Pre-Chapter A/N: Ehehehe... Uhm... Better late than never, I suppose...?
Long story short, I'm quite aware it took me forever to get this published. I'll save the excuses for the post-chapter A/N though. Kept you guys waiting months for this chapter, and I won't keep you on a line a minute longer than I have to.
Customary shout-outs: A special word of thanks to Unseen Lurker for his stellar assistance and services, and special shout-out the EUW player "CreativeJuices" for being such an epic sounding board.
Now... onward!
Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
Chapter V
Embrace Death
"I am starting to feel uncomfortably familiar with hospital interior. This realisation… well, it's unnerving, to say the least."
Despite the somewhat grim nature of the situation at hand, Soraka smiled to herself at hearing her latest patient's words echo across the empty hospital ward. She had been going through a Summoner's report on the events that transpired during a practice battle that had been held on the Twisted Treeline a day or so before. Amidst detailed medical reports, theses from the Summoner in control and testimony from two other Champions of the League, Soraka noted the tidbits of information regarding the actual battle itself. With a smirk, she realised that the Institute of War's newest Champion – or Champions – could indeed hold their own; even against monsters like Thresh and juggernauts like Sion.
Said Champion was currently seated on a typical check-up bench before her, scanning the clinical interior with a critical eye. She found she could not exactly blame him for his remark – given his past experiences in the Institute's hospital wing, he had every right to feel apprehensive at being back. The fact that he'd made close to a full recovery reinforced that right even more – and Soraka had a niggling feeling it was only because Garret Hillock held her in such high regard that he agreed to a follow-up check-up at all. "Well I can assure you," she said good-naturedly as she continued her check-up, "as soon as this is over it'll be a long while before you need to come back. Once I finish this up I'll relay it to the Summoners," she said, "and hopefully you won't be feeling nausea, fatigue and numbness in your limbs after every match."
It had been quite a shock for her, being notified to report to the summoning chambers when Garret was barely halfway through his first battle. Apparently his Summoner at the time – an old, experienced arcanist who'd been with the Institute since its birth – had immediately caught on to some of the harsher consequences of Garret's transition with the spirit in his arm. The disastrous repercussions of their switch left downright terrifying amounts of strain on his muscles, bones and organs, as though Garret's body was almost incompatible with whatever had taken control. This otherworldly strain, combined with the ludicrous amounts of punishment Garret had endured during the match proper, would have been considered near-fatal had he not been within the constraints of the Institute's magics.
She subtly shook her head. She had seen many other Champions take similar, if not worse amounts of damage, but none of them had the downside of their battles' repercussions lasting even after the match ended. Such a thing only ever happened in matches involving the latest being to join the Institute's ranks.
The majority of Garret's pain and ailments had been dispelled when the Summoners brought him back from the Treeline. Sadly, though, it seemed the alien toll on his body transcended some of the limits and failsafes the Institute had set into place, and Garret was left feeling ghost pains of his injuries and immense fatigue for several hours after his victory. She had been there, when Jax, Quinn and Garret had reappeared in the Summoning chamber, and her own keen eyes and instinct regarding injury quickly deduced that it was only through sheer force of will that Garret was even still standing.
So she did what she had done all the other times such a rare occurrence made itself known: She immediately had the scholar carted off to the hospital wing, and sent word for some of her most trusted medical companions to report there at once.
It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, after all – the fact that the Institute could not properly predict the effects of a new Champion's abilities until they had been seen in combat had led to many long-standing repercussions. Absently, she thought back to when Vel'Koz, the Eye of the Void, had made his debut. She shuddered slightly – at least three of his opponents had come to her complaining about burning sensations running across their skin even after the match had ended.
"That would be… quite preferable, yes," Garret nodded as he regarded the greenish hue of astral magics snaking around him with a curious gaze. "Normally I wouldn't mind such a drawback; after all, I have endured worse in the past. Jax, however, told me there would be times when whole days would be dedicated to fighting on the Fields of Justice. I'm not saying I hope for such an occurrence, but in the event that it does transpire, well, I doubt aches and pains would be beneficial to my stay here."
"I can't say they would be, no," Soraka agreed, scribbling something down on the paper before her. "I find myself relieved, actually," she ventured as she proceeded with the check-up, moving to check Garret's heart rate. "The fact that one of the eldest Summoners had been linked with you led to us discovering the… drawbacks of your transition with Furia much sooner than we would have," she trailed off as she finished another routine part of the check-up, reaching back and scribbling the adequate results down again. "It's not all that rare to see a Champion whose abilities take a toll on their bodies. Noxus' resident hemomancer, for example, cannot utilise any of his magics without harming himself. You and Furia, however…" She trailed off. "I will admit this is the first time I have seen sustained self-harm."
"Right… And I assume the 'sustained' part is beyond your help?"
"Well, sadly, I think… Wait," Soraka trailed off, blinking once as she realised Garret had just quickly surmised the bad news she had been waiting to find the right moment to break to him. "When did you… How did you know?" She asked softly, straightening up and forgoing the pretence of continuing the check-up.
"Well I admit it was an assumption at first," Garret said with a skew smile and a shrug of his shoulders, "until you confirmed it for me now. I noticed that, despite all the drama about my condition after the battle on the Treeline, you – and the Summoners – only ever mentioned trying to halt the aftereffects, and not the damage from the transition proper," he said. "Common sense told me either you just didn't care, or there was nothing you could do… and, well, I cannot claim to know you, exactly, but I know enough to be certain the former is highly improbable," he said with a placating smile.
"I…" The Starchild tried to speak, suddenly feeling slightly bashful at being caught red-handed with such ease. "I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. I thought that, with everything you've been through, you didn't need…" She trailed off, sighing as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "During my tenure here I've noticed that ominous news can weigh heavily on one's spirit – especially when announced at the wrong moment. I… I wanted to spare you that."
"And it is a gesture I appreciate more than I can ever put into words," Garret said with a smile, standing up from the bench. "But I'm alive, Soraka. I have been cleared of all charges, absolved of most of my strife, and I have a new life looming ahead of me. Both of us do," he said, pointing to his arm, which glowed as if agreeing. "A little bit of pain in the middle of a necessary battle… Well, it's not ideal – I feel I cannot repeat that enough," he said with a short chuckle, "but it is bearable. I dare say it's a price I am more than willing to pay."
"…That is a rather noble way of looking at it, I admit," Soraka said softly as she watched the scholar move over to the chair and seize his sleeveless duster off the backrest. He's so quick to brand himself a coward, she thought with the barest hints of a humoured smile, and yet, he says things like that so easily.
Offhandedly she wondered if he was just blissfully ignorant of how brave he could be at times, or whether his own perception of bravery and confidence was just so skewed he just couldn't see it.
"The Summoner told me the pain I feel after a successful transition is due to incompatibility," Garret said as he finished donning his duster, quickly stopping to brush his dark hair out from under the collar. "I… Well, I thought such a thing would be hard to believe, but I find myself more receptive of the idea than I thought I would be."
Soraka paused when she heard this. "Why is that?" She asked, honestly curious.
"Well, I recalled some texts I deciphered when I was… well, when I was hiding in Shurima," Garret admitted as he smoothed out the duster's lapels. "I could not clearly translate it, but the general idea the writer was trying to convey was obvious," he said with a smile. "I assume he was some kind of philosopher – he was of the opinion that the mortal body is a shell that moulds itself after the image of the human soul," he said simply. "I saw some ramblings and notes about how this related to Ascension, but I had to pack up and leave lest the caravan I hid with left me behind," he said sheepishly. "It was a respectable opinion, if I may admit it… and if it is true, well, it would explain Furia's 'incompatibility' with my own person quite well."
The body mirrors the soul… Soraka thought, placing her hands on her hips. "Yes…" She mused. "Yes, it may do just that. She…" She trailed off, before clearing her throat. "Well, I do not intend to cause offense when I say this, Garret, but… Well, Furia seems anything but human," she said somewhat timidly. "If she isn't, that explains it all perfectly." Then she grimaced. "And it confirms there's absolutely nothing I can do to ease the strain…" She muttered.
