breathing normally caused. That ever-familiar tingling at the back of his head had intensified during his little trek deeper into the Treeline, a confirmation from the Summoners that Quinn was indeed close by – not close enough to hear or see, but close enough to make him just a bit more at ease.

It was at that moment that Garret heard a peculiar sound:

A childish giggle was drifting through the undergrowth.

It was both confusing and disturbing, that such an innocent sound could be found in such an ominous place. It was that bubbling type of giggle that you'd hear in a park or a playground, where thoughts of happiness and bliss and childish naiveté and joyous ignorance were the order of the day. It sounded so pure, so… unaware of what else was lurking in the Treeline. Idly he wondered if it could have been another Champion – that alone was unnerving; if the Institute drafted children to fight on the Fields of Justice, there was a much darker tone to the group than Garret had ever suspected. 'Furia,' he addressed his tenant. 'Do you hear that?'

"I do," the ancient woman responded. There was a hint of distaste to her voice – and yet, she did not exactly seem perturbed. "Be wary Garret. Monsters oft use children as tools of war."

The giggle sounded again, then, behind him – closer, this time. It drifted up from beneath the undergrowth and down from between the twisting, vicious limbs of the bare trees arcing above him. He whipped around, his breath hitching slightly. There was something haunting about that giggle, he noticed now; something almost sinister. It echoed again, all around him this time – dozens of tiny, innocent voices giggled and chortled and laughed and snorted in hollow, empty, false happiness, and the sounds seemed to cascade from the very darkness around him. Hushed whispers of "Hey mister!" and "Over here!" seemed to assault him from every corner, and between the laughter and the merriment the faintest warning of "Watch out for the sickle!" snuck into his hearing.

The calm that had settled upon him mere moments before evaporated in a flash as mass panic set in. Frozen in place, Garret spun on his heels, his head whipping in the direction of every hushed whisper and excited call. Despite the multitude of voices being the epitome of innocent, the darkness they echoed from almost wept palpable malicious intent, and once more the scholar found his fight-or-flight instinct urging him to move, to get as far away from everything as humanly possible and never come back.

And yet, before he could even react to his own instincts, the cacophony died down. What had been raucous laughter slowly faded, muting itself to the level of a few disembodied chuckles and giggles here and there, and the warnings and calls had stopped completely. Garret didn't trust this development – with shaky breaths and erratic eyes he clasped both hands around the hilt of the crimson sword that had been conjured for him, and scanned the darkness around him for any sign of another mad crescendo of haunting giggles and laughter. Slowly he started moving back, turning in place as he continued down the beaten path and keeping his eyes on the few remaining sources of sound, sound which had been reduced to little more than airy gasps. That, too, seemed to fade away completely, and nought but dead silence was left in its wake. Even the battle in the distance had ended.

Taking deep, shaky breaths, Garret scanned the darkness around him once again. With narrowed, quivering eyes he observed every little detail he could make out in the shadows, seeking perhaps a dead giveaway of movement or presence or anything that could explain why he had just heard children's voices around him. Much to his ire – and great, overwhelming relief – the only movement in the darkened underbrush was the result of the slow, clammy breeze permeating the Treeline.

He remained frozen in place, hands still clamped around the sword's hilt, before his shoulders slumped slightly, and a relieved exhale escaped him upon realising the threat was imaginary – or at least, fleeting. Shaking his head, he uttered a soft chuckle, turned around…

"Hello mister!"

…and found the mutilated face of a young boy looking up at him with wonder.

With a loud yelp, the scholar darted back, stricken with terror at the gruesome sight. His legs, suddenly numb and heavy, flailed about slightly, and in his mad dash to get away from the mangled visage before him Garret tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground. The fall knocked the wind right out of his sails as his back slammed down on the cobbled road, but even then, the sporadic twitches and spasms quickly morphed into a desperate, horrified crawl backwards.

The boy – if he could even be called that – was a sight seemingly ripped from the most violent of nightmares. Half-translucent, the young green spectre turned the gouged wounds where his eyes used to be towards the fallen scholar, and what remained of his scarred brow furrowed in worry. It was a hideous sight, and even the shame Garret felt at thinking such thoughts could not stem the sheer revulsion spawned by the boy before him. "You should run now mister," the boy spoke, lisping through slashed lips, and sickly green ichor dripped from the gaping wound across his neck. "You really should run."

Garret's mouth opened and closed, his mind shorting out from the unholy mix of confusion and abject terror. The boy's frown deepened when Garret finally struggled up onto his knees, unable to avert his eyes from the grisly spectre before him. The boy opened his mouth, showcasing a murky pit where his tongue used to be, and seemed to be on the verge of warning the scholar again, but it was not his voice that suddenly echoed through the stillness – it was a much more sinister sound.

It started out being barely audible – a hint of a sound carried high on the wind, drowned out by the howling gales and the groaning of the dead trees dancing in the breeze. Less than a soft hiss, really – until it intensified. The low hiss became louder, more metallic, more malicious, and the ever-cacophonous clinking and clanging of chains dangling and dancing in the air. They scraped against stone and wood, screeching and creaking in the distance, and the wind carried the chiming sounds high into the sky.

The mist around them suddenly changed – what was once gray and obscuring suddenly turned green, and the opacity of it all started to fade; even the darkness of the treeline could not swallow up the unearthly glow.

And through it all, the clinging and clanging and scraping of chains grew ever louder.

Behind the mangled visage of the young spectre, something akin to a door slamming echoed between the trees and reverberated through the very earth, and a piercing green light erupted amidst the dark, sinister trunks. The spirit of the young boy turned his eyeless gaze back, glancing at the piercing brightness, before turning back to face Garret – and his once solemn, worried expression twisted into one of morbid glee and mania. "You should have run, mister," the boy said, his voice warping and lowering, sounding almost demonic. "Now it's too late…!"

"Garret," Furia's voice roared throughout the scholar's mind, shaking him from his stupor. Realising the peril he was in, he took several shaky steps backwards, horrified by the spectre of the mad child before him. The boy was giggling now, maniacal and sinister, and his tiny, tortured frame shook with mirth. "Garret! You need to run! Now!" Furia's voice had lost every ounce of excitement and calm it once had – the battle-hardened spirit sounded downright shaken.

That was enough to spur Garret into action.

With a single, violent shake of his head, the scholar sprang into action. His human arm, still clutching the crimson sword, arched back and tensed, and he hurled the red weapon clean through the child's spectre and right at the centre of the piercing green light. It had hardly left his hand and he was already in mid-turn, the heels of his boots squeaking against the cobbled path. He launched himself into the opposite direction just as a loud clang and the shattering of glass reached his ears, and even that couldn't make him slow. He poured as much energy and strength as his wiry frame could muster into his legs, in an attempt to barrel himself away from the coming threat – but it was all in vain.

Too late he heard the hissing of a malicious chain, and the whistling of a sharp blade soaring through the air.

Garret was jerked clean from his sprint when something cold and constricting wrapped around his human arm with a loud, almost sickening clang. The sudden yank pulled him right off his feet and once again he was met by the cold, unforgiving surface of the cobbled road. The pain that shot through his shoulder spawned the idea that something had been pulled or dislocated, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care. He scrambled to his knees again, cradling his left arm. The pale chain wrapped around the limb seeped cold right into his bones, and the almost inhuman scythe that had spun around and locked the chain in place glinted eerily in the pale moonlight.

With a flicker, the maimed spectre of that same young boy appeared again, giggling and skipping and dancing around his fallen form.

The chain jerked then, a quick, reeling motion that plucked Garret forwards, causing him to fall flat on his face again. Another reeling motion dragged him along the cold stone path, birthing scrapes and scuffs on his face as he flailed about – writhing like a worm on a hook. His despair peaked when he realised he had been caught, thoroughly caught, and would now likely be at his captor's mercy. More spectres joined the maimed boy in dancing around him, some boys, some girls, some wounded and some not, but all of them – all of them – ghostly apparitions. "Cling, clang, go the chains~" they sang, their voices in perfect, ethereal unison.

And above the entire ruckus, a sinister, otherworldly, downright inhuman cackle echoed across the Treeline.

"They are quite useful, aren't they?" The voice that drifted from the piercing green light was cold, utterly devoid of life. It had an echoing hollowness to it that made it sound as though many were speaking as one, with perfect timing and coordination, and the undertone of malice and murder the voice held was nothing short of terrifying. The ruckus within the mist died down – the children went from gleeful and singing to hushed and secretive, whispering amongst themselves and shooting curious, somewhat excited glances at him, and the sudden lull in noise allowed Garret to hear the sound of footsteps in the distance – heavy footfalls that crunched leaves and twigs between sole and stone.

Then the speaker exited the piercing green light, and Garret felt his blood turn to ice at the sight.

It was an image ripped straight from the deepest pits of mortal terror – the being before him looked vaguely humanoid, but that was where its humanity both started and ended; a worn leather coat covered a sturdy frame and broad shoulders, and dark boots sent echoes through the dead silence with every step. But the face, that inhuman, terrifying skeletal face alight with green flame basked the area in an otherworldly glow. Hook-tipped chains resembling dreadlocks hung from the back of the monster's skull, draped lazily over the coat's high collar, and the piercing fires shining within the eye sockets promised naught but an existence defined by torment. One clawed hand slackly held the chain that was wrapped around Garret's wrist, and the other kept a shining lantern carved from what seemed to be human bone hovering in the air.

The most terrifying part was the fact that Garret swore the skull's sharp teeth were contorted into a grin.

"Whether they make my prisoners run in terror or stand rooted by fear," the ghostly apparition spoke, its ominous voice leaking amusement, "the children always serve their purpose." As if humbled by the mention, the child-like spectres around them giggled with joy, before skipping towards the skeletal chain wielder. One by one, they shrunk, becoming nothing but shining little globes of light – and Garret watched with horror as the bony lantern opened with an audible click, and swallowed them up like a vacuum before slamming shut with a condemning thud.

"I was told," the spectre continued, turning his inquisitive gaze to Garret's kneeling form, "that I would be facing the latest Champion to step into the Institute's playgrounds." The undertone of amusement never left that ghostly voice – it was as though the prospect of fighting in the Fields of Justice posed little more than a game. "The rumours spoke of another Demacian coming here. I found this news… exciting. I expected a fighter, another dauntless soldier whose mind I could snap like a twig, or another grizzled Ranger whose despair would be simply delicious…" He trailed off, letting another sinister chuckle drift from his skeletal, ever-grinning mouth.

His gaze hardened then, and that semblance of a grin became that much more sinister for it.

"So imagine my surprise," he spoke, his voice dropping several octaves, so it sounded as though it was no more than a whisper in Garret's ear, "when I realised my latest victim is not a mighty warrior, or a swift ranger… but nothing but a quivering little pup."

That final word was accentuated with another violent tug on the chain, and once again Garret was sent sprawling onto the cold ground. The abominable spectre slowly started walking forwards, reeling in the chain as he went so as to keep it taut – to keep his latest prey from escaping. Again, Garret scrambled to his knees, wrapping his abhuman hand around the pale cord. Even the deadened limb stung as the cold seeped into it, and it pulsed once, bright red under the sudden sensation. Garret gave the chain a hard pull, hoping to earn at least some leeway, but that, too, was futile – the undead spectre's grip was like a vice, and his posture rigid as steel.

And throughout the ordeal, he never broke his stride.

"I am no fool, though," the chain-wielding madman spoke, with a contemplative tone. "Were you as worthless as you appear, you wouldn't be here, would you, little pup? No, the Fields of Justice are no place for mere mundane dregs… There must be something quite special in that deformed little limb of yours, to make the Institute draft someone like you…" The fires in the skull's eye sockets dimmed and lowered ever so slightly, creating an uncanny recreation of narrowing eyes. "Tell me… What secrets are you hiding, pup? What makes you worth it, hmm?"

Garret said nothing in response – whether this was out of fear or a sudden burst of suicidal stubbornness, he could not deduce; his mind was a maelstrom of despairing cries and futile hope, and even Furia's voice had gone silent amongst the cacophony. He gave the chain another strong tug, this time bracing his right foot against the cobbled path, hoping to extra sturdiness could change something – but once more, the chain went taut, and the ghostly madman before him remained unflinching. "Silence, then…" He heard the spectre muse, a tone of aloof contemplation just barely failing to mask unbridled glee. "…How delightful. I do so love it when they struggle," he mused. "Speak or do not, pup…" He said ominously, and at that moment, the eerie grin his sharp teeth formed turned downright maniacal.

"Your soul will tell me everything… in time."

At that moment, reality wrapped Garret in its cold, harsh, unforgiving grip, and he was forced to realise the sinister spectre was less than ten feet from him. Every tug at the taut chain drew them closer together, and every tug made the ice in the pit of his stomach chill him that much more. In the throes of panic, the scholar's wits failed him – his mind shorted and his instincts outright left him at the cruel mercy of the mad spectre. With a hammering heart and erratic thoughts, it was at that moment that Garret found himself hoping for salvation and safety more than he ever had in his life – even while on the run. It was all he could do, after all.

At that moment, a loud screech echoed across the eerie stillness, and the branches above them split apart under an outright heroic dive-bomb.

Salvation came in a blur of dark feathers and sharp talons, and the mad spectre finally stumbled under a relentless assault from above. What had been a malicious cackle turned into an irate growl as the ghostly apparition swatted at the enormous eagle assailing him. The bird of prey, however, was every bit as swift as nature intended it to be – every swat struck nothing but empty air, allowing an opening for his talons to rake across the spectre's exposed skull with sickening scrapes. With an outraged snarl, the spectre yanked the chain again – and instead of pulling the scholar down once more, it came undone, sliding off his arm and retracting back to the madman's outstretched hand.