"Now, now, none of that," Garret said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We've discussed this already," he said with a smile. "I live, and, well, I am as close to 'free' as I suspect I will ever be. My mind is mostly my own, my direction in life is now mine to decide and, well, acting as a Champion of the Institute offers me more stability than I have had in… ages, honestly," he summarised happily. "As far as I am concerned there are no burdens; complications, maybe, but no burdens. That... well, I'll not look a gift horse in the mouth, as it's said."
Soraka sighed, shaking her head before moving towards the door. With a quick action she opened it, and motioned to Garret to follow. "It will be difficult, letting this matter rest," she said tiredly as she stepped into the hall leading to the hospital wing's lobby. "But, if you insist you are unburdened then I will desist."
"And you have my sincerest thanks for that," Garret admitted with a smile as he followed her. "If it is any consolation, you have my word that I will seek your aid the moment I suspect something's amiss."
"That is all I ask," Soraka said with a smile as they approached the middle of the lobby. It was one of those rare 'slow days' as far as the hospital wing's operations were concerned. Despite the usual amount of healing-oriented Summoners present, the rest of the operations were performed by a 'skeleton crew' of sorts. She frowned slightly as the prospect of having nothing to do crept up on her. "Have you thought about what you will do now?" She asked casually as she accompanied the scholar to the front door.
"I have, actually," he admitted with a shrug. "It might be a while before I can actually get my hands dirty again, but… I found many places with rich history and many scrolls and texts while I travelled. Necessity dictated I leave them be, at the time, but now, well… I look forward to going back and learning as much as I can."
"I take it Shurima is at the top of your list of places to go?" Soraka mused with a smile.
"Ionia, actually," Garret corrected her, and his own skew grin grew at the expression of surprise on Soraka's face. "From my point of view it's a historical and cultural goldmine. Ionia's records might not span as far back as Shurima's, I admit, but the Far East has a lot more cultural diversity to explore."
Soraka blinked once as she stopped before the hospital wing's doors. That had taken her completely by surprise. It was no secret that the desert sands of Shurima was one of Garret's more favoured hideaways during his time on the run – he had even told her he spent the most time there, cumulatively. She was almost certain it would be right at the top of Garret's list of priorities, especially after Emperor Azir's resurrection and subsequent Ascension.
The scholar seemed to have a habit of surprising people he spoke with, Soraka realised.
"That, however, will have to wait," Garret said with finality as he reached out and pushed the door open. "I have to go meet with that old Summoner who looked after me during the practice battle," he explained, stepping out. "I will need to seek guidance as well."
"Guidance?" Soraka asked, somewhat worried. "I thought you said you were 'unburdened' now?"
"I also said there were complications, even in the absence of burdens," Garret admitted with a short chuckle. "I… I realised a few things in the aftermath of that practice match," he admitted. "The Chain Warden… Well, when Furia was about to kill him, I think he screamed, but…" He frowned as he spoke. "I think it was more a scream of outrage and fury than a scream born from the fear of death," he said softly. "In fact, I am quite certain each one of our enemies died at least once in that battle… and yet," he said, shaking his head, "none of them seemed particularly bothered by the fact that they died."
"It happens, yes, that the Champions of the Institute become somewhat desensitised to death," Soraka admitted warily. "Why does that make you so concerned, Garret?"
The scholar paused for a bit at her question, turning his gaze back to the almost stagnant lobby of the hospital wing. "There's a chance I might sound ridiculous when I say this," he finally admitted, "but our transition… Furia only managed to take control during a… an alignment, of sorts. We both feared for my life at that moment."
Soraka's eyes widened as she realised what Garret was alluding to. "You're worried," she surmised.
"I am," Garret admitted, somewhat hoarsely. "It's a far-fetched theory, I know, maybe I'm even being foolish – we did achieve a transition after the whole 'fear-of-death' debacle, but… That was still the initial trigger. If I become as… as desensitised to death as the other Champions are, then I lose the one trigger I know with certainty to be a success," he said. "And then… Then I am back to square one, as the saying goes." He let his words linger between them for a while, still gazing at the calm lobby in the distance, before a resolute look of determination flashed across his gaunt features. "I am not willing to let that happen," he said confidently. "Our transition occurred at the height of some kind of spiritual alignment – an eclipse of some kind, I would wager. I need to find a way to broaden that alignment, and find a way to trigger our transition more frequently and with greater ease."
He took a deep breath, before squaring his shoulders. Soraka expected a grim visage to appear on his features, but despite the confident, determined stance Garret had taken, he still offered her a small, skewed smile. "That's why… I intend to find the Summoner who aided me during the practice match," he said, softly yet steadily. "And I intend to inform him that I am willing to go through battle after battle, until I find a solution."
His voice wavered, just a hint near the end of his words – it was a slight quiver that boiled up from the depths of his stomach, that signified just how discomforting such an approach was to the somewhat pacifistic scholar. How his aversion to combat survived a battle on the Twisted Treeline was anyone's guess, especially with someone as persistent as the Chain Warden pursuing him, but Soraka wasn't about to fault that particular trait of his – it was quite endearing, in a way, almost signifying a degree of bumbling innocence.
And besides, the Starchild thought as her gaze drifted to Garret's inhuman arm. More than just his own well-being was at stake. The scholar seemed steadfast in his determination to honour his agreement with the ancient spirit of carnage in his arm – and going by the way the limb was glowing, Soraka guessed the feeling was at least a bit mutual.
"That is… quite a noble gesture," she said with a small smile, "even if the prospect obviously unnerves you." She giggled as her words made the scholar flinch ever slightly, as though he had been caught trying to hide something he'd rather keep obscured. "Nonetheless, I wish you the best of luck," she said warmly, offering one of her brightest smiles. "I will even do some seeking myself – Ionia is a land that is no stranger to spirits. I will let you know the moment I hear something."
For the briefest of moment, Garret's face was blank with shock. Then he blinked, and an almost bashful look of appreciation bloomed on his face. He loosed an awkward chuckle as he buried his hands into his pockets. "I… I suppose there is no harm in that," he said cheerily. "Thank you, Soraka. I…" He trailed off, before shaking his head. "Thank you," he repeated.
Any further interaction was cut short as a burst of magic turned the lobby behind them into a bustling workplace teeming with activity. A group of Summoners had appeared, seemingly via teleportation, and were currently skittering about in a frenzy of purposeful movement. Soraka, with narrowed eyes, took this as her cue to bid farewell. "It seems as though something is amiss," she mused. "Well, it seems any more conversation will have to wait until another time."
"Indeed," Garret remarked sombrely, keeping a suspicious eye on the Summoners who had invaded the hospital wing. "I should be leaving as well. I have a Summoner to track down, after all, and from what I've heard that is no easy task," he said, before smiling. "Thank you again, Soraka. Your support… means much to me."
And with those words, and a somewhat placid wave, the scholar turned on his heel and left.
Soraka had responded with a small nod and a smile, but had turned to face the Summoners currently causing chaos in the lobby the moment Garret had turned to leave. Part of her relished in the fact that it seemed her earlier observation of having 'nothing to do' was likely going to be but one of the many mistaken observations she had made in her long life.
Another part of her fought desperately to steel her against the oncoming headaches.
"So we seek the old deceiver?"
Furia's voice held the barest tinge of curiosity as it drifted through Garret's mind. The scholar found the tone to be a pleasant change of pace from the downright giddy voice laced with excitement and mania that assailed his mind after their practice battle. Not that her excitement was a burden, not at all – if anything Garret found her childish glee and bout of (somewhat violent) joy to be slightly endearing, even. But her sheer energy was enough to exhaust even him at times, and at the time she had been little more than a voice in his head.
This somewhat calm, somewhat controlled version of his ally was a welcome turnaround.
'If you mean the Summoner who aided us on the Treeline,' Garret answered as he stalked the halls of the Institute, 'then yes. He is, after all, the one person who knows the most about how our transition works. Soraka said he has been a member of the Institute since its birth – and that he's an arcanist to boot. If anyone can help point me in the right direction, it is him.' He paused for a moment, before resuming his stride, a curious expression adorning his face. 'Why call him a deceiver, though?'
"Because he deceives," Furia answered simply. "The hunched back is an act, Garret. I have seen the illusion falter. Though his heart is untouched by blackness I suspect he plays the part of frailty."
'Should I be worried?' Garret asked, somewhat uneasy.
"No. No, I believe his good nature is sincere," Furia responded, a trace of boredom in her voice. "…Even if his heart is difficult to know."
'I will take your word for it, then,' Garret said with a smile. 'Do you believe he can help us, Furia?' He asked sincerely.
"I believe he can contribute, at least," Furia answered, almost hesitant. "He witnessed what occurred when we swapped places, Garret, of that I am certain. Although… I suppose you could ask him now," she said, somewhat wryly. "He approaches. Look behind you."
Garret whipped his head around the moment the warning was spoken, and immediately his emerald eyes locked with pools of twinkling light beneath an ornate hood. A jungle of facial hair creased as the old man smiled, and his shoulders shook with mirth as he uttered a soundless chuckle. "And here I thought I could sneak up on you," he said jovially. "Alas, it seems your friend will not allow such a thing to happen, eh, Mister Hillock?"
"Summoner…" Garret trailed off, a frown marring his features as he tried to recall a name. "I… I am afraid I have no name to address you with," he said slowly. "Unless that is a confidential detail?"
Shimmering eyes widened, in both surprise and thought, before another mirthful laugh escaped the wizened old Summoner. "No, no, it is not confidential at all," he beamed. "The fault is mine – forgetting to even introduce myself after all this time. Truly, old age is unkind to me," he lamented, though the smile remained. "I am Agvald," he said courteously.
"Agvald…" Garret pondered the name. "Freljordian, I presume?"
"Just so!" Agvald responded gleefully. "Although I must admit, it has been ages since these old bones have felt the winter chill… Bah, I digress, apologies," he said with a chuckle. "I heard quite an interesting story, Mister Hillock!" He exclaimed happily. "I heard a young man I had recently guided through the Twisted Treeline now seeks my help," he riddled, despite the 'young man' in question being obvious. "That wouldn't happen to be you, would it?" He asked, motioning for Garret to follow as he started shuffling down the hall.
"Well, it does sound similar to my own precarious situation," Garret answered with a smiling, deciding to humour the old man. "Although 'young' is a bit of a stretch, no?"
Agvald responded with a hearty laugh as he stroked his beard. "My boy, from my perspective, anyone without a shock of grey in their hair is young," he jested. "On a more serious note, though," he said, his voice suddenly losing that playful edge it held. "I assume this has something to do with your transition with Furia's spirit, no?"
Garret balked slightly, and nearly stopped dead. He had only told Soraka of his doubts moments ago. Surely the Starchild wasn't that fast… was she? "I… Well, it does, yes," he said shakily. "How… How did you know?"
"The doubts you feel now had taken root before your match even ended, Mister Hillock," Agvald said. "You worry of losing the one certain way of transitioning, due to growing accustomed to, and uncaring towards, death?"
Garret blinked, once, twice, and then a third time, in shock. Were the seeds of doubt so easy to interpret, even before they had bloomed into weeds? "That is… exactly what bothers me, Summoner Agvald," he said softly, pointedly staring at the floor as he went. "I… I will not shy away from admitting I fear death," he spoke, "but I feared many things during my time as an outlaw, and I grew so accustomed to them, that blind fear was soon replaced by stinging annoyance and calm rationality. I…" He trailed off. "It is difficult enough to make a transition with Furia as it is. As much as I fear it, I have no delusions regarding the certainty of death on the Fields of Justice… just as I have no delusions about myself eventually growing accustomed to it."
"You have put a lot of thought into this, Mister Hillock," Agvald responded curiously, stroking his beard again.
"Fear of death will only serve as a trigger for so long," Garret said morosely. "I need to find another way to go about it – one with more consistency."
Agvald uttered a low hum as he finally stopped stroking his beard, and his hand returned into the darkness of his overly-long sleeve. "Well Mister Hillock, you are not the only one who has been putting thought into this matter," he said with a grin. Upon seeing Garret's quizzical expression he continued. "I was obligated to inform High Councillor Kolminye of your doubts and worries after the match proper," he said evenly, "and she insisted I look into helping you… 'smooth out' your little spirit-swap. I enlisted some other arcanists I trust implicitly, and, well, we may have found a somewhat stable solution," he said. Upon seeing the hope flickering through Garret's eyes he continued. "There's good news and bad news, though. Or good news and… slightly discomforting news, you could say."
"I…" Garret trailed off, once more looking confused. "I am not sure I follow, Summoner… What could be so discomforting about a solution?"
"The fact that it is not the type of solution you seek, Mister Hillock," Agvald responded. "The… discomforting news is that we cannot find a way to reinforce what little balance there is between your souls. Understand, Mister Hillock – as much as you and Furia may respect or care for each other, you are two very different souls. Equilibrium between you two is not something that can be enforced with magic. It is a more… spiritual incompatibility, one that can only be cured in the same way it exists."
"…I see," Garret said, somewhat crestfallen at the knowledge. He sighed as he moved, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders slump. "Spiritualism has never been my forte, Summoner," he said glumly. "I understand the concept – I find it fascinating, even – but… I have great difficulty correctly applying it."
"So I suspected," Agvald responded with a nod. "I gained quite a bit of insight into your spirit during the battle on the Treeline, Mister Hillock. Despite your various struggles and tribulations, you have never allowed your lot in life to truly snuff the light of your soul," he remarked. "However… It is obvious that more than a decade of suffering has left its mark on your spirit. Those… are wounds that can only be mended by the self. The self, and time…"
Ever so briefly, the image of bronze skin and playful, hazel eyes flitted through Garret's mind – but with a grunt, the scholar managed to stow it away. Time and place, he told himself, and this is neither. "I see… I suspect I believed such a thing long before this discussion, but… hearing someone else say it somehow reaffirms the inevitability of strife. What is the good news then?"
"The good news, Mister Hillock," Agvald said with an obscured grin, "is that we have found a solution." Upon seeing Garret's rightfully quizzical expression, the old arcanist continued. "I told you we cannot reinforce the equilibrium between you and Furia," he said somewhat morosely. "But we can, however, force a transition of sorts. It will be costly – I can assure there will be pain, before and after – but on a greater, broader scope it is much, much more effective than simply waiting until your emotions implicitly match. Granted, there still needs to be some sort of equilibrium between you. However, I am… quite overjoyed to inform you that transitioning, from now on, will be a much, much easier task – if a bit painful, I must say again. But you seem to be no stranger to pain, are you, Mister Hillock?"
That last cryptic comment almost made Garret's step falter. "I did inform you," Furia's voice rang in his head, "that he plays the part of the fool well. He knows much – and you would do well to listen for the truths hidden in his jests."
"No, I… I'm no stranger to it at all," Garret said grimly, wondering just what kind of pain Agvald had referred to in that statement – for all he knew it could be a tongue-in-cheek reference to everything he'd felt in life. It was very likely the Summoner had discerned this information from what he had seen of Garret's memories during the battle on the Treeline. "I can't say the prospect of more pain is an exciting one… but I have an oath to uphold. I… I will merely have to grit my teeth and bear it. That approach has carried me this far, hasn't it?" He said cheekily.
Agvald let out a bark of laughter at that comment, smiling widely. "Yes, that it has, that it has," he nodded confidently. "And I dare say this solution has been found not a moment too soon, at that!" he said. "Barely here a month and you have already made enemies. Some things never change," he mock-lamented.
Garret paused at that – in both speech and movement. That ghostly roar of fury echoed in his mind for but a fleeting moment… but a moment was enough for it to make him realise just what Agvald was referring to. "You speak of the Chain Warden," he said simply.
"Indeed, indeed," Agvald said with a nod. "As much as I would like to commend you and Furia for making such an utter fool of him, I would advise caution from here on, Mister Hillock," he said darkly. "The Chain Warden has many allies who will no doubt bear arms alongside him, should the circumstances be convenient enough – and Thresh is nothing if not a master when it comes to manipulating circumstances. The Deathsinger, the Shadow of War, the Spider Queen; these are names you should be cautious about, my boy."
Garret gulped as recognition chilled him to the bone upon hearing those titles – with one ringing all the clearer, after all the horror stories Aaron had created using it. "Even I know of the Deathsinger," Garret said weakly. "He is here too?" He asked. "How many monstrosities does the Institute harbour?"