This time, Garret did not pause to ponder a single thing.

With a heave of breath he shot to his feet, just as the spectre's chain-linked scythe returned to his clawed hand. Fully aware of just how fast that thing could travel when thrown, the scholar tore his view off his former captor immediately, just as the eagle uttered what sounded like an urgent screech in the middle of its assault. Garret spun on his heel immediately, and bolted into the dark undergrowth and off the beaten path just as the sound of the scythe's sharp edge slicing through the air reached his ears again.

More than a decade venturing off the beaten path paid off – he nimbly hopped over fallen trunks and tangling roots and ducked under arcing branches with ease belying his passive, physically inactive nature. A strangled cry of outrage sounded behind him, and once more he heard the cold chains hiss behind him as it soared to entangle him once again. He flung himself aside, tucking into a desperate roll as the chain-linked scythe soared over him, embedding itself right up to the shaft in a tree he had been aiming to sidestep. This actually merely spurred him on further – he straightened up once more, not even chancing a look back, and sprinted off into the darkness – away from the threat.

Seeing the scholar was safe from threat – however temporarily it may be – the giant Demacian eagle relented in his assault on the mad spectre. With a mighty beat of its broad wings it propelled itself far away from the flailing chains of the spectral warden, and wryly, Valor offered an outright taunting screech before taking off through the treetops again, disappearing into the murky sky as quickly as he had appeared to save his partner's teammate.

With a livid jerk, the Chain Warden wrenched his scythe free from the tree trunk it had embedded itself in. His outrage, however, was fleeting – the little pup had escaped him, true, but it was hardly a permanent outcome; if nothing else, the fool was merely delaying the inevitable. Offhandedly he realised just how easily the pup had manoeuvred the harsh undergrowth of the treeline – there was a nimble swiftness to his movements, spawned undoubtedly by years fleeing like the pathetic little coward he was.

That alone was enticing; it had been ages since the Warden had partook in an entertaining chase.

The sneer his sharp teeth had set into quickly turned into a sick, twisted grin, and yet another malicious, insane chuckle bubbled up from the fires where his throat would have been in life. "So he runs," the Warden mused, his muted tone not hiding his mirth at all. "…How exciting… This is turning out just like the prison!"

And so, with a flourish of scythe and a loud, maniacal cackle, the Chain Warden gave chase.

---

With a loud grunt, Garret burst through the underground and into a large, moonlit clearing in the middle of the Treeline. Feeling he had finally put enough distance between him and the insane, chain-wielding sadist, he slowed to a halt and slumped against a nearby tree trunk, slowly sliding down to the ground until he found himself sitting haphazardly on the exposed roots. Cold sweat poured down the sides of his face, making strands of his mane of hair cling to his forehead and cheeks. Every heartbeat sent pain ricocheting throughout his chest, and every deep gulp of air set his lungs ablaze – and yet, he couldn't be bothered with the pain.

His head lolled about on his shoulders, eyes drooping from the fatigue as the adrenaline left his system. Every breath shook as much as his limbs trembled, and almost the moment he had taken his weight off his legs they turned cold and numb. He shook his head, once, twice, thrice, trying to dispel the mess of thoughts dwelling there in order to form something coherent for once.

He had faced many different trials and tribulations, from bandits to cutthroats to bounty hunters. He had felt fear numerous time while on the run – whether it was from straying too close to Xer'Sai territory in Shurima, or falling asleep in the run-down slums of Zaun, fear was an emotion Garret had developed a close, yet vitriolic kinship with over the years. After all, that which made him feel disgusted with himself was often that which kept him alive. However, his meeting with that malicious ghost overshadowed every single horror-stricken moment of his past.

Being at the mercy of a sadistic madman who intended to rip out his soul…

Garret had never before felt such cold, nauseating terror.

"Garret?!" In his calmed state, Furia's voice once more echoed throughout his mindscape. "Host! Can you hear me?"

'I… I…' Once more Garret shook his head, hoping to dispel the sense of erratic panic still lingering there. 'I hear you…' Even without giving a voice to his response, he could not help but flinch at how weak he sounded. 'Wha-What was that?' He asked despairingly. 'What was that monster?'

"Undead," Furia's response was once more devoid of her usual sense of calm and docility, replaced by naught but sheer revulsion and disgust. "Abominations, the lot of them. And those souls…" She spat. "Disgusting fiend."

'Those souls…' Garret repeated, shaken to his very core. Despite being far away from both the eerie green light and the haunting glow of that bone-carved lantern, the scholar could not banish the images of those poor, poor children from his find. The one that spoke to him haunted him the most – the one with his eyes carved out and throat slashed, butchered like a pig. 'Does that mean…'

"They were once living, yes," Furia noted, somewhat hesitantly and not at all devoid of disapproval and disgust. "Be it by the spectre's hand, or by another's, those children… Their ends were not peaceful. The desecration of such innocence… How truly monstrous…"

'And they expect us to fight him?' Garret asked, somewhat numbly. 'He, he… He can rip the souls from one's body, how do they even expect us to, to…' Idly, he noticed that pang of sense at the back of his mind peaking, the instinctive cue from a Summoner than an ally was close by, and yet – he couldn't bring himself to care. 'Those kids… They were so twisted,' he spoke, shaking his head once again. 'What… What could he have done to them to warp them like that?'

"I do not know." Furia's admission was simple, curt, and yet, there was a grudging edge to it – as though the very fact irked her. "I do know, however, that once our transition succeeds… That monster will be the first to die."

Any further conversation was halted when they heard a crash of twigs and branches next to them. That 'sixth sense' Jax had mentioned peaked at that moment, yet still the scholar found himself jumping slightly at the sudden sound. Fortunately – be it through a desperate hope to see a friendly face or simple memory recalling unique garb – Garret recognised Quinn's muted, almost feathery appearance immediately. When he first met her eyes they were narrowed and focused, scanning every inch of terrain around her impromptu ally as her crossbow remained primed and ready. A few tense moments passed, before she was suitably satisfied with the lack of immediate danger, and quickly, nimbly, she moved to where Garret was slumped against the tree. She placed a hand on his shoulder to try and steady his quaking form, and despite the contrary being much more likely, the hint of contact soothed him – if only marginally. "Are you hurt?" She asked – quick, simple, professional; yet with an underlying note of worry.

"M-My psyche, more than anything," Garret responded, exhaling tiredly and resting his head against the twisted tree trunk. "Gods above… I… I thought I knew fear, but that…" He paused again, trying to recompose himself. A part of him condescended the sudden rampant fear he felt – decried it as detrimental and time-wasting, even – but that was a very small part, eclipsed by the part of him overjoyed at not being a soul-stealing ghost's latest acquisition. Idly, he started moving his legs again – the feeling of pins and needles made the practice highly discomforting, but it was a necessary measure; sitting here would merely let that mad spectre find him easier.

"Who?" Again, Quinn's question was the epitome of professionalism the Ranger's prided themselves on – even now, her eyes scanned their surroundings intently, and despite having one hand planted firmly on Garret's shoulder, the other hand had a finer curled neatly around her custom crossbow's trigger.

"I don't know," Garret answered, shifting where he sat. "He… He did not introduce himself. I know he was undead, some, some kind of spectre, maybe – he wore this sick-looking leather coat and, and… Chains! They… Chains seemed to be his motif. That or, or souls, maybe, the ones in that hellish lantern…"

Quinn clicked her tongue where she sat, her frown deepening. "Thresh…" She said disdainfully, although even she could not hide the discomfort she felt at knowing that monster opposed her in this battle. "Dammit… That complicates matters…"

Thresh, Garret thought glumly. How positively fitting… "What is he, even?"

"A madman," Quinn responded curtly, turning her gaze to the sky in a bid to find her avian partner. "He's a sadistic monster, who collects the souls of strong individuals after breaking them mentally. He's… He's one of the most feared individuals in the League – and with good reason." She trailed off for a moment, still scanning the skies. "How'd you escape?"

"Your friend," Garret answered, before a wracking cough interrupted him. "Valor saved me. He… He came out of nowhere, really – that monster, Thresh… He had me at his mercy. If it weren't for Valor, well… my first death here would have been an unpleasant affair." Idly he made a note to ask Quinn just how on earth he'd go about thanking a giant bird of prey for saving his life. This, however, was not the time for such a thing - with an uncomfortable groan, the scholar set about trying to rise to his feet again. "I heard him chuckling to himself," he said through his struggling, "as I bolted away. He muttered to himself too – I could not hear what he said, but… I think it is safe to assume he is giving chase."

The Ranger turned her attention back to him. For a moment, she pondered something – something he'd likely never know – before nodding in understanding. She opened her mouth to respond to his statement… but the voice that answered him was not hers.

Rather, it was a ghastly, echoing tone – one that made Garret's blood freeze up all over again.

"How right you are, little pup…"

Quinn's crossbow had snapped towards the source of the voice the moment it filtered into the small clearing. Once more, gray mist paled and turned an ominous, sickly green, and amidst tree trunks basking in the ethereal light of the ghostly warden's visage, he approached – hovering above the twisting roots and thorny shrubbery, his lantern held aloft in one hand and that sinister, scythe-tipped chain swinging timidly in the other. Soon enough his boots touched down on the somewhat smooth earth of the clearing, and his fanged grin, it seemed, had not subsided in the least. "I was hoping our little game of cat and mouse would be more… exciting," he said, completely casual – as though the prospect of facing down two opponents instead of one barely fazed him. "Instead, you end it before it even began… How disappointing," he mumbled. "Although there is a silver lining, I suppose; hers is a mind I have not clawed at in quite some time… Isn't that right, Ranger?"

"What are you playing at?" Quinn demanded, keeping her crossbow trained right between the spectre's eyes. Her lovely countenance had settled into a deep, paranoid frown, and she had crouched down slightly, in order to steady herself a bit better. "This is a battle," she said curtly. "You shouldn't be showing your face when you're alone."

To their great surprise, the chain-wielding madman merely tossed back his head and laughed, a hollow, echoing series of insane cackles, His shoulders shook with mirth, and through the gaping map of black, skeletal fangs, the core of the green fire surrounding his skull couldn't have been more obvious if it tried to be. "And what, pray tell, makes you think I am alone, Ranger?" the Warden asked smugly. Slowly, he turned his dread visage to the side, glancing over his shoulder.

Just then, the dead silence of the surroundings was shattered by an ear-splitting, almost metallic boom, and the Treeline itself seemed to shudder under the foreboding sound.

Garret, unwilling to wholly divert his focus from his would-be pursuer, chanced half an inquisitive glance towards Quinn – and immediately wished her hadn't. Gone was the condescending frown she had worn seconds before, replaced by a wide-eyed look of warning and a posture that seemed ready to retreat at a moment's notice. It was not at all a reassuring sight. The scholar opened his mouth, ready to ask just what that was and how it inspired such a reaction in the dauntless Ranger, but the Chain Warden beat him to it. "You'd best call that bird of yours, Ranger," the spectre taunted, slowly moving to the side. "You'll need him… if only to postpone your death a bit."

The sounds of pure, unadulterated chaos sifted through the horrid trees around them, and the very earth beneath their feet quivered under the impending arrival. The sickly green hue the mist around them had taken on did nothing to hide the rapidly brightening blot of pure, fiery red in the distance, a cone of palpable hurt barrelling towards them at frightening speeds. The sounds of chaos intensified – what was a low rumble elevated into a hideous growl, and the sounds of cracking stone and splintering tree trunks accompanied the bloody bullet rocketing towards them.

And with a raw, almost bloodthirsty bellow, a maelstrom of violence exploded into the clearing.

When the sturdy trees gave way under the unstoppable onslaught, it was a fraction of a memory, not at all his own, that saved Garret from becoming a smear on shattered cobblestone. A knee-jerk reaction made him leap aside, tucking his legs into a roll as the red rocket dispersed in a near atomic burst of might and strength, and the earth where the scholar had stood mere seconds before a decimating strike sundered the stone into small chunks and pebbles. The sheer force from the blow knocked Garret aside mid-roll and sent him tumbling across the moss-covered ground, until coming to a dead stop in a heap of contorted limbs and bruises.

The strength behind the assault had kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust, Garret noticed once he disentangled himself. In the distance he heard Quinn calling his name, awaiting a response – she'd apparently vaulted to the side when the new attacker's onslaught ripped into the clearing. Slowly, the dust started to subside, and Garret finally saw the newest enemy in full – and he heard his own audible gulp at the sight.

The man, no, the beast before him dwarfed even Demacia's Captain Crownguard – a monster of a man in his own right. Easily eight feet tall, the pale, almost snow white juggernaut rose from his crouched position, and the moonlight dancing off his alabaster skin perfectly highlighted an amount of defined scars and stitchmarks no living person should have on their body. The giant, belt-like apparatus around his midsection stoked a mass of swirling red, a shade matched by his murderously sharp eyes, and irritably, the cast-iron peg leg replacing his one foot stomped, turning chunks and pebbles into dust – and less. One hand gripped a titanic axe better described as a sledge of steel attached to a shaft, and…

Garret balked slightly. Was that a crown attached to the thing's jaw?!