"A few, I am ashamed to admit. Better to chain them here, my boy, before we let them run rampant across the continent," Agvald answered wearily. "I will admit it is not ideal – nor is it something I condone. Some of them, however… are beyond killing – at least permanently. Thus, we shackle them instead," he said with a shrug, "if not by magic, then by reason."
"Even if they are psychopaths?" Garret asked, somewhat crestfallen at the revelation. "Even if they have killed children, Agvald?"
"Ah yes, the singing children," the elderly Summoner mused, stroking his beard again. He started walking again, and motioned for Garret to follow. "They are a truly horrendous sight, even for some of the League's older champions. All things considered, you held your control quite admirably in the face of those spectres," he said. There was an almost embittered undertone to his normal monotonous droning. "But Thresh does not target children exclusively," he said suddenly. "There is no sport in it. Thresh targets the strong of spirit, those with wills one would normally think unbreakable. He finds… sickening delight in breaking such spirits."
"Then why kill the children?" Garret asked hotly. "Why mutilate them like that?"
Agvald's shoulders seemed to slump at this question. The Summoner turned to face Garret with a sombre expression, eyes almost misty. "Think, Mister Hillock," he said sadly. "What better way is there to break a strong-willed man, than to rip those he loves away from him?" He asked. "You, of all people, should know how much that rends the soul."
Garret tensed up as he processed the information. He was certain his face had gone several shades paler by now, learning just how twisted and insane the Chain Warden truly was. The Summoner had a point – Garret knew exactly how close to breaking point the loss of a loved one could push a man. Then a shudder shook his frame when it clicked that the Chain Warden pushed men beyond that point, for the sake of sport. "That's all it is to him?" The scholar asked softly. "A game? A hobby?"
"That's precisely what it is to him, Mister Hillock," Agvald said ruefully. "Even before the cold grip of undeath seized him, the monster we know as Thresh was a sadist to put all others to shame. He lives for torment and agony, and will spread and inflict it through whatever means are available to him." The Summoner trailed off, making a face. "The children you saw… Much as I hate to speak so lowly of such innocence, they were merely a means to an end for the Chain Warden. Make no mistake, my boy," he said morosely, "for every child in that lantern… I can guarantee you, there is a parent knowing infinitely greater agony."
Something hollow and icy-cold rang through Garret's being as he processed those words, and inwardly he could almost feel Furia's mounting disgust towards the maniacal spectre. Not once in his travels had he encountered a being so ruthlessly cruel, so spitefully monstrous, and yet… not even a week into his official 'tenure' as a Champion and already such a fiend had him in its sight. He shuddered slightly at the though. "All the more reason," he said shakily, pushing the image of the sickly-green revenant to the back of his head, "for me to find a way to progress. He might be the first so-called 'enemy' I have made, but I am near-certain the Chain Warden will not be the last – especially with those titles you mentioned," he said. "It is for that reason that I… I wish to volunteer. For more battles, I mean."
The Summoner's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. "Truly? So soon, Mister Hillock? Are you not feeling unwell after your first tryst on the Fields of Justice?"
"Perhaps," Garret admitted grudgingly. "Soraka, however, has already forwarded most of the information regarding my first match to the High Council. Apparently I will not be feeling any side-effects again anytime soon. The rest… Well, as you said, Agvald; ours are two very different souls. It is already rather obvious Furia was not even human in life – incompatibility and any injury due to it are par for the course." He stopped, taking a deep breath and calming the tremors threatening to sneak down his arms at his current course of action. "I cannot stop now – not when we have come so far. Even still, the concept of stepping onto the Fields of Justice again is terrifying, but… I will not back down this time. However many battles you believe are necessary, I… we, will partake in all of them."
Garret did not need to hear Furia's thoughts on the matter to know he had said something right – already, the normally dark, almost scaly limb pulsed a hearty red at frequent intervals, and the red tint creeping along the edge of his visions confirmed that Furia had snapped to attention almost immediately.
Agvald, Garret noticed, kept a ponderous gaze on him – one which lasted all of a few scant seconds before the elderly Summoner chuckled merrily, his facial hair crinkling as a smile formed on his lips. "That, I will admit, is wonderful news, my boy," he said warmly. "To think, you have actually rendered one of my tasks for today obsolete. The High Council wanted me to speak to you and find out whether you are willing to continue the life of a Champion. It gives me no small amount of relief to know you have beaten me to the punch," he said jovially. "When will you be available to begin?"
"Whenever the Summoners are," Garret said with a shrug and a crooked smile. He quickly folded his hands behind his back, and straightened up slightly. "I have nothing else to do. Not yet, at least."
"Spectacular," Agvald said with a nod, the motion causing the edges of his hood to sway slightly. "I will leave immediately and inform the High Council of this event. You are certain you are capable of beginning as soon as possible, my boy? It is quite early – the possibility of you entering the Fields today is rather great."
"Like I said," Garret answered with a chuckle, "I am not doing anything else. Please, though… Please tell me I will not have to enter the Treeline again?" He asked hopefully. "That place… It felt as though it were the heart oozing the shadows that create nightmares."
Agvald chortled slightly at the eloquent description, already starting to move away. "That sentiment could be applied to the Shadow Isles as a whole, Mister Hillock," he said. "But no. No, you will not be fighting on the Twisted Treeline again anytime soon." With those words, he gave the scholar a wry smile and a wave, and just as Agvald's shrouded form moved down the deserted hallway, Garret heard the Summoner's last words to him – almost hinting:
"No, you will be fighting on… much greener pastures."
"So tell me something, Poet Boy: Why history, hm?"
Garret paused in the middle of taking a sip from the mug in his hand when Jax's question reached his ears. Despite himself he found the question almost startling – few people had ever bothered asking him why he pursued the past so eagerly, and why he worked so hard to decipher the legacies and messages preserved in murals and stones and scrolls. He swallowed down what grog was left in the tin mug, and set it down, a confused expression on his face. "I… What brought this on all of a sudden?"
"I'm curious," Jax said with a shrug, resting his back and elbows against the countertop of 'his' bar as he gazed out at the various tables, and the patrons seated at them. It was one of those bumbling days for the bar – not too quiet, not too busy; just full enough to create that placating, almost homely buzz of activity. "You're a smart guy, y'know. Hell, I think if you were born in Piltover you'd be melting my brain with talk about phase weaponry and hextech progression and techmaturgical sciences." Upon seeing the expression of both surprise and shock on Garret's face, he pretended to take offense. "What? I'm smart…ish."
Garret bit back a chuckle as he swivelled around on the bar stool he sat on. Every now and then, the Grandmaster's sense of humour would take pot shots at himself as much it would at others. "Working towards the future is a grandiose purpose in life, I admit," Garret said with a nod. "I, however, am of the opinion that the keys to a greater future are more easily found in the past than in the present. Granted, there aren't any murals that divulge to us the 'meaning of life' and all that, nor are there tombs containing catalysts for us to make leaps and bounds towards a more technologically advanced future," he said. "But I believe the secrets and gifts the empires and cultures of the past left us are more… personal."
"What makes ya say that?" Jax asked, and Garret could almost swear he sensed a raised eyebrow behind that mask.
"I do not know how to explain it in definite terms," Garret said. "When I was on the run, I had the privilege of seeing certain murals and texts in the places I took shelter in - Shurima, Ionia, the Voodoo Lands, and other places rich with history and culture. When I looked upon those texts I didn't find mad ravings or prophecies about the future. Rather…" He trailed off. "Rather I found legacies, and creeds, and lifestyles. I found folklore and myth and tales of ancestral diversity that led to the creation of so many wondrous tribes and villages and empires, even." He stopped for a moment, scanning the many patrons in the bar. "And all of those legacies," he spoke again, "all of those records and legends and captured moments, captured ways of life… they were all right there, preserved in stone and text, just waiting to impart knowledge on whoever had the purpose to learn."
He swivelled back, reaching out and taking the tin mug the bartender had so graciously refilled for him. "I do not know how to phrase this passion of mine intelligently," he said, taking a sip of the grog. "Nor do I know why it entices such emotion from me… but that is because I refuse to question it, Jax," he said with a smile. "Why waste time trying to decipher why I adore history, when I could be learning so much more? Why focus on myself when I can focus on the wonders of the ancient times? With the myriad of wondrous treasures I can ascertain from the scriptures and texts and murals of time long past… a more selfish desire in life seems ultimately futile in my opinion. The way I see it… There is no greater treasure, no greater wealth, than knowledge. That is why I chose history, Jax."
Jax remained silent for a moment, studying Garret as he processed the scholar's statement. "Shit, and here I thought you were just a nerd," he said finally, shaking his head. "Ya think you know a guy," he mock-lamented. "Anyway, you mentioned scrolls and texts and shit – you took any of 'em with you?"
"What? No, no, heavens no," Garret shook his head quickly, a look of alarm on his face. "The only things I took from those ruins and tombs were photographs. I can safely say I have never resorted to stealing – neither from the living nor the dead. I left those sites with the same things I entered them with – a camera, a few notebooks and a map on which I dotted down the coordinates and locations of the many places I learned from." He paused, grimacing slightly. "Sadly those are lost to me now. I… I dropped my pack, back when that bounty hunter peppered my arm with buckshot."
"Back at the Serpentine River?" Jax asked. "Shit. It's been what, a month now? Bit more than that – that pack o' yours is as gone as that Laurent bitch's nobility. Either a passer-by swiped it or it's been swallowed by the river itself. Those waters rise real high sometimes."
"I thought as much," Garret said sombrely. "Fortunately I am not the type to worry about such trivialities. Notes go missing all the time. The simple solution is making more," he said glibly. "And it's not as though there was a lot of text in those notebooks anyways. Times of learning and respite were few and far while I was on the run."
"You still remember most of the places, right?" Jax asked.
"Of course. In fact, I was thinking about starting this new bout of learning at the one place that's freshest in my memory," Garret said with a wry smile.
"What, the ruin you found her in?" Jax responded dubiously, pointing to Garret's arm, which glowed in defiance. "Sure, why not. Wouldn't be the first time you ran headlong into danger and unknown stuff," the Grandmaster remarked dryly. "Hell, maybe this time you won't find any spirits trapped in swords or undead assholes with a chain fetish."
Garret merely chuckled at the Grandmaster's words. "Well, they do say third time's the charm."
"Yeah? Well wait until you meet that Fox Girl that Graggy mentioned," Jax said brashly, "and you'll learn to stay the fuck away from 'charms' as well."
Garret raised a brow at Jax's somewhat bitter remark. "It seems as though there is a story here," he guessed aloud, taking another sip of grog. "Care to enlighten me as to why charms are suddenly such a curse?"
"No stories, no. Just a load of pain in the ass," Jax said with a shake of his head. "Little wench makes everyone look like complete jackasses."
Garret opened his mouth nonetheless, intent on finding out just what the self-proclaimed Champ meant by those bitter words. He was abruptly halted, though, when a loud buzzing filled his ears and his vision tinted an almost translucent shade of teal. Jax was looking at him curiously, he noticed, and he looked down at himself only to see wisps of bright-blue magic almost swimming around him body. "You got a match, buddy?" He heard Jax ask.
"It would seem so," he said, a nervous smile on his face. "Heavens, I know Agvald said it might happen soon, but I wasn't expecting it within the hour…"
"Eh, what can you expect? Those Summoners are real quick about their business the day they want to be," Jax said with a shrug, standing up and depositing a small pouch on the bar. "Seeing as the same shit ain't happening to me I'm guessing you're flying solo this time. I'd wish you luck, really, but you're a clever guy. Plus you've got that crazy bitch on your side. Somehow I don't think you need any luck, eh," he said with a nod. "I'll be in the Relay Halls. This is something I wanna see."
"I can only pray I do not disappoint, then," Garret said, that nervous smile never leaving his face. Parts of his vision started to rip and tear, and the warm, wooden interior of the nondescript bar suffered wounds that wept dark stone and marble into his sight. Jax's image started wavering as well, flickering like a light on the verge of being snuffed. Garret merely raised his hand and offered a short wave of farewell – one that was returned by the Grandmaster moments before the oaken interior of the bar disappeared completely. The smell of grog and ale was immediately replaced by that burning, sulphurous smell Garret quickly attributed to that pool of not-mercury, and the moment he blinked and opened his eyes again, he beheld two very familiar twinkling eyes.
"In hindsight," Agvald spoke with a wry grin, looking down at Garret's normal hand, "I believe some warning would have been proper, eh?"
Garret followed the man's gaze, and his jaw almost went slack when he saw he was still clutching the mug of grog from the bar. Already a myriad of excuses formed in his mind and made their way to his throat, where they would be voiced in an eloquent and diplomatic matter, but the elderly Summoner waved him off before he could speak. "I am certain the owner of that little bar isn't too worried," he said in a placating manner. "'Tis only a mug after all."
"I suppose…" Garret mused, looking down at the container in his hand. "Still. I'd best return this as soon as possible – out of principle, if nothing else."
"Of course," the Freljordian Summoner responded, and motioned to a small end table off to the side. "You can place it there, if you wish, until you finish this particular match. As soon as it's done I will transport you right back where you came from," he said with a smile. That ever-bright orb of magic hovered above his one outstretched hand, pulsating with magic and power. Garret gave an affirmative nod, set the mug down on the table, and strode up to the small runic array carved into the altar.
"Greener pastures, you say," Garret mused, eyeing the array with a critical gaze. It seemed different – larger, for one, and the runes glowed a dull bronze instead of the mottled black-and-silver light they gave off when he stepped into the Treeline.
"Greener pastures indeed," Agvald nodded contentedly. "The array is ready for you, Mister Hillock – all you need to do is take that crucial step forward."
"One step, hmm," Garret mused, teetering at the edge of the small altar. That feeling of trepidation he had felt last time had returned – but it was a lesser emotion now, more hollow, actually. He felt that ever-telling spark of excitement in his core, and he didn't need to gaze at his arm to see that it was glowing quite giddily. "Well at least it will not be so difficult this time," he said with a nervous, yet genuine smile, and his human hand wrapped around the wrist of his mutated arm. He faced Agvald for a last time, and his smile grew that much wider for it. Let us hope there aren't any spectral children awaiting me this time...
And with final thought, he stepped forwards again, and let the magic swallow him whole.
The first thing he noticed, even before the maelstrom of magical light dispersed, was the smell. Gone was the putrid sulphurous stench of the pool of not-mercury, replaced by an almost pristine outdoor air brimming with the scents of untouched, untainted nature. He smelt a hint of pine on the wind, as well as the tell-tale scent of some kind of stream, and despite himself, he felt some of his tension dissipate. Finally the light died down, and he blinked the brightness away so he could take in his surroundings.
Immediately he saw a pale blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds and a dazzling sun hanging in the distance. He felt the cold from the Summoning Chamber evaporate as the golden rays enveloped him, and a chuckle poured from his throat at the sight. The camp before him was slightly similar to the one he saw in the Treeline – but not nearly as morbid. The stones lining the floor were light and grey and well-maintained instead of the mottled, damp stone of the Treeline, and instead of moss covering the ground, blades of grass rose from in-between the openings amongst the small tiles.
Without a sliver of hesitation he stepped forward, his eyes already locked on the lush, green treetops peering out at him from over the camp's ramparts. His boots tapped softly against the smooth stone beneath his feet, not an echo to be heard in vast openness of the stunning landscape. Finally he reached the middle opening in the ramparts, a small gateway to allow the Champions down into the Field of Justice – and into the verdant green forest below them.
From where he stood, it was a beautiful sight – seemingly a mix of just the right amounts of forest and valley, looking more like an idyllic paradise than a battlefield. It was… rather difficult, to believe that people actually fought and killed in this place.
The altar far behind him thrummed again, bursting to life with a gale force of magic that made the tails of Garret's duster flutter even at that distance. Just like it was on the Treeline, a pillar of light shot into the sky, making the already deep blue hue shine even brighter, if such a thing was at all possible. Garret turned on his heel, gazing at the radiating altar, wondering exactly which new faces he'd be meeting.
"Our opponents differ as well, no doubt," Furia mused from within his mind. "I wonder if we will finally face the falconer in combat." Again, Garret felt that alien pang of excitement with him, more pronounced and clear than ever, and he was almost certain his abnormal, deadened limb was quaking from the anticipation. "More than a hundred great warriors walk the Institute's halls. I cannot wait to see who we will face this time."