The monstrous man growled like a rabid animal, a throaty sound that seemed to reverberate through the very stone, and the colossal giant alternated his hateful gaze between Garret and his nimble ally. Another low growl escaped him, and the crown bolted to his jaw twitched slightly, before the beast of a man opened his mouth. "Finally…" he spoke, his voice a rumble greater than a dozen war drums, with a raw, raspy edge spawned only by bloodthirst. "Finally the killing can start!" He said manically, still switching his gaze between Garret and Quinn, before finally letting his murderous glare settle on the thoroughly frazzled Ranger. He frowned when he saw the giant eagle settle on her arm with a loud shriek, and he gripped his axe ever tighter. "Yes… I think I'll start with you!"

With a burst of speed belied by his colossal size, the juggernaut hurled himself towards Quinn, and flailed his colossal axe outward in a relentless strike. The Ranger vaulted to the side just as the weapon's jagged crashed down, shattering the stone she stood on seconds before and kicking up another slight cloud of dust. Quinn had her crossbow aimed at him the moment she touched down on the ground, and loosed a volley of short bolts at the white titan. Their tips pierced his chest, ripping through muscle and reverberating off the bone beneath.

And yet, the mad warrior barely faltered.

The giant axe-wielder merely bellowed at Quinn, a loud, almost animalistic roar, and continued his lumbering pursuit. More bolts pierced his chest and arms, impacting with loud thuds, but they too were ignored in favour of trying to crush the slippery Ranger. The enormous axe swung left and right, vaguely horizontal or diagonal, it didn't matter, it seemed – the axe would only stop once the falconer was dead, smeared across the Treeline's soil. Quinn, despite the overwhelming odds, however, barely faltered herself; every swing of the monstrous axe was met with a seamless evasion, be it a hop back, a dip down or a vault over the titanic weapon, and not once did her relentless ranged assault waver – the short bolts kept hitting home, piercing skin and flesh, despite their seemingly ignored effects.

The titan bellowed then – not so much a beastly roar as it was an outlet of sheer, pent-up heat and rage. The thundering bark twisted and fogged the very air it travelled through, and what normally could have been a simple scream of rage ended up sending a literal shockwave of sound outwards, a wall of sonic violence that kicked up leaves and twigs and even made the trees around them arc out of the way. The monstrous holler slammed squarely into Quinn, and with a pained yelp she was sent careening on her heel, her aim faltering as clawed at the sides of her crown-like faceplate. With a mighty tug she ripped the garment off, placing a palm over her ear as she drunkenly staggered backwards.

Something, he knew not what it was, stirred within him then. He felt apprehension and concern both his own and another's, and by now Garret was certain it was not the Summoner at work. Panting slightly he clambered to his feet. 'We need to help her,' he mused inwardly, steadying himself. His body still rocked with quivers, due in no small part to the chain-toting spectre's re-emergence and the alabaster titan's dynamic entry into the clearing, but much to his own ire and gratitude, that tiny shred of honour he'd clung to during his years as a convict came to the fore. 'What… What do we do?'

Wordlessly, his tenant responded – once more, the crimson mist surrounded him; it was much more fluid this time, and the formation of a weapon took scant seconds. What originally formed into a basic yet lavish blade now bent and snapped, and the creaking of wood met his ears. With a final flicker and a final convulse, the mist compressed, and in his hands he now found a bow – plain, almost bland, and yet… so simplistically intricate. "Have you ever used a bow before, Garret?" Furia questioned, and the jagged, barbed tip of an arrow formed just above the human hand Garret had used to grip the arch of the weapon. The scholar shook his head, feeling just a tad nervous at suddenly handling the weapon – of all the weapons he'd seen and heard of, the bow scared him the most. "No matter," the lady of war responded. "I have."

And once more, sweet remembrance of bygone times from another life flooded him. With confident movement, he nocked and drew the arrow, taking careful aim as refined expertise and skill belonging to another defined his movement. Despite the limb being dead, he could feel the taut string under his mutated fingers, and with his human arm locked in place, he seemed the very epitome of a skill archer…

…Just like his brother, he noticed with both awe and apprehension.

His aim was measured, careful, yet true – the lumbering juggernaut's head hovered in his sights, and a jagged, crimson arrow was set to pierce flesh and hopefully skull along with it. Even if it had the same effect as Quinn's bolts, at the very least, it would draw the titan's attention away from her just long enough for her to recover from the sensory overload that bellow had caused. That monster would set its sights on him next, true… but he was nothing if not very, very good at fleeing.

His eyes narrowed.

He drew a deep breath.

And just when he intended to release that crucial shot, the hissing and scraping of chains assaulted his hearing once more.

A flash of green made his aim waver just as a sinister scythe cleaved the smoke-based weapon in two with a loud snap. The top half of the arch shot backwards as the tension in the bow backfired, and the smoky wood shattered as it struck Garret clean in the face. The chains hissed again, and with that instinctive reaction Furia buzzed into his mind he stumbled backwards just as the hook-tipped chain was yanked backwards, and narrowly he avoided having his throat slit open by the sharp edge. He spun on his heel as the red smoke formed a haphazard sword in his hand, and another bolt of shared memory and skill had him raising the blade up and parrying the swinging scythe clumsily. The assault was becoming relentless – he was gaining zero ground as the scythe sailed through the air, and soon he was certain he'd find his back up against a tree.

The chain arced back, coiled like a snake, and struck again – and this time, Furia's shared expertise failed him.

His parry was much too slow to be of any use, and the scythe raked across his cheek, opening a deep gash and eliciting a pained yelp from the scholar. The sudden burst of pain made him slam his eyes shut, a critical error in the current situation, and with his guard reduced to blind flailing, the scythe struck again – first slashing across his chest, then across the top of his thigh. More and more of Furia's aid filtered into his mind, and he quickly righted his stance. He opened his eyes, hoping to see his assailant so he – and Furia – could read their movement.

That thought ceased when a familiar, bone-crafted lantern slammed against his head.

The resulting concussion obliterated what was left of his guard, and Garret felt the chains wrap around his ankles before he could even groan in pain from the blunt blow. His attempt to brace himself was futile – a merciless tug ripped his feet out from under him, and once again his back slammed down on the cold ground, knocking his wind out.

And the moment he opened his eyes, that ever familiar green glow greeted him sinisterly.

A boot-clad foot slammed down on his mutated hand, pinning him down, and when his vision fully cleared, he found himself in a terrifyingly familiar situation – once more he was flat on his back, with a sickly pale chain wrapped around one of his limbs, and above him, that skeletal madman hovered ominously, his sharp fangs pulled into a downright evil grin. The chain-like dreadlocks dangled in the wind, and the fires in his eye sockets churned and pulsed, almost flickering with amusement.

"You know," Thresh spoke, his voice cold as ice despite his smiling face, "it's really rude to ignore people, little pup…"

---

Well, that's that, Jax thought, taking on a more casual stance and patting himself down as that rancid-looking angel dissipated into small wisps of magic. And good riddance – your sister's way hotter.

Despite his resolute insistence that he, The Champ, is, was and always will be everyone's better in terms of combat and being badass, the fight had still been reasonably challenging – not precisely a walk in the park, no, it was more of an uphill jog if anything. Slightly tiring, slightly strenuous, but still elementary as all hell and something even the dregs of the world could pull off. He looked down at the spot where the Fallen Angel had died from a good shot to her skull, courtesy of his trusty lamppost. At first, he pondered whether he should actually say it – no doubt the hideous woman could still see him from inside that twilight-zone bullshit the Institute puts you in if you die. It wasn't that he was scared of the woman – he was The Champ. He wasn't scared of anything – nada. However, the Fallen Angel had proven herself to be nothing but persistent – she'd apparently been a pain in Kayle's ass for a handful of millennia.

He wasn't exactly in the mood for that bullshit, no sir.

Nonetheless; he was The Champ. And he'd just won fair and square.

Bragging rights outweighed the negatives, after all.

So with a flourish of his trusty lamppost, he offered a hearty laugh at the Fallen Angel's demise, and spoke.

"Heh. Imagine if I had a real weapon."

Surprisingly, that did not mark the first time he felt someone sneering at him from beyond the grave.

Any further thought or spiting, though, would have to wait – Jax was shaken from his triumphant reverie when he heard a downright fearful screech echoing above. He turned his gaze upwards, his first instinct being to yell profanities at that damned chicken for being such a nuisance – but the sheer urgency behind the bird of prey's flight pattern made them die out in his throat. That flight pattern was erratic, manic, and most of all desperate. That was never a good sign – especially coming from such a smart animal. Jax groaned as the pieces of the puzzle came together in his head. Garret and Quinn should have been more than a match for Thresh if the spooky asshole made the mistake of showing his face, and Kayle's less hot, less fun sister now lay dead at his feet.

That meant Sion had finally made an appearance.

And that… That was bad shit.

For once, there was no time for a snarky, witty one-liner – Sion generally didn't fuck about when it came to fighting, so every second was crucial.

With that in mind, the Grandmaster at Arms sped off into the foliage – barely sparing another second of his time for the angelic woman he had slain minutes before.

---

With another loud cry, Garret was sent flying by another baleful yank of that ever-spiteful chain. The Chain Warden was absolutely merciless in his onslaught – while the sinister spectre was obviously, obviously toying with the scholar, the sadistic approach made the practice seem more like actual torture. The moment it seemed as though Garret would finally regain his footing, either his legs were whipped out from under him or that damnable chain would yank him clean off his feet and leave him sprawled across the dirt. Every weapon Furia formed for him was cruelly hooked away by that ominous sickle and whenever he'd successfully utilise Furia's 'muscle-memory' and manage to evade one attack, the madman would be waiting with no shortage of follow-ups. Be it a stomp to the side of the knee or a bash to the face from that dreadful, dreadful lantern, the undead lunatic was always seemingly one step ahead.

"Scuttling about like a skittish little animal, despite the odds," Thresh mused with a chuckle as he once more sent the scholar flying with a well-timed flail of his lantern. "What willpower… You must really want to live, don't you, pup?"

Another jerk of the chain sent Garret careening into a tree, and only a burst of instinct from his tenant spared him as he ducked his head by reflex. The scythe atop the chain carved a massive chunk out of the tree trunk barely an inch above his crouched form, and he swore he felt splinters tumbling past his collar and down his back. Once more he reached out for a weapon, once more the red mist solidified into a rather weighty Morningstar, and once more, the instrument was sadistically torn from his grasp by either a cold, skeletal hand or yet another blasted chain. The Warden cackled as he saw Garret scrambling away, a responded with yet another whimsical flay of his chain, tripping the scholar as he went.

The cackle turned into an outright hideous bout of laughter when the tripping action caused Garret to slam face-first into a smaller tree off to the side.

The loud snap sounding as his nose broke from the impact probably had something to do with the Warden's amusement. The ensuing concussion probably helped too.

As he drunkenly stumbled about on all-fours, clutching at his broken nose and blinking away the tears spawned by the pain, Garret slowly managed to get onto his knees. It was an almost pitiful gesture – to see anyone sitting on their knees and shins, almost slumped back as blood poured down their face and onto their garments, it was truly a sight embodying weakness. Even then, Garret kept his head on a swivel, scanning the surroundings through blurry vision, hoping to find a way to escape his tormentor. It was quite paradoxical, the way his mind seemed to keep seeking salvation even after his body had slumped down and given up, rendered all but numb from pain and fatigue.

And it seemed as though that paradox was endlessly amusing in the eyes of the sinister Warden.

"Yes," he egged the scholar on, slowly inching forwards as the light in his lantern seemed to shine just a hint brighter. "Relax, and just… let go…" The scythe dangling from the chain he held aloft swayed almost hypnotically. "It's been fun, little pup," he said, sharp teeth pulled back into a sneering grin, "even if it was short-lived." He paused then, chuckling as he left just a bit more than ten feet between them.

"I truly hope your soul is more interesting than you are," he said mockingly, that inhuman grin never wavering. With ease spawned by centuries of practice, he swung the chain again, once, twice, just to build some momentum – and with a final downward swing, he brought the scythe down, aiming to decapitate the broken, dazed scholar where he sat.

Despite his dazed, concussed state, Garret saw the gesture promising his demise perfectly – and for the first time in his life, pain's agonising yet comforting warmth was abolished, and the cold, clammy fingers of fear gripped at his heart –

And as the scythe swung, two voices in one body screamed in unison.

---

At that moment, with the dark veil of death a mere blink from claiming its latest victim, two souls aligned.

One, a young, starry-eyed spirit, pure of heart and of exceptional will, regained that ever-steely drive that had saved it from so many dangers in times past. It was a will that transcended emotions like fear and doubt, an ingrained strength of spirit etched into the very fibres of its being, a resolution that it would stay alive – no matter the circumstances.

Another, an ancient, free and unrestrained spirit, born of battle and war and moulded and shaped by both, discovered something it had never felt in life; the will, the drive, the hope and resolution not to fight or kill as it had in life, but to protect – to shield something precious from all harm that may befall it.

One wished for salvation.

One wished to be salvation.

And as those two wishes, almost the same yet different as night and day, eclipsed one another, two souls in one body achieved an inaudible, intangible resonance…

And in that resonance, salvation lay in waiting.

---

A literal cloud of dark crimson erupted from where the scholar sat kneeling, like a geyser bursting forth from dry, cracked soil. The sinister green scythe disappeared into its swirling, pulsating mass, and stopped dead in tracks without as much as a scrape, let alone the satisfying sound of flesh being rent. Like a bonfire the red smoke arced and twisted, dancing around the bruised, broken form of the Warden's latest 'prey', and barely, just barely, one could make out a semblance of a grimacing, livid face amongst the cloudy tendrils. The Warden nearly stumbled, then, as his trusty chain received a pull of surprising strength, and it went so taut from the gesture you could hear the links straining against each other. Thresh's sneering smirk turned into an outraged, vengeful grimace as his own trick was used against him, and tried to pull the chain – and by extension, whatever caught it – clean out of the sudden explosion of smoke, but to no avail; his clawed hand slid down the interlocking links a he pulled, but the chain did not give an inch.