'Far be it from me to try and dampen your spirits,' Garret said inwardly, chuckling. 'With Agvald at the helm there is a very good chance you will be fighting much more than you did when we were on the Treeline.' Despite him believing it to be impossible, his mutant limb pulsed brighter than he had ever seen before, and now he was certain the arm was, indeed, trembling. 'Just… Well, I do not want to coax extra conditions out of you, Furia,' he said tentatively, 'but please… at least try not to lose yourself to the fight completely if one of our allies is in need of aid.'
"I… will try, Garret," Furia admitted, somewhat lamely. "Restraint… It is not something I practiced in life. I…" She trailed off, and for the briefest, briefest moment, Garret swore he felt a hint of bitterness not at all his own within himself. "I did not have allies," Furia said softly. "I was considered an outcast, by both your people and mine - a mad beast to be kept away from. Restraint… is alien to me." There was something subtle in Furia's voice – an undertone Garret couldn't rightly place. "Nonetheless," the spirit of violence spoke. "I will try, as hard as I can."
'That is all I ask,' Garret said in a placating manner, smiling despite himself. It seemed there was much about Furia he did not know – and it appeared there was more than just a bloodthirsty, battle-crazed warmaiden underneath the surface. His first instinct was to try and coax her into opening up, if only just a little – but that subtle hint of bitterness he had felt from her…
He knew it well; well enough to know he had no business trying to tend to her wounds.
Then, with a final howl, the maelstrom died down – and Garret immediately recognised his first ally. The unruly, carroty beard, the titanic belly, and the state of near-nudity were all dead giveaways. "Gragas?" He greeted, his familiar skew smile appearing on his face. The mix of confusion and relief in his voice drew a hearty, if somewhat drunken, fit of laughter from the perpetually inebriated brawler as the latter waddled down the altar steps with all the grace of an intoxicated elephant. "You signed up for this as well?"
"Got hand-picked!" Gragas slurred, his wide smile shining out from beneath the undergrowth of red facial hair. He paused for a moment, and hiccupped loudly, and decided the solution to being inebriated was to get more inebriated, apparently, as he raised the giant keg he held under one arm and took a large, messy guzzle of grog. "Summoners told me you was fighting on the Rift," he said with a red nose and a jovial bark of laughter. "Asked me if was willin' to join ya. How could I say no, eh? So here I am!"
"Here you are," Garret agreed with a nod. He had very few friends in the Institute of War, so he had long since come to terms with the fact that he would be stepping onto the Fields of Justice with a group of complete strangers most times – despite that, though, there was a degree of comfort to be found in the fact that at least one familiar face close by. "What is this place?" He asked, looking at the lush canopy of green poking out above the walls of the encampment again.
"Summoner's Rift!" Gragas said jovially, and took another big swig from his cask. Slowly he started to waddle towards the one exit leading down into the verdant jungles and valleys below. "Not the craziest field they got, but it's sure as hell the bigges'. Yer lady-friend's gon' be quite happy here – lots o' fightin' to be done."
"She is quite aware of that, I assure you," Garret said with a chuckle, as his right arm glowed brightly again. "Summoner's Rift, you say… What an ill-fitting name."
"Don't be gawkin' at the scenery too much," Gragas chortled, nudging Garret with his elbow. "I've seen who we're fightin' with. Place is gonna get right messed up soon."
The moment those words left the rotund brawler's mouth, the Summoning Altar behind them howled again as another azure column of blinding light pierced the skies above them. The gale pouring from the stone array seemed more intense somehow – it didn't merely make Garret's duster billow this time; it outright buffeted him, forcing him to take a step back and try to stand his ground lest he was blown away by the sudden whirlwind. "Two o' them," he heard Gragas call to him over the wailing winds. The brawler had no problem standing his ground, despite his beard flailing around madly like a flag caught in a crosswind. Dimly, Garret made out two distinct forms standing in the pillar of light – one unbelievably tiny, and one disproportionately big.
The wailing winds died down and the lights started to dim, eventually, and just before the obscuring brightness disappeared a loud whoop! and an even louder explosion sounded across the open stone clearing, and the tiny figure was sent flying through air with a gleeful, almost child-like laugh before landing a few feet from them with a loud thud of steel against stone. Garret blinked once, and when he opened his eyes he saw a colossal cannon-like firearm being hurled back, and with practiced, almost gymnastic ease its tiny wielder flipped herself back and up, landing on the top of the impromptu pedestal – and revealing herself to be a Yordle, surprisingly.
She giggled again as she sat atop her gun-like pedestal, grinning widely as her large, pierced ears twitched back and forth happily. Wide, gleaming eyes quickly flitted over to Garret and Gragas, and the tiny gunner offered them a courteous yet energetic wave. "We're fighting with the new guy?" She remarked, her grin never leaving her face. "Sweet! That's always fun."
Garret offered her a polite wave in return, and a courteous nod as he observed her more keenly. Bandle City had been one of the few places he hadn't dared go near while he was on the run, so he did not know much about their social structures, but going by the goggles perched atop a mop of messy silver hair, the practical outfit, and the amount of knick-knacks and gadgets adorning her belt and pockets, the scholar pegged her as one of the famed Bandle Gunners quite easily.
The giant cannon that was almost double the tiny woman's size also factored into that assumption, he admitted.
He was about to offer her a kind greeting, maybe some idle small-talk before their match started, but his words caught in his throat. An uncomfortable knot formed in his stomach, and an unpleasant taste scratched at the back of his throat suddenly. A familiar sense of unease enveloped him, a feeling he'd come to know well the few times he'd taken refuge in places like Bilgewater and Zaun. It was sense of wariness, a sense of scorn, so to say – and he was quite certain the adorable little Yordle before him couldn't be the cause. 'Something troubling you, Furia?' He asked cautiously, eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze towards the ground. He made a face as he tried to shake off the familiar emotions.
"This… This dark presence… it is... odd."
Hm? Garret blinked once, caught unawares before he realised Furia couldn't possibly be talking about the Bandle Gunner who'd just catapulted herself towards him and Gragas. That left only the second new addition to the merry band of misfits he was made a part of, so despite his uncomfortable expression, he turned to face the person who had accompanied that merry little Yordle onto the rift.
The tophat was the first feature he noticed, a shred of normalcy adorning an otherwise abnormal beast. Sickly yellow eyes gazed at him from a head seemingly equal parts frog and catfish, and a terrifyingly wide maw lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth grinned darkly at him. The creature was stout, almost as much as Gragas was, and its body was coloured a pale, pale green along the chin and belly. Ringed fingers on short, stubby arms pulled at the lapels of a well-worn coat, stretched to its limits.
The sight was so alien, so abnormal and strange, that Garret didn't even notice the altar flaring to life as their fifth ally stepped into the Rift. He kept his eyes on the being before him, refusing to avert his gaze from something that could discomfort Furia in such a way.
The creature licked its lips. "Looks like you're suffering from a bit of indigestion, friend," it spoke heartily, with a deep, almost charming baritone belying the monstrous nature of its physical form. It gazed hungrily at Garret's arm, and a second row of teeth, and then a third, quickly sprouted from the gums lining its wide muzzle. "I may have a remedy for that," it said, baring seemingly thousands of fangs.
Garret heard the snarl in the back of his head before he felt the emotion that accompanied it. Trepidation turned to revulsion, discomfort turned to outrage and that red tint around his vision bled into everything he saw – gone were the colours of everyday vision, replaced by black silhouettes on a crimson canvas. "He is welcome to try!" Furia growled. "This presense… It is familiar – familiar and abhorrent! I hated this fiend's kind… almost as much I hated my own."
Slowly, though, the bubbling emotions faded away, and Garret regained his normal vision, and he heard Furia sigh deeply and morosely as she recomposed herself. So she hated her own people… A slip of the tongue in the midst of a tirade had dropped yet another small tidbit of information, a small peek at what lay beneath the bloodthirst. Still, Garret locked that piece of information away, trying to forget about it.
She would tell him of what ailed her spirit when she was ready, he thought. Until then, it was pointless to ponder.
Only then did he notice that the Yordle girl had appeared before him. She stood almost defiantly between himself and the catfish-monster, fists balled and propped on her hips, and cheeks slightly puffed out. "Back off, Tubbo," she said warningly. "Save the cravings for our enemies."
Yellow eyes blinked owlishly at the small person's warning, before the vast rows of teeth receded back into the monsters maw, and it let out a somewhat bashful chuckle. "Seems I've overstepped," it said, sounding at least a bit ashamed. "Forgive me," it spoke, looking over the Yordle's head and right at Garret. "Been a while since I've beheld such a divine feast. In the face of such a delicacy it's easy to forget there ain't a seat reserved for big ol' me." A flick of the monster's obscenely large tongue sent its tophat tumbling down into its hand, and the being offered Garret an almost courteous bow. "Tahm's the name," it said with a grin. "Tahm Kench. At least, for a while it is."
"It lies," he heard Furia hiss. The sneer was almost audible. "I care not what it calls itself, it lies," she said hotly. "Do not trust him, Garret."
"Yer gonna get a bad few cramps from all the eatin' you've been doing recently," Gragas broke the silence, before taking a swig of his grog and turning on his heel to face Garret and the Bandle Gunner. "Our fifth just got here," he said, motioning to one of the other gates. "Shall we get goin' then?"
Garret blinked once, twice, before it clicked. Of course the fifth member of their team had already arrived, why else would the Altar have gone haywire. He looked around with a confused expression – after all, they hadn't been approached by anyone new after Tahm's discomforting introduction. Had they kept their distance, upon seeing the food-obsessed monster baring its teeth?
He managed to catch the briefest of glimpses of his fifth ally just before their figure disappeared to the gateway at the far end of the clearing. The only things the scholar could identify with certainty were the broken sword, and the mop of white hair.
How odd, he thought at first, before shrugging. Of course, not everyone in the Institute's ranks would be as sociable as Jax or Gragas. He could not fault those who weren't; even he had embraced the more obscure, antisocial approaches to life at times. Despite all the hollowness such a life could provide, it was an excellent road to embark on in some of Valoran's more… unfavourable locations.
"I will not lie," Garret said, turning to face his other allies and looking right at Gragas. "Something you said earlier has me more than a little apprehensive. Something about the Rift getting 'messed up' rather soon?" He spoke, but trudged forwards nonetheless, the beginnings of that crooked smile on his face despite his trepidation regarding the encroaching battle.
"No matter," he said hesitantly. "This battle is not going to fight itself…"
Despite all his greatest efforts to calm himself and rationalise the necessity of fighting on the Fields of Justice, that foreboding feeling of faint fear and stubborn hesitation never truly left him – even after the reasonable success he'd experienced on the Twisted Treeline. Garret frowned. His heart was hammering in his throat and he was quite certain his stomach had turned to mist.
What a despicably familiar feeling.
They had scattered the moment they stepped into the undergrowth of the Rift's forested areas. The reasoning behind it had been valid enough, in Garret's opinion – they could cover more ground, relay the identities and-or abilities of their foes to each other through their Summoners and, as a bonus, Tahm Kench's presence in their merry band of misfits meant they could set up a whole myriad of traps.
Garret felt ashamed about the fact that he stopped listening after the word 'trap' was uttered. It wasn't that he didn't care about his allies' plans and procedures, because he did, truly. But the Yordle girl – Tristana, she'd introduced herself as – went off on a tangent about the different kinds of traps they could set and while her energy regarding the subject was quite contagious, the scholar found himself unable to keep up with the sheer amount of military lingo the bubbly gunner had been using.
He only prayed he could interpret Agvald's signals properly.
As it was, he found himself rushing through the Rift's undergrowth at a steady pace, not really sprinting but not walking leisurely either. He might not have been much of a fighter, he thought as he vaulted over a fallen tree before sliding under another, but his years on the run had at least ensured that he was above-average when it came to navigating terrain. He narrowed his eyes as the jungle sped past him while he ran, looking for that one stray stone or branch that he could use to his own advantage.
There.
Without slowing down he leapt at a rather large tree before him, planting his soles into the bark and kicking upwards, propelling himself just high enough to grab hold of the thick branch protruding outwards. Despite grimacing at the strain on his shoulder, he smiled slightly when he realised his deadened right arm had no trouble hoisting him up further into the tree. He paused there, standing on the tree branch, and tried to catch his breath as he gazed at the twisted black limb through new eyes. 'That… That is new,' he mused inwardly.
"I take it you are unused to… scaling trees, so easily?" Furia asked him. The warmaiden had calmed down considerably since they had left Tahm's presence. Now, though – now her excitement was palpable, pooling in Garret's stomach and thrashing about like a hound waiting to be released. A part of him wanted to ask her to tone it down – after all, bloodthirst was not an emotion he wanted to get into the habit of entertaining. He didn't have the heart, though. Necessity dictated that Furia shackle herself after her release on the Treeline – the 'thrill of battle' had to be postponed so Quinn could be saved and so Sion could be defeated. Now, though…
That was the other reason Garret so readily agreed to split up, despite his inherent, instinctive fear at the concept. If he were alone and he encountered an enemy, then Furia could cut loose – she could fight as fiercely and as manically as she wanted.
That was part of what he promised her, after all.
'You speak as though the concept of climbing trees is something alien to you,' Garret joked inwardly as he ascended the giant tree, nimbly moving from branch to branch as he breached the canopy of the jungle.
"I had no need to climb trees," Furia said simply. "Tree-climbing was for foes who attempted to escape me."
The statement drew a short bark of laughter from the scholar. By now he had gotten used to Furia's relentless, indomitable confidence, even in death. She had abolished any notion of him calling it 'arrogance' with her performance on the Treeline, slaying the Chain Warden twice and helping stop a monster of a man who Garret doubted even understood the concept of 'stopping'. 'Well, then, we will know where to look when your foes start running this time,' he said glibly.
To his pleasant surprise, that quip managed to draw a short, yet genuine laugh from Furia.
He refocused himself quickly after that. Keen eyes picked out a somewhat stable track of branches he could use to traverse the jungle's canopy, and he quickly set about darting from tree to tree. Every leap made his heart constrict painfully, but as much as he did not want to admit it, the sheer thrill of the action managed to negate it somewhat.
Soon he reached a specific cluster of branches that allowed him a great view of an open clearing. Instinct born from his connection with Agvald had led him here – apparently, there was an ally waiting, and the familiar jungle of orange facial hair proved the Summoner correct again. Gragas was lazing about in the clearing, taking the occasional guzzle from his cask or pausing to swat at a passing butterfly. At first glance the rotund brawler seemed almost bored – but careful inspection proved the contrary; the Rabble Rouser was waiting for something… or someone.
Garret followed the drunkard's gaze, looking to the far end of the clearing, and a ghostly roar flashed in his mind and fear's cold grip seized his heart again when he saw that distinct, ominous green glow pierce the undergrowth of the jungle. Panic set in almost immediately, and he cringed – would he have to face Thresh again? Agvald had warned him that he'd made an enemy, true, but the scholar hardly expected the maniacal sadist to appear so soon once again. He started drumming his fingers against the bark of the tree he was perched in, waiting for the maelstrom of sickly green magics and the tell-tale scrape of chains to signal the Warden's arrival – but only then did Garret notice something he'd missed; something that made his stomach churn.
There where the green glare drifted, wafting through the undergrowth and from in-between the trees, nature itself seemed to die.
It was a sight morbid enough to make the scholar wince – the ghostly green glow seemed to drink the very life from the plants and trees around it; bark turned black and peeled away as the wood beneath it turned ashen and started to crumble, and the undergrowth withered and shrivelled under the necromantic onslaught, falling to the ground and breaking apart as a chorus of wailing voices filtered into the clearing.
The light peaked then – and its wielder made himself known with a sickening smirk adorning his hollow features.
Red and black clothing swirled in an ethereal manner as the lich hovered forwards, ominous staff clasped in one atrophied hand, eldritch tome grasped in the other. Deadened, snowy hair tumbled out from under the sides of the cowl adorning the living corpse's head, and an amused smile tugged at torn lips adorning gaunt, almost hollowed cheeks – and not once did those green eyes even blink.