At least, not until whatever held it started moving.

The chain lost most of its tautness as footfalls started drifting from amidst the smoke. Thresh glared at the red cloud with barely concealed ire – after all, it was not every day someone managed to play him for a fool. Soon enough the cowardly scholar's form became visible, strolling out from the clutches of crimson smog with calm, controlled, precise movements; a far, far cry from the snivelling, skittish little pup he had nearly killed seconds before.

He opened his mouth then, intent on expressing both outrage and barely-veiled amusement at how the Demacian pup had fooled him quite so easily – but his planned speech evaporated when he realised that, despite looking similar, this was not the same coward he'd been pursuing across the treeline.

That twisted, mutated black arm, riddled with shard of seemingly bronze metal, now pulsed a lively, almost bloodthirsty shade of red, and every bloom of crimson seemed to give off more and more wisps of that damnable smoke. The man's human hand had wrapped its fingers firmly around the shaft of the scythe, and yet, even on a backdrop of similar colour, the vermillion hue the veins in the limb had taken on shone brighter than even that abhuman arm of his. More smoke wept from the tails of the short, sleeveless duster he wore, and his face…

Gone was the human face that had twisted and contorted into terror-fuelled despair at the sight of the Chain Warden. Gone were the emerald eyes that had shone and quivered under his sadistic mind games, and gone were the lips that had uttered pained grunts and terrified whimpers under the onslaught of his merciless pursuit. Now, beneath a mop of dark hair that drifted as though it were underwater, there was a veneer of even darker smog, a swirling mass of bloody fumes vaguely resembling a face. And on that slightly angular face, two bright eyes of solid white glared at him – and they projected nothing but pure, almost palpable anger.

"You're no pup…" the Chain Warden spoke, his anger evaporating at the potential of what stood before him. "You're not even human," he deduced, and despite himself, his sharp teeth contorted into a grin once more. "Two souls in one body…" He summarised, the amusement and excitement in his voice seemingly making it quiver. "How delightful. How absolutely wonderful…"He mused. "I wonder what your soul offers…"

"I offer you nothing," the entity steering the scholar's body responded. "Nothing… but the death abominations like you deserve."

Instead of responding in the manner most would in the face of such an insult, the Chain Warden merely laughed, that same menacing cackle he'd been uttering all match long. There was such feistiness in this one, such confidence and eagerness beneath that veneer of hatred. Yes, this was obviously why the cowardly little pup had been allowed entrance into the League of Legends – he could have been an invalid for all the Summoners cared, this sudden change, this spirit that had come to the fore… It would make it all worth it.

"Truly…" Thresh responded, downright giddy. His clawed hand clamped around the chain spanning the distance between the two of them, and already, his free hand flexed slightly. "Come then, newcomer…" He said daringly. "Do your worst!"

---

Twenty-nine years he'd been alive now, and a very, very large portion of that time had been spent learning. Be it of different languages and dialects, or histories or ancient myths and legends, he considered himself a very eloquent person. He was fluent in at least three major languages – not at all a measly achievement due to being on the run at the time – and passable in at least three more. Garret Hillock, in his quest for knowledge and answers, had learned many, many words.

And yet… not one of them could describe what he was feeling now.

He recalled that sinister hook clear as day – even now, the image hovered in his mind, vivid as ever. And yet… It was at that moment, when he realised that Thresh was likely going to kill him – that moment when he cried out, in hope, fear, desperation – that everything changed. He recalled a burst of heat flooding through his body, numbing the pain and easing the discomfort, and then… Had he been an ounce more paranoid, he'd have claimed oblivion had ensued. He could not feel his own body, he realised – it was that it didn't respond to his attempts to move his limbs; it was almost as though he were incapable of doing so.

And despite the sheer ominous nature of the situation, Garret could not bring himself to panic.

That warmth that had rolled over him like a tidal wave persisted, coiling around him like a soothing embrace. It was the most comforting feeling he'd felt since his days as a teenager in Demacia; an embrace that enveloped him wholly, an unspoken reassurance that nothing would ail him while it persisted, an gesture of protection, of safety… it was all of these things and more.

Light then filtered into his vision – cracks of bright white on a blood-red expanse, and with a drunken blink, his vision returned to him. Once more he was staring at that grisly-green spectre, the mad Chain Warden standing at the ready, prepared for battle. And yet… even that malicious sneer his sharp teeth had set into could not make cold fear pierce the wonderful warmth he felt. It was as though his fear had evaporated completely.

Then he noticed the slight red tint to his vision.

Had he been able to laugh, he would have. In the midst of that warm safety, Garret felt joy – sheer, unbridled joy – bubbling within him. He saw the tension in the Chain Warden's stance, he saw the clouds of red drifting at his feet, and he saw the sinister sickle-tipped chain clutched tightly in his human hand – an action he could not remember performing – and like a jigsaw, all the little pieces came together in his mind. 'It worked,' he thought elatedly. 'It actually worked…'

"Yes, Garret…" Furia's voice seemed to echo around him, each syllable carried by every little blot of red. "It worked. Now… I feel… everything," she said, a subtle undertone of happiness in her tone. "I can feel the harsh cold of this place, and the loose soil beneath our feet. I can feel the steel of the chain in my hand, and the weight of a body once more…" Her tone was becoming downright giddy. "I cannot describe how wonderful it feels… Thank you, Garret… For making this possible."

'I never go back on my word,' Garret responded, feeling that personifying skew grin on whatever passed as his face in this crimson nothingness. 'Not when I can help it. Now,' he said, his tone turning serious – or as serious as it could in the throes of warm bliss he now felt. 'Quinn is still losing ground, Furia,' he said, and what he had hoped to be a worrying tone merely came across as a sleepy one – as though he had just woken up remembering an important detail. 'I know it has been ages, since you indulged in battle… but please, we need to help her. Even if Thresh tries to get in our way.'

"I understand, Garret," Furia responded confidently, and idly, Garret noted his human arm giving the chain a tug so forceful it made the Chain Warden before them stumble. "Rest now, please… Let me deal with this trash. Nothing will happen to your ally, Garret – I swear it on my honour."

Garret responded wordlessly, instead opting to smile warmly at the meaningful promise – or at least, he hoped it passed as a warm smile. He couldn't even feel his face, after all. Thresh, he noticed, had regained his footing – and the madman seemed none too pleased about his own chains being used against him. Those sharp fangs had set into yet another sneer, this one easily the most malicious one he'd bared since the scholar had met him.

And yet… the threatening gesture didn't faze Garret in the slightest.

Because the scholar knew, with absolute certainty: The Warden wasn't facing him now.

He was facing Furia.

And Furia was not in the mood to play around now.

---

With a violent grunt, Thresh leapt into action – he gave his prized hook a fiendishly powerful tug, and sprang from his feet into a ghostly glide; the chain made short work of reeling him right towards his foe, a sudden gesture that surprised most and threw them for a loop. The links scraped against the winch mounted on his belt as he barrelled towards the Demacian in a blur of green light and clinking steel. Red clouds swirled in his target's mutant hand, forming an intricate, curved double-edged sword – and to his great shock, his victim rushed to meet him halfway.

The first swing from his scythe, a flourish poised to flail the scholar to the side, struck nothing but air as the Demacian outright vaulted over the warden, and a sudden sting in his back elicited a loud growl from him as that cloudy red blade bit clean through his coat and into his person. Ever the pragmatic one, Thresh flailed his lantern backwards, aiming to strike his aggressor across the face as the souls in his lantern poured forth to shield him from more harm. Yet, the strike seemingly could not be more telegraphed. With an unnaturally swift movement wholly unbefitting of the scholar's wiry physique, the blow was dodged without him even breaking stance. That red blade surged forwards again, carving deep, jagged cuts into his soul-forged barrier before shattering like glass.

Thresh capitalised on this, flailing his hook-tipped chain outwards again, and yet, the scholar now proved even more slippery than he was while fleeing. A series of evasions and dodges, uncannily akin to dancing rendered his attacks outright worthless; the sickle soared through thin air, striking places the now-possessed scholar had been seconds before, proving his assault was seconds too slow. That mutated arm snapped forwards then, its palm firmly slamming right into the Warden's chest and snapping the bone lining of his coat's lapels. The strike pushed Thresh backwards, drawing a loud hiss from him, and once again he hurled his scythe tipped chain outward in a bid to strike the annoying little pup.

A flash of red burst in the Demacian's hands, and with a loud clang the scythe was parried near-perfectly by two short yet intricate daggers. The possessed pup closed the distance once again, utilising every ounce of the speed his wiry frame could muster, and the daggers danced under the rays of moonlight as their assault commenced. The two blades struck in deft, lethal flurries of smoky steel, tracing lines of red in their wake as the Demacian now almost danced around Thresh, evading everything the spectre could throw at him while maintaining a furious pace of attack. Fresh cuts and rips appeared all over Thresh's coat-clad torso every other second, and the attacks stung despite his undeath – as though the blades cut into his very being.

"Enough of this!" He hissed, leaping backwards as more souls rose from his opened lantern to shield him from the relentless assault. With a monstrous growl he slammed his lantern down on the ground, and with a merry bout of whispers the souls within seeped into the ground, tainting it with their eons of agony. They rose from the earth around them in a pentagonal box, a prison built from the agony of the thousands jailed in his lantern, and in the misty green walls their agonised faces drifted clear as day, mouths agape and eyes screwed shut. "You play by my rules now!" He roared at his attacker. "And now I say you die!"

Once again he charged at the possessed man, forgoing any semblance of ranged attack as he clutched his scythe by its shaft. He steered himself towards his aggressor, aiming to ram the insolent little child into the very souls he'd tormented – the backlash of pain and agony should be enough to afford him time to strike, after all – but once more, whatever now steered the Demacian's body proved much, much quicker in action – he deftly evaded to the right, and the twin daggers in his hands pulsed and shifted into something else entirely, and Thresh could only ram his heels into the earth and hurtle himself aside to evade the sharp edge of the halberd that threatened to disembowel him in mid-charge. It infuriated him, how that clueless, worthless pup could suddenly wield an entire arsenal without pause.

The Demacian man charged forwards, halberd held outstretched behind him with one hand as the other hand spread to the side, balancing his charge. Thresh tried to intercept with a well-timed hook, hoping to throw the aggressor off-course, but even that was swatted aside by an almost majestic twirling attack from the polearm. It spun above the possessed man's head effortlessly, as though the little pup had wielded it since birth, before snapping downwards with enough force to cut clean through the Warden's barrier of souls. The crimson edge slammed into his exposed skull, carving a trench in the bone from his forehead down to his cheekbone, and the Warden roared in pain as he backpedalled desperately.

With a pained moan, the prison of souls quickly dispersed – leaving the possessed man with much, much more room to manoeuvre his weapons.

The polearm extended in length, going from about five feet all the way to a good seven, and the axe-blade adjacent to the spear-like tip adjusted to the sudden scale. The Demacian came at Thresh in a whirlwind of spinning violence, twirling the heavy weapon clockwise and counter-clockwise as though it weighed less than a feather. Once more it struck home, carving a deep gash into his side which wept green flame, and that mortal strike was followed up with a blow from the blunt end of the pole, right between the Warden's eyes.

The force behind the strike knocked the spectre clean off his feet, and in a desperate bid to regain his balance his hurled his chain outwards once more. The possessed scholar saw this, and with a loud crack the blunt end of the halberd split into a thin, curving hook. The polearm twirled again, and the hook effortlessly slipped into one of the links, and in doing so, jerked the chain off course, away from something sturdy enough to anchor Thresh's balance. As the spectre slammed down onto the ground, the Demacian scholar hopped backwards, first once, then twice, then thrice, drawing the chain out more and more as he went, and as soon as the links spanned about ten feet, he moved – a short dash forwards was followed by him slamming the tip of the halberd into the ground, using the weapon to vault himself into the air. As it shattered under his weight he didn't waste a single moment, and the broken fragments quickly reformed into a large warhammer – one which he brought down right onto the exposed chain links.

Thresh felt a bit of his resolve shatter in tandem with the steel chain.

The warhammer shattered as well, returning to its cloudy reagent form, and the possessed Demacian turned a livid gaze at him, those white eyes still slanted into a sharp glare. The mutated arm grabbed the severed chain tightly, and with a short set of jerks and tugs scarily reminiscent of Thresh's own handiwork, spun the chain between his two hands – letting the scythe dangle ominously in the breeze.

Thresh then realised exactly how close the aberration was to him.

"What… What are you?!" He demanded, scrambling to his feet. It was enraging, seeing his own instrument of pain and suffering turned against him by a thing that didn't even bother speaking to him. "You move unlike most humans… And definitely unlike a cowardly little pup! What are you?!"

"Dregs like you," the possessed man spoke, in that broken, mixed tone, and only now Thresh heard the distinctly feminine edge to the echo, "deserve no answers or reasons. All you deserve is death." And without even waiting for a response, the scholar charged forwards. The chain in that twisted hand unfurled into a doom-bringing whip tipped with a sick edge that spelt nothing but pain. In a panic, Thresh raised his lantern again, and summoned as many souls as he could to shield him from harm. His chain coiled, the scythe arcing upwards like a cobra poised to strike, and with a loud grunt the Demacian swung the weapon, and it struck, bolting forwards like a lethal bite aimed right at his head.

The Warden believed the souls of the damned would shield him, as they did from any other weapon.

But no amount of souls could save him from his own chains.

The scythe tore into his skull with a loud, vicious crack, and bone parted under its sharp edge. As the tool buried itself up to the shaft in Thresh's exposed, flaming skull, the ethereal pain from the attack halted the Warden from doing anything save scream in unbridled fury and agony. The possessed Demacian gave the chain a powerful tug, plucking Thresh clean off his feet and sending him sprawling across the now tormented earth. He tried to will himself into moving, fighting against the wrathful pain seeping down his spine and into the very roots of his being – but two heavy boots slammed down on his form, one on his lower back and one on his free hand. The chain was tugged upwards, and through sheer agony Thresh's back arced upwards as far as it could go under the malevolent guidance. Eventually, he could go no further – but the chain kept pulling, and the scythe chipped more and more of his skull away as it threatened to burst from his skull in an explosion of bone splinters.

Then that mutated, pulsating arm wrapped around his skull – the thumb found grip just beneath his chain like dreadlocks, and two fingers found unflinching holds, one in his eye socket and one just above the rim of his fangs. Both the hand and the chain pulled, then, and a loud, straining creak from Thresh's neck ushered a startled, strangled cry of outrage and panic from him. The possessed man's intent had become clear – Thresh had treated the possessor with the same caution he had treated the cowardly scholar with…

…and now he was paying the price for it.

The hand pulled again, twisting his head into an uncomfortable angle and holding it there despite his cries to stop. The scythe still chipped away at his skull, causing small splinters and fragments to tumble down onto the soil. "Abominations like you," the possessor spoke, his tone one of disgust and hate, "deserve nothing but death," he repeated. Once more the hand tugged, and a loud pop drew another strangled yelp from the Warden. "Let this be your lesson, wretch," the Demacian spoke, in that ever-ominous mixed tone. "My host… is not your plaything!"

And then, with a final, powerful tug from both the scythe-tipped chain and the deceptively powerful twisted limb, and a final, agonising roar of pain from the fallen warden, Thresh's skull was ripped clean off his shoulders, and the green fires and lights in his being faded to black.

---

With a pained gasp, Quinn tumbled out of the vault she'd done to escape certain death once again, and stumbled slightly as she tried to regain her footing. The lack of her headgear had allowed a rather nasty cut to appear on her forehead, and the raven hairs plastering themselves to her sweat-matted forehead merely agitated it that much more. Her rest was short lived as she had to dive to the side once again, just as a colossal axe decimated the tree she was leaning against. Her gasps became both panicked and fatigued, as a downright relentless assault from Noxus' undead juggernaut kept her on her toes.

Sion, she despairingly noticed, wasn't tiring. Her crossbow, at this point, was merely annoying him – even the shot she had landed on his brow, which had obviously, obviously pierced his skull, only managed to make the titan that much more angry. She was damaging him greatly, yes – several dozens of bolts dotted his alabaster frame, protruding from grotesquely knotted muscle like small spines. But she wasn't affecting him – she wasn't tiring him out, like he was doing to her. Her stamina reserves were getting low, and it was only a matter of time before an errant strike from the giant left her broken and open for a killing blow.

She vaulted backwards again, hoping to place some distance between herself and Sion. She fell back into her crouched posture the moment her feet hit the ground, and her keen eyes, undaunted by fatigue and ache, scanned the area ahead. The dust kicked up by Sion's powerful strike slowly receded, and the alabaster monster rose to his full, intimidating height. Those red eyes glared fiery hatred at her, and the furrowed brow made the bolt protruding from it strain and almost snap. He uttered a low, animalistic growl as turned to face her squarely. "Is running all you can do?!" He roared at her, gripping his axe with both hands. "Pathetic!"

Quinn didn't bother responding – taunts and banter spelled time wasted, time that could have been used to gain advantage or repositioning. Instead, she merely crouched even lower, coiling her toned legs in preparation for another evade, and aimed her crossbow at the mad titan.

Sion tensed in reaction to the physical threat, and readied himself for another unstoppable charge at his target.

For but a moment, deathly silence settled on the Treeline as the two stared each other down.

That silence was then crisply broken, by sound of rattling chains, and something heavy soaring through the sky. The clearing they were in was illuminated by eerie moonlight, and those beams of light made Quinn notice a blotched, jagged shadow moving past her. Just as she contemplated turning her gaze up to see what had just soared over her, the object in question landed in front of Sion with a rattling thud, before rolling to a halt. Quinn, despite herself, felt her stomach churn slightly at the sight.

There, at the Undead Juggernaut's feet, lay the mangled, lightless, lifeless skull of Thresh, the feared Chain Warden.

Sion frowned at the sight of his slain ally's head, and with a bestial growl leaking murderous intent, he raised his metal peg-leg and stomped on the discarded skull, powdering it under his colossal strength. "Weakling…" He muttered darkly, as he looked in the direction the skull was thrown from.

The snapping of twigs, plus that ever-familiar broadcast of instinct from her Summoner, notified her that her ally had just stepped into the clearing. She looked to the side, and immediately recognised the dark duster and long, messy hair. "Garret…" She called to him, somewhat warily. She had never thought Garret to be capable of such a cruel execution – but when the scholar turned to face her, revealing an angular face comprised of red smoke, and two sharp, white eyes glowing in amusement and apprehension, she realised Thresh's death was not Garret's doing at all.

That was her, then. Furia, as Garret had called her.

Despite her apprehension at her reunion with the murderous spirit, she couldn't help the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. They had done it – their transition was successful.

"Not quite," Furia spoke, in that same fragmented, broken mix of male and feminine voices. She regarded Quinn with a coy type of acknowledgement, as though her very existence amused the she-spirit. "He is resting… as he should be. Can you fight?" The battle-eager spirit asked Quinn. "Or do you require time to recover?"

"I…" She started, somewhat shakily, before turning her gaze back to Sion. The pale berserker was glaring at Furia with a level of anger and murderous intent he often reserved for Demacians and Demacians alone – and going by the errant twitches of his brow, it seemed the titan would not be idle for much longer. She wanted to warn the lady of battle beside her, tell her that Sion was, in life, a warrior standing head-and-shoulders above even Demacia's best, and how even superior numbers should be wary of the juggernaut's strength and endurance. But the sudden snapping of trees overhead, accompanied by a loud, victorious screech, halted her thoughts in their tracks. She immediately held out her arm, deciding both that making Valor come to her was easier than looking for him, and that taking her eyes off Sion now was a terrible, terrible idea.

"He intimidates you?" Furia asked beside her, assuming a combat stance. With a flash of red and a puff of smoke, two curved shortswords appeared in her hands, one held in reverse-grip.

"He is… He's called a juggernaut for a reason," Quinn acknowledged as Valor swooped down an perched on her arm, his own body tensed and ready to launch forwards at the pale titan at a moment's notice. "We'll need to kill him twice," she said shakily, "if we want him out of our hair."

"Twice…" Furia mused, twirling her blades slowly, as though getting a better feel for their weight. "How exciting… A pity he is undead scum."

"That 'undead scum' still ain't gonna have any problems kicking your ass, you crazy bitch."

Both Furia and Quinn froze as the confident, boisterous voice echoed from behind them, and even Valor uttered something akin to a resigned squawk. With varying levels of emotion, exasperation on Quinn's part and outright giddiness on Furia's, the two of them turned to face the speaker. Even the pale titan before them faced the new contender, and impossibly, his expression of rage and hatred intensified as the third member of his enemies' team entered the clearing, barely fazed at the prospect of facing one of Noxus' mightiest warriors.

"Yo," Jax spoke confidently, bracing his lamppost across his shoulders. "Looks like you could use some help there, Chickadee." The six lenses of his helm shone brightly, and despite his casual stance, his lamppost was burning brightly, sending wisps of smoke rising up into the dark air. "I see you and Garret managed to pull off a switcheroo. That's good, that's good. Maybe after killing these idiots you can try chilling the fuck out for a while," he said, a hint of good-natured ribbing hidden in his mock-scolding tone. "I saw Thresh's body back there, y'know. You ripped his head off? Damn. That's brutal, lady."

"Not brutal enough," Furia muttered darkly, turning her attention back to the lumbering juggernaut before them. "His death was quick only because our ally was in danger."

For but a moment, Quinn realised what Garret had meant when he said Furia was 'complex in her simplicity'. One moment she spoke about how undead were scum, and how ripping one's head clean off was apparently too painless a death – and yet, in that same breath, the ancient spirit showed she also had her own allies in mind. It was a truly, truly warped code of honour and morality – one that made the battle-crazed spirit more complicated than ever.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say something fucked up like that," Jax said with a shrug, taking his place between the Ranger and the possessed scholar. He looked towards Sion's immense form, taking in the expression of murderous rage and bloodlust. "So what's it gonna be, buddy," he asked the juggernaut. "Your teammates are dead. So… You gonna run back to your little base," he asked smugly. "Or are you gonna stay here, and get thrashed?"

"I do not run…" The alabaster behemoth responded with a snarling voice. "Not from weaklings like you!" He roared, and the furnace mounted in his stomach pulsed sheer power outwards. "I do not fear death!" He growled, as the crimson glow in the hole in stomach intensified, spreading its light through his veins as a bloody veneer swirled around him, forming a grotesque barrier of blood and pain around him. "And I do not fear you! I'll crush you all!"

The ground beneath Sion's feet cracked as he kicked off, the loud thud of his peg leg slamming against the earth sending a deep, metallic boom all across the Treeline. His pale skin glowed as his vein shone a deep, sinister red, and soon his entire being was wreathed in the flames of unstoppable, unshakeable wrath. One arm was braced before the titan, just in front of his face, while the other kept his colossal axe at the ready – edge primed, and arm tensed.

Quinn dashed to the side immediately, noticing how her entire group had split under the threat of Sion's relentless, unstoppable onslaught. It was probably for the better – meeting the Undead Juggernaut halfway had proven to be the downfall of many skilled warriors in the League. Sion was just that powerful – it was much smarter, and much more effective, to surround him.

Furia, noticing how the group split apart, chose wisely to steer Garret's body away from the raging behemoth as well. The Chain Warden was one thing – he was a madman, more intent on torturing his victims, utilising pain and attrition to control the ebb and flow of the battle. This beast, though… This beast was different. Even taking a single blow from one of its mighty strikes was too great a risk – Garret's body, while speedy and limber, was still frail, and it seemed as though frailty was a critical weakness before the pale monster they now fought.

With an explosion of heated violence and power, Sion's charge halted, decimating the area where he stopped. Immediately, the gang took the opportunity to dogpile him – Jax's lamppost slammed into the side of the juggernaut's face just as he had looked around, seeking a target, and any reaction the attack might have drawn out was cut short when Furia took her blades to the back of the titan's good knee. They scraped off the barrier of bloody rage, cracking as they struck in a relentless flurry, and one managed to drive through the dome and into deadened flesh just before the shattered. Sion flung his axe-hand outward in a backhanded manner, hoping to cleave the annoying little bug in twine – an attack Furia saw coming. She hopped back, thinking the distance was adequate enough to save Garret's body from repercussion – but the sheer force behind the swing kicked up a shockwave that lifted the wiry scholar's form clean off its feet, and flung it flush into one of the trees, causing a loud snap to be heard.

The titan's eyes had barely settled on its first victim, and already another offensive had drawn his attention away. Valor's sharp talons tore at Sion's eyes as Quinn rained more bolts down on the beastly warrior from afar. She had heard Garret's ribs snap like twigs as his body hit the tree, and knew the injury would keep him and Furia rooted in place long enough for Sion to land a fatal blow. That could not be allowed – so she battled through fatigue and aching pains, keeping her aim steady and true despite being fairly taxed already. Yet even the duo's combined attack could not halt Noxus' greatest warrior for long. "You think this hurts me?!" The giant roared, and the blood-hued dome around him suddenly intensified – Quinn recognised the occurrence immediately, and attempted to call out to Valor, but she was too late. With a loud bellow, Sion detonated the dome around him, causing a massive outward blast of power that knocked the giant eagle out of the air, eliciting a pained screech from him.

For a moment, it seemed as though Sion would ignore Quinn's attacks altogether, and execute Valor with a single great cleave from his axe – but Valor had barely touched the ground when Jax had leapt back into the fray, picking up on the eagle's assault, and Quinn noticed Furia had gotten back into the fight as well, now toting a bastard sword in one hand and a short spear in the other.

Of their entire group, Jax was the one best suited to assaulting Sion directly – as could be expected from the Grandmaster at Arms. The titanic warrior's attempts at smearing the mercenary all over the ground were met with quick, fluid, almost effortless evasions as a twirling brass lamppost rained strikes on Sion's pale form by the dozen per moment. Every now and then the lamp would shine just a bit brighter, and under the Grandmaster's might the weapon struck that much harder – the blows even seemed to stagger the unstoppable beast. Sion's grunts of pain quickly turned into growls of anger, and soon enough evolved into a loud roar of unbridled hate. The juggernaut's arms tensed, gripping his axe tightly, and raised it high above his head, aiming to shatter both Jax and the ground he stood on – but the Grandmaster cut the attack down before it even began; two quick strikes to the stomach, one to the chest, and one devastating strike to the jaw sent the alabaster warrior staggering backwards, clutching at the gaping wounds on his jaw where the crown-like adornment had been ripped clean off.

Sion's outrage at the injury was short lived – Furia picked up the assault where Jax left off, hurling the short spear clean into the glowing furnace in the titan's stomach as she charged at him. The spear seemingly exploded as it pierced the red glow, and a tremor of pain shook Sion's core as he howled in both outrage and agony. The ancient spirit of war capitalised on this pause, steering Garret's body into a flurry of attacks that his wiry frame should not be capable of pulling off. Even in the chaos, the scholar's bones groaned under the strain. Furia hopped onto the giant's bent knee, using the momentum behind the leap to drive the bastard sword into Sion's ribcage, in that one weak spot where pale flesh met necromantic steel. The stitches gave way instantly, and blood seeped from the giant's body – Sion howled again, chucking his axe aside and pouring every ounce of his warrior's willpower into crushing the pathetic bug that had harmed him with his bare hands.

The assault intensified then – Jax joined Furia in the relentless attack on the implacable warrior, and the two of them danced and zipped around Sion's colossal frame with speed and agility the Noxian destroyer could not hope to match. Howls of outrage became roars of frustration as white skin turned a dark, sinister red under sheer fury and rage, and the undead behemoth's attacks became that much faster and more reckless for it. In his blind berserker rage he did not even notice the bolts being fired at him changing target – instead of vital organs like the heart and brain, they now targeted the source of his sustenance; they either pierced the stitching around the soul furnace, or punched into its core completely, each shot making the mad warrior's body quake with pain.

Jax managed to land the first crippling shot – as Sion had his back turned to the Grandmaster, trying to swat Furia out of her nimble evasive dance, Jax had slammed his lamppost down on the ground, and the fire within it flared as wisps of smoke and light coated his form. With a single, precise leap, Jax's lamppost slammed into the back of the soul furnace, just below Sion's spine – and the metal there folded like paper before cracking like glass.

Sion's deafening roar of indescribable agony shook the very magic that sustained the Treeline.

He slumped to his knees, jaw agape in a soundless cry of crippling pain, and his fingers clenched around the soil beneath him with such force it made wisps of dust rise from between the digits. He started heaving then, like a mad beast struggling to breathe, before his fists lit up pure red, smoking from the physical, tangible fires of rage coursing through his veins. Reddened skin turned black as night as the behemoth 'died', and the mindless mania and killing intent that had been tempered by the furnace commanded his body to act, to kill, despite death claiming it. With an inelegant, uneven, bleating roar, Sion rose again, his gaze burning with murderous mindlessness.

"One down," Jax said confidently. "Don't push yourselves. Keep him back and keep him flailing – he'll burn himself out eventually."

Sion's head snapped towards Jax the moment the mercenary had spoken, and already the monster was surging towards him, intent on snapping him two. The titan's fists swung furiously, each carrying enough strength to sunder trees and shatter stone, and still, not one connected – Jax was simply too evasive. The Grandmaster ended his series of dodges with a crushing strike to the death-defying warrior's face, and utilised the stagger he'd caused to hop away to safety. Sion had shrugged the dazing blow off in scant seconds, and already, his sights were set on the mercenary once more.

Then a short, crimson spear pierced the tendon of his good leg, a crippling blow, and the great warrior was sent tumbling to the ground. Even that did not stop the giant completely – with another furious bellow he tried to crawl towards the dark-clad Grandmaster, roaring at the top of his lungs as he went. It was a gesture that earned a chuckle from Jax, and he casually braced his lamppost across his shoulder again, and toed at the ground while waiting. The mockery only made the fallen titan that much angrier, for a brief second his crawl became more frantic, more rushed.

Then the light shining in the soul furnace slowly died.

And with a final murderous howl, his hand still outstretched in a futile attempt to grasp the Grandmaster and destroy him utterly, the Undead Juggernaut died again, becoming deathly still and unmoving as the mists of the Treeline wafted over his form.

"Well that's that," Jax nodded, "and good fuckin' riddance. Honestly, this enemy team is one of the biggest pains in the ass imaginable," he said irritably as he turned to face his allies. Quinn had scrambled to scoop Valor up as soon as Sion had died the first time, and now cradled the great eagle in her arms. Garret – or in this case, Furia – was standing beside her. His – her? What the shit…? – twisted black arm held a scimitar quite tightly, while the human arm cradled the body's ribs. "Hurts, don't it?" he asked as he strolled over to her. "Bet pain ain't one o' the things you missed, is it?"

"I felt nothing for… for centuries," Furia responded, in that same creepy-as-shit two-voices-as-one way. "Even pain is good… Even pain is better than nothing…"

"Yeah, I don't think Garret's gonna agree with you anytime soon," Jax shook his head. "Still, good work out there. Like I said I saw that spooky asshole's corpse. Coulda been done a bit cleaner, but hey, to each his own. Job well done nonetheless and all that praising, good-natured bullshit the Summoners want me to say," he said with a shrug. "So what happens now?"

"I must recede," Furia responded. "I can feel it… Our transition taxes Garret's body… To remain this way is dangerous."

"Well, shit," Jax said bitterly. "Just when ya thought you had it figured out, huh. At least tell me you know how to come back out again?" He asked critically. Whether he sounded pushy or not didn't exactly matter to him now – with Sion, Kayle's sister and that spooky asshole respawning soon, Jax wasn't exactly in the mood to fight them with nobody but a busted-up Ranger and a plucked chicken as backup.

"We achieved resonance," Furia answered. "We can transition again." She paused for a moment, before speaking again. "It is good you are here. When I fought… Garret's body is not used to such movements. He will be ailed by more than broken bones when I recede. It was…" She trailed off again, pondering her words, before continuing. "It was exciting, fighting by your side. I cannot wait to meet you in battle."

"Yeah, well, hope you ain't expecting me to say 'likewise', lady," Jax responded, strolling over and flinging Garret's twisted arm over his shoulders, preparing to add some support once the pain hit home. The crimson scimitar dispersed immediately, and the smoke seeped back into the black limb. "Because you still freak me out," he said plainly. "Still. You kept Poet Boy safe and sound all this time. You're cool. Freaky and fucking insane… but cool."

Furia, unexpectedly, merely uttered a short, off-key chuckle, before the smoke comprising her angular face dispersed. All the red around the scholar's form receded into that spiky arm, and within moments, emerald eyes blinked fatigue away. "So it's over… I did n-grgh!" The moment Garret had spoken and affirmed he was indeed in control again, he outright spasmed where he stood, and if it weren't for the support Jax was offering the scholar would have keeled over immediately. "Oh gods above…" He whined pitifully.

"Easy there bud," Jax said with a hearty chuckle. "You got right banged up before Little Miss Crazy took over. Hell, you got right banged up afterwards as well. I think your left ribcage resembled a jigsaw puzzle, by the way. Nothing serious."

"Gooooods…" Garret whined again, wheezing as he gasped for breath. "What is this even… I hurt in places I can't even feeeeeel…" He said in between pained groans and squeaks. "Did I die…?" He asked innocently. "Please tell me I died and that this is temporary…"

"Nope, you're still kickin', bud," Jax said with another good-natured chuckle. "But it is temporary. Your Summoner should be kickin' your recovery up a bit," he said smoothly, "and if Chickadee's Summoner stops being an asshole they can kick it up several gears. Hey Chickadee," Jax turned to Quinn, who was already walking towards them, her pensive expression signalling she knew exactly where the conversation was heading. "Tell your Summoner to pull his finger out and pop out the good stuff already."

"I can't tell my Summoner anything, Jax," Quinn responded icily, although she did make an effort to help Valor perch himself steadily on her arm. "Just a minute," she said, fidgeting with what looked worryingly like a snapped wing, apparently trying to set it. The process drew several pained squeaks from the usually majestic bird of prey, but soon enough, the task was over. "There we go," she said, nodding approvingly. "Garret, give me your hand," she said, extending an open palm.

"I don't… I don't think I can," Garret groaned. "Really I don't, I cannot even… I might cry. Really, I might. Gods above, I almost regret this…" He wheezed. Quinn tried to frown at first, but apparently even Rangers weren't immune to finding situations darkly amusing, and couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. Taking the initiative, she reached out and grasped the scholar's human hand, drawing a soft yelp from him as she accidentally nudged his shattered ribs. His groan of pain quickly turned into a blissful hum, though, as the Summoner enveloped them in a burst of ethereal magics. Torn muscles eased and relaxed and broken bones mended under the cloud of arcane green light, and even the scholar's nose quickly snapped back into place as the dried blood outright evaporated. "That…" He mumbled, almost sleepily. "That is wonderful, that is… Can this, can we, can the match end now? Please? This, This right here is joyous. Gods above…"

The admission drew a loud laugh from Jax, and even Quinn chuckled softly. Valor, who had been part of the healing cloud as well, gleefully and gracefully stretched his wings out, before uttering a happy screech and taking flight again, right as rain. The magics dispersed then, and Jax let go of Garret so the scholar could steady himself again. "Gods above, I thought I knew pain," he muttered darkly. "These 'Fields of Justice' seem intent on proving me wrong around every corner," he summarised. "Nonetheless, the transition… Well the after-effects were dreadful, but… the switch itself was quite pleasant," he said softly, smiling, and that ever eye-catching red hoop quickly appeared around his irises. "What happens now?" He asked, shifting his weight between legs. "The pain is gone but I still feel somewhat tired – I am assuming the healing we received from the Summoners is only finite?"

"Yup, got it in one," Jax said, merrily swinging his lamppost. "Now we've got ourselves a small window. We put our boots up their whole team's collective ass, but they ain't staying dead for long. They'll be back – first that mage bitch, then the spooky asshole, and then our undying friend over here," he said, motioning to Sion's corpse. "If we're gonna win, we gotta do it now. Any idea how far we are from their Nexus?"

"A couple of minutes," Quinn answered, watching Valor's flight patterns. "Less if we move quickly."

"Good," Jax nodded. "You down for one more bout, bud?" He asked Garret. "Just think – one more little brawl and this whole fight's over – experiment: success. Your lady-friend said you can pull another switcheroo?"

"Yes," Garret nodded resolutely, "yes, I… I found the missing link. If our emotions eclipse perfectly the transition is near seamless," he said, and inwardly he already felt that ever-pleasant tug of warmth at his soul – as though Furia were armed and ready, waiting on his command. He knew exactly which of their emotions eclipsed now: the drive for victory, for triumph over the enemy. Their motives for such a desire differed – Garret wished for nothing more than to leave this hellish place, and Furia wished for another taste of glorious battle. Two entirely different wishes, and yet – they spawned the same goal. "The transition is ready," Garret nodded. "You give me the signal, and Furia will come out again."

"Great stuff," Jax said, his smirk audible. He quickly walked in the direction Valor was indicating, stopping at the edge of the twisting trees. "Well?" He asked. "Shall we go kick their teeth in again?"

The decision, Garret realised, had been all but unanimous – Quinn was already at Jax's side, and apart from the warmth flooding him intensifying by the smallest of margins, he felt that ever familiar tingling in the back of his head, and that burst of instinct that certainly wasn't his own; it seemed even Furia and his Summoner agreed with the notion of finishing this. With that in mind, Garret strolled forwards, his confidence restored, reinforced and riveted in place.

"Yes," he said with a skew smile. "I am quite sick of this place. Let's end this."

---

"Who was the mage, by the way?" Quinn asked as the team of three darted through the underbrush. Quinn and Garret easily navigated the harsh undergrowth, spawned from years of tracking and years of running from trackers respectively, but Jax it seemed had a bit of trouble keeping up to them. Thus, they weren't going as fast as they could – but the alternative of leaving Jax behind and darting ahead was much too daunting for them to complain.

"Morgana," Jax muttered under his breath as he swatted a stray branch away with him lamppost. "And I don't mean to make you worry – I mean, I'm not worried 'cause I don't give a damn about her, but I might just have pissed her off."

"What did you do?" Quinn asked irately.

"I… may or may not have implied that Kayle is way, way hotter than she is."

"Oh, for… Why would do that?!" Quinn demanded.

"What? It's true!" Jax shrugged nonchalantly. "Worse cast scenario, she ignores all your asses and comes right at me. Which might be a good thing, now that I think about it," he said smugly. "Look at it this way: That fugly woman and Ol' Spooky died way, way before Sion did – now Thresh, he's a petty little fucker, it's likely he'll have some beef with Garret's lady-friend for, y'know, pincushioning his face and all that. Morgana, as we know, might come right at me, because y'know, she's kinda pissed and also I'm The Champ, so it's in the bag she finds me irresistible. Either way!" He said, ignoring the pained groaned his arrogance elicited from Quinn and Garret. "How's this for a plan: I go for Morgana, Garret's crazy lady-friend deals with Thresh, and while their preoccupied with us and Sion's preoccupied with, oh, being dead and all, Chickadee here can start chipping away at their Nexus."

"That is… actually quite a good plan," Garret mused, vaulting over a fallen tree.

"Don't stroke his ego," Quinn admonished him. "And what if we get back and Sion's already there? What then, mister 'Champ'?"

"Then we do the same thing we just did back there. Get rid of the mage and Ol' Spooky first, then wail on Sion until he falls over. Then we win. Easy."

"There was nothing 'easy' about it," Quinn groused, slicking back her hair. Her headgear had been lost in the fight against Sion.

"That's just 'cause you ain't me, Chickadee," Jax said smugly.

"Much as I would hate to interrupt your obviously riveting conversation," Garret interrupted them, "but I do believe that we're approaching the enemy Nexus."

The walls looming in the distance, hiding the source of the bright, arcane pillar of light piercing the dark sky, indeed proved his statement to be correct. There was a deathly silence to the place – even the usually erratic breeze the Treeline was known for had died down. However, the barest hints of sickly green light poking out above the walls told them that at the very least, the Chain Warden had been revived, and was now guarding their Nexus loyally. "Looks like Ol' Spooky's back," Jax mused. "Say, Garret. Your lady-friend ready yet?"

"She has been ready since the Summoner healed us," Garret said, before slowing to a stop. The red around his irises intensified and expanding, and his dark, spiky arm pulsed a bright shade of vermillion, illuminating the knotting muscles beneath the dark skin. "Well… I guess I will be seeing you all once we've won," he said with a slightly confident smile. Any response Quinn and Jax might have wanted to offer was cut off as Garret was enveloped by the crimson smoke that fabricated weapons for him so frequently. It writhed in place for but a moment before receding completely, and while the scholar's physical form remained unchanged, the mask of cloudy red that now covered his face spoke volumes to the contrary.

Once more, Furia was in control – and going by the shaky breath she had just released, she was quite eager. "Once more into the fray…" She mused. "How wonderful…"

"That's the spirit," Jax said with a hearty chuckle, stopping just as the trio reached the stairs leading up to the enemy camp. "So is the plan all set?"

"Indeed," Furia responded. "Leave the undead thrall to me. I will end him swiftly… despite my wishes to make him suffer."

"Yeah that's not creepy at all," Jax said glibly. "Not at all. Eh, beggars can't be choosers. 'Sides, I've fought with freakier people," he admitted offhandedly. "You all ready to go win this?" He asked, looking towards his comrades. Upon receiving an affirmative nod from Quinn and a downright bloodthirsty chuckle from Furia-in-Garret's-Body, he readied his lamppost. The lamp itself flared to life, burning brightly in the darkness. Quinn's repeating crossbow cocked itself, ready to fire at a moment's notice, and Furia fashioned a sick looking halberd from the smoke surrounding her. Or him. Or Garret's body.

Dammit.

Shaking his head, he took up his stance.

"Alright then," he said firmly. "Let's do this."

---

The assault on the exposed Nexus could only be described as an all-out invasion. The moment Valor had swooped across the low walls of the small camp, the trio had burst into the clearing with one intention: ending this battle before the tables could turn on them. Furia, being in control of one of the faster bodies in the group, immediately proceeded to single out the Chain Warden. The sickly-green spectre stood before one of the prongs jutting out from the Nexus' base structure, a look of unbridled ire etched into his ghostly face. When he saw that creature possessing the cowardly Demacian's body charging at him again, he decided to go on the offensive right from the start, forgoing his use of control and attrition in favour of maiming the upstart monster that had so easily ripped his head off.

Beside him, Furia noticed another angelic woman, similar yet completely different from the one she had met in Garret's mindscape – and going by the sneer on her face, she wasn't pleased at seeing Jax again either. She summoned a volley of twisting, writing dark orbs and hurled them towards Jax, and a flick of her wrist caused the very stone between the two of them to turn corrupt and tormented, lashing out with vile taint at anyone foolish enough to tread upon it.

But that twisted angel was not her target.

Furia locked eyes with the ghostly madman as she surged towards him, and just as she anticipated, that ever-ominous sickle-tipped chain came soaring towards her. She caught it once again, without trouble, and just as predicted, the ghostly sadist came gliding towards her once again. She opted for a different strategy – she summoned a needle-thin sword to her hand, wove it through a handful of the chain's links and drove it right into the ground before ducking out of the way. The Chain Warden had learned from his mistakes, immediately summoning some souls from his lantern to shield him as he slammed it down onto the ground again. The hexagonal prison rose from between the stones again, trapping the two in a deadly arena.

"I do believe," Thresh spoke, struggling with his pinned chain as he kept his gaze on his aggressor, "that I owe you and your cowardly little host a decapitation – and I assure you," he spat, "it will not be quick!"

Furia did not bother responding – she twirled the halberd before her and charged, angling it behind her so she could initiate with a sweeping attack. The rapier-like blade pinning the spectre's chain to the ground finally shattered, and with an enraged growl he flailed his scythe outwards, intending to flay his attacker where they stood. Furia spun on her heel, almost pirouetting around the attack, and the halberd lashed out at Thresh in a sick series of spinning attacks. Three strikes bounced off the soul-forged barrier and one static lunge pierced through it completely, driving the spear-tip into the Warden's collarbone. The Warden, however, had learned from his mistakes, and used the momentum from being wounded to jerk his scythe upwards, opening a long, deep gash across his attacker's chest.

Furia stumbled only slightly, centuries of inactivity not having numbed her resistance to pain in the slightest. She shattered the halberd with a quick strike to its shaft and formed it into an intricate sword, before darting at her attacker once more. Her agility kept her far away from that snaking hook, and her sword once more cut away at the green barrier until a final heavy strike shattered both it and her blade. Thresh growled again, flailing his chain at her feet in an attempt to hook her feet out from under her, and found his chain hooking nothing but air – Furia had leapt straight at him, driving one knee right into his face as her other foot landed on his now bent knee. She used it as a stepping stone to equal out her balance before vaulting over him once again, and to his great outrage, another deep cut lashed across his back, sending him stumbling forwards in pain.

He turned to face his aggressor, seeing the possessed man had summoned another blade – but to his great confusion, it was dispelled almost instantly. "Fool," he sneered. "Such arrogance… I'm only too happy to humble you!" He said, lashing out at his opponent with his chain again. Furia caught it once more – but instead of allowing the Warden to come to her, she instead opted to turn the tables; she went to him. Scythe in hand, she mounted a downright audacious unarmed attack against him, utilising her speed to dodge and evade the blunt blows from the lantern the madman was using to defend himself – and not once did she release the scythe.

Only once the Chain Warden had aimed a blow too far out, and overextended himself, did she put her plan into motion. Utilising quick footwork she'd used to swim through armies of violent soldiers, she started a series of fluid, almost dance-like motions around the spectre. Lost to outrage and murderous intent, the Warden did not realise he was snaring himself in his own chains until it was too late. Finishing her evasive movements, Furia once again leapt towards him, driving her knee into his face and perching herself on his out-bent knee, before hopping over him again – and when she did, she wrapped both hands around the scythe's shaft, and pulled the chain taut.

The series of links, which had mere seconds before looped and coiled around the Warden's feet, leapt up and snared him into immobility with a sickening snap of steel. His bony lantern clattered to the ground as his arms were pinned, one to his stomach and one to his side, and with a strangled cry Thresh seemed to realise he'd been had – played for a fool once again. Furia slammed a foot into his lower back and tugged on the chains, making sure they were as tight as possible, before flipping the scythe around and burying it into the Warden's back, right up to the hilt. A kick to the back of his leg then brought the sadistic madman to his knees.

Once again, that twisted, black hand seized his skull in a vice-like grip, this time gripping the top of his bare head. He heard the red smoke forming another weapon, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the edge of a disturbingly weighty age looming in his captor's hand. "Be still," he heard his attacker say, in that same fragmented voice that had echoed in his ears before his last passing, "and return to death, abomination."

Furia did not bother waiting on a response – nothing from the creature before her had any merit or meaning in any case. Ignoring the enraged, otherworldly roar of fury spilling from the spectre's mouth, she arched her arm back and swung the axe, utilising its own weight more than the strength Garret's body could muster.

And with a single loud crack, the Warden's enraged roar fell silent, and once more the eerie green light died out.

She dispersed the axe then, and turned to face the rest of her host's allies.

Jax had just sent the Fallen Angel scurrying back to that elevated altar behind the Nexus, clutching at a weeping wound on her face while her other arm hung limply by her side, whilst the Ranger, Quinn, and that beast of hers slowly but surely whittled away at the fragile Nexus crystal. Jax spared her a glance, then, and upon seeing the Chain Warden's decapitated body once more, offered a firm, yet somewhat hesitant nod of approval. The mere gesture made excitement bloom in her – it would be glorious the day they finally crossed paths in battle. Jax quickly shrugged off the sight of the dead sadist, however, and joined Quinn in hammering away at the Nexus. The crystal seemed to falter even faster under the Grandmaster's blows.

She summoned two short swords, then, clutching both in reverse grip, and strolled forward, intent on lending her strength to the destruction of the Nexus.

The sound of soaring magic bubbling and burning through the air dissuaded her, and she quickly stepped back just as a bubbling bolt of black magic soared past her, striking the low wall far behind her and singing the stone. She crouched down, ready to leap into action as she directed her focus at her new attacker. The Fallen Angel had made a speedy recovery, and now stood at the foot of the stone stairs. However, it seemed as though her recuperation was flawed – the wound travelling along her cheek hadn't fully healed yet, and even now her damaged arm twitched as she used it to focus more magics. "Do you wish to die as well?" Furia questioned the disfigured angel.

"You can't kill me," the Angel grumbled in response. With a flick of her wrist, the stones beneath Furia turned corrupt and tainted, and lashes of dark, tormented earth attempted to strike at her heels. A quick roll to the side evaded the perversion of nature, and a quick vault to the side sent another bolt of bubbling magic crashing against the low wall. "Not while I'm standing here. You… You're the one who's been giving my dear sister so much trouble," she said, before smirking cruelly. "I would applaud you if you weren't my enemy."

Any response Furia might have made was cut off as a mad, bloodthirsty roar shook the very stone they stood on, and in a burst of fiery might and pale skin, the undead juggernaut they had slain earlier leapt back into the fray, the very impact from his landing sundering the stone beneath his feet. His titanic axe slammed down on the earth mere moments later, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris as his dynamic re-entry into the fray sent Jax, Quinn and that eagle scuttling away from the Nexus. The fires of rage burned in his eyes, and with an animalistic bellow he advanced on the first target in sight – Jax himself. Sion's colossal axe once more attempted to smear the Grandmaster all over the ground – and once more, Jax's evasive skills trumped almost every shot.

"You're all wounded," the Fallen Angel spoke again, recapturing Furia's attention, "and the Undead Juggernaut is fresh to the fight. Understand this is a skirmish you can't win," she said harshly. "So take my advice: flee, while you still have a ch-"

A shining, smoking brass lamp slammed into her face with a sickening crunch, and for but a moment Furia could see the Angel's cheekbone shattering under the impact before the sickly-looking woman was sent crashing to the floor. Jax spared the most fleeting of glances towards her, those six blue lenses conveying a seriousness as of yet unseen from him. "I'll deal with her," he said, striking the angelic woman with his lamppost again as she tried to rise. "Quinn's keeping Sion busy – get to that Nexus and finish this."

She did not need to be told twice. Dispelling the twin swords and forming a short yet spiky mace from her blood smoke, Furia rocketed towards the Nexus. The crystal seemed as though it were being held together by sheer wishful thinking; the series of cracks and deep gashes signalled it needed only a few more good strikes from her to finish the job. The Nexus loomed ever closer – but her task, although simple, would not be easy.

The Undead Juggernaut had noticed her mad dash for their Nexus, and in a blind rage, he loosed a single, booming bellow at Quinn and Valor. The roar left him in the form of yet another tremendous shockwave, one that knocked the great bird of prey clean out of the sky and blasted the Ranger right off her feet. The blood-hued dome around him reinforced itself again, forcing the bolts protruding from it back out as the pale behemoth stormed to intercept.

'Furia, look out!' Garret's voice, combined with her own instincts honed over centuries, quickly led to her noticing the rampaging titan barrelling straight at her. The pale giant's body was wreathed in fiery wrath, making him seem more like a flaming projectile than an actual warrior. She vaulted backwards, flipping twice after she landed, and still the sheer impact from the colossal warrior's unstoppable onslaught blew most of the red smoke surrounding her away. She quickly formed two daggers again, intent on evading the giant completely and focusing solely on the Nexus. When the dust settled, she charged forward, unflinching in the face of the eight-foot titan and the dome of wrath surrounding him. With a roar, Sion swung his axe to intercept, an attack that was easily evaded, and when the giant's free hand formed a fist and swung dead-centre, that too struck air as Furia twirled to the side, brushing right past the giant. Her daggers scraped at the Nexus crystal, once, twice, thrice – and just as they would have struck the fourth blow, the giant attacking her acted in desperation.

The blood-red dome around him exploded outward, and the sheer force behind it knocked Furia away from the Nexus and shattered the blades held in her hands. She was rolling the moment she hit the ground, quickly repositioning herself in a way to continue her onslaught – but at that moment, Garret's right leg gave in completely, unwilling to cooperate any further. As she collapsed to the ground, Furia cursed under her breath as realisation struck – although she could resist great amounts of pain, it was likely Garret's body could not. His was a frail composition – something like this should have been expected.

Sion did not let this window of opportunity go to waste – the back of his axe slammed into Furia's side with enough force to lift the body she controlled clean off the ground and pitch it against the far wall. Several loud snaps echoed, and with a muted growl Furia noticed more and more of Garret's limbs failing – as it stood it seemed the mutated right arm was the only one she could move with any kind of ease. The pale juggernaut gazed at her fallen form, striking his axe twice against the ground and sharpening it just a bit more. The monster's breathing was laboured, but despite that, there was a bloodthirsty grin on his face, visible even behind the crown-like attachment. "Now…" He said, surprisingly softly for someone with such a deep, threatening voice. "Now I break you, into tiny little pieces…!" He snarled, lumbering towards her with his axe clenched in both hands. Every footfall sent tremors along the stone, and those eyes projected unimaginable hatred.

And yet, Furia had not a hint of panic or worry. In fact, had her face been capable of oral expression, she would have been sporting a grin. Gingerly, assailed by pain and a failing body, she raised the only limb she could, her twisted black arm, pointed behind the giant, and spoke simply:

"Evidently not."

The giant's brow furrowed, in confusion and ire towards the obvious delay tactic, but turned to face what his soon-to-be victim was pointing at regardless – and his eyes, that had been set into a baleful, hateful glare mere seconds before, widened as a look of complete shock overtook the titan. Off to the side of the Nexus, the broken, battered form of the Fallen Angel crawled pitifully up the stairs, her pale skin covered in cuts and bruises, and perched atop the Nexus crystal itself, with his purplish garb fluttering in the Treeline's breeze, Jax stood, casual as can be, and his lamppost shone very, very brightly. As smugness seeped from behind the six lenses of his helm, he offered the Undead Juggernaut a single, almost carefree shrug.

"Sup, buddy," he said plainly – and in a single, effortless movement, he smashed his lamppost down on the fragile Nexus crystal.

Sion's mouth opened in a wordless, inelegant holler, and in any other case it would have been a deafening shout, but as the Nexus crystal shattered into tiny arcane fragments, the sudden maelstrom of magical energy and ringing light drowned out even the loudest of sounds. The Nexus exploded in a dazzling burst of potent magic energy, and the ensuing shockwave blotted Sion's form out completely, erasing him and his allies from the now unstable Treeline. It was as though every source of light in the camp, every source of light on that side of the battlefield itself, was swallowed up by the ensuing explosion.

And when the light died down, the camp was pristine as can be. The Nexus crystal was repaired, although it had grown dull, almost gray in its inactivity, and the few beams of moonlight that had once shone down on the stone base camp had been swallowed up completely by the dark clouds above. And most importantly – not a single trace of Thresh, Morgana or Sion remained.

Furia remained slumped against the wall, pondering whether it was a good time to recede. The damage done to Garret's body would no doubt cripple her host for a few minutes – but if she kept the transition going, the damage would be that much worse when she finally relented. She squirmed where she sat, at least trying to reposition Garret's body into a more comfortable posture, to at least lessen his discomfort if she could do nothing about his pain. A loud screech caught her attention, and she gazed up to the low wall to see the Ranger's feathered friend perched there, sitting regally as only an eagle could. A shuffling sound to her right drew her attention there, and immediately she recognised the feathery garb.

Quinn had somehow shuffled herself into a sitting position next to her ally. Her right hand clutched at the side of her face, specifically the ear that was bleeding slightly, while her left hand remained slumped by her side. "I saw what happened," she said grimly. "Garret's body failed, didn't it?" Upon receiving a nod from Furia, her expression darkened. "The pain's going to hurt him immensely, isn't it?" Upon receiving another nod, she sighed wistfully, turning her gaze to the now inactive Nexus. The two of them saw Jax strolling towards them, his outfit tattered and his lamppost bent even more out of shape, but still no worse for wear. "You said your transition takes a toll on him," she said morosely. "You should… You should recede," she finalised. "If only so the damage doesn't get worse."

"She's right, ya know," Jax helpful supplied. "And this is likely the only time I'll ever admit it. We might still be here, but it won't be long. Soon we'll go back too – and hey, I know you're cool and all, if a bit crazy, but if the Institute at large sees what your switcheroo does if you do it too much…" He dragged a finger across his throat to display the possible repercussions. "It ain't gonna be pretty."

"You don't need to worry, in any case," Quinn spoke. The faintest of smiles adorned her lips, despite the pained expression on her face. Her free hand landed on the wrist of Garret's mutated right arm, and she gave it a tentative, yet reassuring squeeze. "As far as we're concerned… We… We're still allies," she said firmly. "We're here for him, Furia."

The ancient warrior's hesitation lasted but a moment. In the end, her concern for Garret's life triumphed over her concern over his pain, and somewhat shakily, she nodded once in affirmation. "I understand," she said softly, as she noticed Jax tearing a strip off his cape and wrapping it around the shaft of his lamppost, before kneeling by her side. "You… You have my thanks," she said, "for… for caring for him…" And with those words, the mask of red smoke receded, and the two sharp white eyes disappeared, leaving two fatigued, curious ones in their stead.

Garret blinked wearily once, opening his mouth sluggishly to ask just what had happened – and the moment his lips parted enough, Jax shoved the fabric-covered brass in between his teeth. The sudden look of confusion lasted less than a second before every ounce of indescribable pain slammed into Garret's being at frightening speeds. His jaw locked shut as much as it could, teeth grinding against the fabric as a muted, muffled howl of agony escaped the scholar's mouth. His face turned first a deep red, then a worrying pale, and the veins on his forehead visible amidst the dark hairs clinging to it swelled slightly. His entire frame tensed, quaking from the pain as deadened limbs strained against aches that pierced right to the marrow. And amidst it all, the groans and whimpers and muted screams poured forth unfalteringly.

They remained that way for a good minute or two, with Jax keeping his lamppost steady, Quinn keeping her grip on Garret's wrist, and Garret himself weathering the sudden onslaught of agony through nothing but sheer willpower and the support of his allies.

The entire ordeal loaned a pyrrhic, bittersweet edge to their victory.

Eventually, to everyone present's great relief, the worst of the pain passed soon enough, and Garret went from a groaning, screaming wreck to a quivering mass slumped against the wall. His breathing was laboured and raw, his face was deathly pale and his body shivered as though it were freezing – but at the very least, the screaming had stopped. "Atta boy, buddy," Jax placated him, removing the fabric-covered brass from the scholar's mouth. The absence of muffling made the hollowness of his breathing that much more apparent. "Everything's gonna be just fine," the mercenary said reassuringly. "Heh. We won, after all. And it's all because of you and your lady-friend."

"W-We… we won…" Garret said shakily, his voice so cracked and broken it sounded as though he were whispering. "Gods above… Did I… Did I die this time…?" He asked. The question drew soft, relieved chuckles from Quinn and Jax.

"Nah. Nah, you didn't," Jax said cheerily. "I get the feeling they'll need more firepower if they wanna off you, eh?"

Garret wheezed in response, before devolving into a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. "My…" He wheezed afterwards, the shivers running up and down his body receding just a tad. "My first death… Is going to be… an absolutely heinous affair…" He groaned. It was a statement intended to be darkly foreboding – but even in that darkness, the scholar's own muted sense of humour shone through, a clear indicator that, despite his pain, the scholar was going to be fine. The statement caused Jax to laugh heartily, and even Quinn had trouble repressing the giggle that bubbled up within her. Even Garret eventually joined in, laughing feebly at the dark humour he had unintentionally caused.

Their laughter faded as their forms suddenly lit up, and the magics sustaining the Treeline itself was drawn to them in bright wisps. "W-What… What's happening?" Garret asked groggily, worried looking at the wisps of magic.

"Relax, bud," Jax placated him, placing a hand on the scholar's shoulder, gently, so as not to injure him. "It's the Summoners. They're finally getting us out of this shithole," he said cheerily. "And not a moment too soon, if ya ask me. Going by that look on your face, bud, if you never see this place again it'll be too soon." He paused then, looking at the wisps dancing around them, forming circles of light as the ringing of magic started to intensify. "Heh. What's the bet the Summoners called for Soraka the moment they heard your little switcheroo is bad for you." His tone took on a teasing edge as he gazed down at Garret. "Yeah, I bet they called that hot little ninja-nurse too. They're gonna make you feel reeeeaaal good, buddy," he teased.

"Oh, c-come off it," Garret scolded the Grandmaster, and yet, he couldn't keep the grin off his face. In the throes of agony, Jax's humour did much to alleviate the darkness clouding his mind.

The hum of magic intensified then, and bright, blinding light pierced the darkness around him. The white void started to swallow up Quinn and Jax, seemingly starting to phase them out of existence. "Well, buddy," Jax said, looking down at Garret. "See you on the outside." And just like that, he disappeared into the magic void. Quinn faded to white next, offering him the smallest of reassuring smiles before disappearing, and soon enough, Garret was left alone with his thoughts and his agony.

"I… Garret…" Furia's voice drifted through his mind, sounding uncharacteristically troubled. "I had no idea this would happen so soon, I… I thought you were…" She trailed off, sounding angry – at what, he didn't need to guess. "I was not paying heed to your body… and now you are paying the price. I…"

'Don't… Don't worry about it,' Garret shushed her inwardly, as the hum of magic started to swallow him whole. 'I… I gave you my word, did I not? When I was… When you were in control,' he said, 'I felt what you felt. I felt your happiness, at finally moving around again, fighting again… living again…' He smiled despite his pain, hoping his tenant could see it, or feel it. 'That… That made it all worth it, Furia… This pain, this agony… It is crippling… but if it can make you feel those emotions again… If it can make you feel, what I felt, when the High Councillor told me I was a free man…' He trailed off again, and his smile grew even wider – despite the lance of pain it sent coursing through his face. 'Furia… If it could make you feel like that… I would do this all again in a heartbeat.'

He received no response to that statement; he didn't need to. After he had achieved that resonance with Furia, he found himself remarkably in tune with what she felt – and at that current moment, he reckoned what his tenant, no, his partner felt at that moment, could be described as nothing but stunned silence.

And that suited him just fine.

Earlier that day, Furia had stated that Garret surprised her more with every passing day; and despite the frenzied state of his being, Garret reckoned he had many more surprises to show her.

So he relaxed, as much as his pain addled body would allow him to, and let the magics take him.

His first foray into the Fields of Justice had been a tiring, terrifying, painful venture – but it had all been worth it, in a way.

And just before he allowed the magics to soothe him into a blissful state of unconsciousness, a single thought crossed his mind:

With Furia at his side…

Suddenly, fighting in the League of Legends didn't seem so daunting after all.

---

XA/N: ...ye gods and higher powers. Almost 45K words.

I am so, so sorry - you all have my solemn vow that I will do everything, everything in my power to prevent you from such a monumental task again in the future. This is currently, and likely will be, Will of Iron's longest chapter. I will state it again: I will do everything in my power to prevent myself from writing such a huge chapter again.

And to think: It was originally going to be even longer.

I'm not even joking - there was a slice of life segment with Garret and Soraka just before his match, Jax's first fight with Morgana was actually a fully-typed-out, 1500-word segment, Quinn's skirmish against Sion before Furia stepped in was longer and the final battle at the Nexus was going to be a bird's eye 3rd person narrative, containing extended battles between Jax and Morgana, Quinn and Sion and Garret/Furia and Thresh.

That would have put the chapter at almost 60K words.

So I immediately decided: "F***. That. Too much, Chaos - too much."

Nonetheless, I did my best to make this chapter a worthwhile read despite its length. I brought back two of the story's first 'defining' Champions in Jax and Quinn, and even gave them roles in an honest-to-goodness League Match. I brought in three new presences in the form of Thresh, everyone's favourite sadistic madman, Morgana, everyone's favourite morally ambiguous yet slightly creepy Fallen Angel, and post-rework Sion - who I admit is one of the most fun Champs I've ever played. I've done my best to keep these three true to their current lore while developing them in a way I feel could be believable - but as it stands, I have no way of knowing how well I did until I see how many hits this chapter gets. Still, I hope its a worthwhile read nonetheless.

Now for something different: Shameless plug-I mean a nifty little story corner! I've recently taken to reading stories in the League of Legends fanfiction section, searching for stories - predominantly OC-centric - that can prove worthwhile. Very, very nearly, the amount Oversexed!Ahri x OC stories had me tasting vomit in my mouth - but I found two stories that are totally, totally worth reading:

The Road To Recovery (by ThatUnholyAfro): A lot of meaning in an OC comes from depth. OCs who get along with everyone are boring, OCs who get along with nobody are too dark and angsty, while OCs who are perfect have no point in existence, and OCs who are so imperfect that they act as a black hole for the story also have no point of existing. ThatUnholyAfro does a wonderful job with his OC, portraying an anti-hero of sorts with bad publicity who undergoes many different trials and tribulations - as it stands it seems the trope "Earn Your Happy Ending" is in full effect, and the story is just that much better for it.

The Value of Strength (by QueenSword): Riddle me this: What happens to the fanfiction meta when someone can take the classical, if cliched, "Real Girl In Real World Gets Sucked Into LoL" storyline, and makes it work? The answer: This story. The author goes out of their way to portray an OC completely out of their depth and comfort zone in a completely realistic, yet still humorous storyline that details a normal person's attempts to survive and adapt in the ruthless League of Legends. Great characterisation, believable fanon, an OC with meaningful struggles and perfect balance between positive and negative traits, and fluid (if a tad short) chapters annihilate all the cringiness associated with these types of story, and it is an absolute must-read because of it.

Then there's one final story:

Of Red Petals and Black Feathers (by Unseen Lurker, crossover between League of Legends and RWBY): An absolute masterpiece of a story, in my opinion - and its only two chapters in! The author has managed to do something his reviewers claim they tought was impossible: He has taken a character from League of Legends and has, with great success, integrated him into the gung-ho, over-the-top universe that is RWBY. This deviation from the timeline, coupled with meaningful, believable changes in canon characters and one of the most terrifying yet wondrous portrayals of Fiddlesticks I've seen in a long while, make this a definite story to follow.

I highly recommend checking these stories out - they are absolute masterpieces in my own humble opinion, and while they're not perfect - and let's be real, how many stories are? - they're pretty damn close to it.

And just before I finish, the obligatory shoutouts: Special thanks to Unseen Lurker, whose conversations with me play a huge role in developing this story, and extra-special thanks to the EUW player "Kitten Mittenz" for helping me with concepts and ideas! You guys are absolute treasures.

I'll stop rambling now, and end this chapter officially by saying thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoyed it!

Sincerely,

-Chaos