Garret forgot how to breathe for a few seconds.
That monstrous person fit the description his brother had used so long ago. Clothing equal parts blood red and black velvet, a book bound in what seemed to be human skin and a visage of death and decay so great it repulsed him just to look at it.
That… That was the Deathsinger.
"Another undead thrall?" Furia asked, her lip audibly curling at the sight.
'No… No, no, the Deathsinger is no thrall…' Garret admitted, swallowing several times to dispel the feeling of cotton lining his throat. 'My brother always claimed he used vile magics, with 'oblivion' as its source…' Already he could feel the tremors shaking his form – and could he truly be blamed for him? The Deathsinger was one of the figures Aaron always used to fuel Garret's nightmares when the elder Ranger was feeling particularly mischievous – now, here he stood, witnessing the approach of an arch-lich who wielded death as though it were a usual magical element.
"Garret?" Furia seemed to pick up on his unease, her voice sounding concerned, lacking the excited edge it held moments prior. "Would you prefer to seek a different opponent?"
'What…?' The question caught Garret off guard, and he blinked before shaking his head. 'No, no… Gragas might need our assistance against the Deathsinger…' Already, his erratic vision sought a path to traverse down into the clearing, and he was starting to will his body into moving despite being rooted to the spot by a wave of fear. 'I need a way to get down there…' He spied an errant branch, a few feet before him – no way to traverse the canopy to it, but… 'Do you think I could make it if I jumped?' He asked, eyeing the thick trunk-like branch with a critical eye.
"Don't be preposterous," Furia responded, and Garret couldn't help but grin shakily when he heard the note of panic and haste in her voice – as though the prospect of him leaping a gap of unknown distance while up so high didn't appeal to her in the least. "Our arm can help you ascend trees easily – doubtless you can descend with the same amount of effort."
'I suppose,' the scholar agreed, frowning slightly. The thought of descending from the canopy of the jungle the usual way had crossed his mind, but… it would be a slow and complex process. Those were two elements Gragas could not afford if he were to be aided against the Deathsinger. Nonetheless, if it had to be done… Garret scanned the tree he was taking refuge in, making note of any vines or stray branches. Easily enough he found a way to descend from one tree to the next, and the next thereafter. It would be a time-consuming process… but considering he couldn't survive a two-hundred foot drop down onto the jungle floor, it was only option. 'Slow and steady, then,' Garret said with a nod, grasping hold of one of the thick vines trailing down the side of the massive tree.
"Garret," he heard Furia's voice all of a sudden, and the note of urgency in her tone had doubled, at least. "Garret, the stout one is outnumbered!"
Garret blinked as he registered Furia's words, before quickly and fearfully looking back to where Gragas stood in the clearing beneath him, just as a rumbling reached his ears. With a mighty ruckus, the trees to the east of the clearing splintered as a maelstrom of bark and roots surged forward to the Deathsinger's side. It sundered the earth, forcing it aside under its twisted advance, and ultimately came to a stop beside the still-smirking Lich.
Three different roars greeted them – one a tiny screech, courtesy of a bulb-like little sapling standing atop the behemoth, green eyes squint and toothless mouth pulled into a sneer, one from a sneering face carved into the back of the treant's behemoth arm, and one courtesy of the treant itself, a mangled mess of bark, wood, moss and branches shaped and moulded into a humanoid form. Its true face, the crest-adorned head carved onto wide, sturdy shoulders, sneered with its toothless mouth as its eyes, green and livid, projected palpable scorn and hatred towards the rotund brawler.
Garret observed the scene with mounting panic and concern, and despite himself he let out a soft yelp of fright when Gragas himself had to quickly dart to the side just as a disgusting blob of greenish ichor descended from above, searing its way through the jungle's canopy before slamming into the spot Gragas had previously occupied with all the force of a cannonball. A mirthful myriad of phlegm-soaked giggles, a dozen voices flowing from the same throat, signalled the airborne attacker just as a greyish-white insectoid… thing waddled into the clearing and sat obediently beside the Deathsinger, its four eyes wide and shining with innocence not entirely unlike that of a puppy. Its wide maw remained open, moving slightly as the creature inhaled rapidly, and the appendage hidden behind its jaw – a cross between a tongue and another mouth – lolled about without a care in the world, dripping caustic spittle onto the earth beneath.
'Dammit, dammit, dammit…' Garret seethed where he stood, both at the downright unfair circumstances his drunken friend now found himself in and at the sudden urge to turn tail and bolt. The treant could move faster than anything its size had any right to, the little white worm-thing could weaponise its own spit and to finalise the downright dreadful circumstances his team had been facing, the Deathsinger was there too. A part of him – a very, very major part at that – wanted nothing more than to flee, to hurry back to the fountain, maybe find Tristana and that catfish-monster and return to planning again…
…But over the years, Garret had grown quite accustomed to ignoring that large, cowardly part of him, and listening to the voice of reason nagging in the back of his mind.
And that voice was now telling him someone he considered a friend was in trouble.
'Furia,' he spoke inwardly, shaking his head and ignoring how his heart hammered in his chest. 'I need something edged, used for piercing. A climbing axe, maybe, or a pickaxe – it matters not, so long as it can pierce this tree trunk.'
"Garret, I…" Furia started. "My weapons are forged from blood and smoke. They… are not as sturdy as normal arms. I cannot guarantee it will hold under your weight."
'I do not need it to hold under my weight,' Garret responded as he glanced at his twisted arm. The tainted flesh ran all the way up and past his shoulder – the limb had been completely deadened during their union… and he was intending to use (and abuse) that property as much as he could. 'I merely need it to slow my descent.'
Though he received no verbal response, he could tell his spiritual tenant was reluctant to go with the idea. Nonetheless, the acquiesced, and a crude, basic, yet somehow sleek pickaxe formed in Garret's human hand. He spared but a moment to give the tool a few experimental swings, before standing and steadying himself on the branch he had been scouting from. 'Well… Let us hope this works…' With those words, he took a deep breath, and hopped back off the branch.
Gravity set into motion immediately, and Garret felt his innards shift upwards as he plummeted down to the undergrowth. The height was short enough to ensure the fall wasn't fatal – but it was too high to avoid debilitating injuries. With a snarl, Garret swung the axe in his hand, embedding its blade through the bark and into the wood beneath. The sudden jerk sent a jolt of pain running up his arm, and he found himself letting go of the axe before it could promptly shatter under the sudden weight. It had served its purpose well, though – Garret's descent had been slowed just enough for him to slam his numbed hand into the bark and dig his fingers in. The surface of the tree shattered beneath the combination of the arm's abnormal strength and the force with which he was being pulled back to the ground, but the greatest danger had been averted.
Garret let go of the tree and dropped the final dozen feet without a hitch, tucking his body into a roll as his feet hit the ground.
Immediately he was back on his feet, darting towards the clearing where Gragas had been ambushed despite every possible instinct – both his and Furia's – screaming at him not to. His gait was slightly lopsided as he clutched at his normal shoulder. It had been hurt when he had taken that shortcut to the ground, but he couldn't focus much on it now – not while he had an ally in need of assistance. Offhandedly he noticed that ever-pleasant tug of warmth at his senses, and the red tinting the edges of his vision seeped ever closer to the centre of his sight.
'This… is happening much faster than it did on the Treeline,' Garret observed as he sprinted. Even his traversal speed had been affected – he was used to using both arms to help him navigate terrain, and the current ache in his shoulder, one that morphed into a jolt of pain at the merest sign of pressure, served only to hinder that.
"The old deceiver is at work," Furia mused, and despite the fact that Garret knew, in no uncertain terms, that the warmaiden was trying to remain concerned and level-headed, the fact that her voice had the merest hint of a quiver to it told him her excitement and eagerness were returning in full force. "It would seem he is quite skilled at handling the magics sustaining this place…" She said, before trailing off, her sudden wariness leaking through into Garret's being. "We approach, Garret – be wary, and move softly."
He did just that – immediately, he went from a pseudo-sprint to a reserved, crouching shuffle forward, making sure to keep to the foliage as much as possible. As much as he wanted to help Gragas out of the titanic mess that was undoubtedly unfolding in the clearing ahead, he doubted getting caught flat-footed with an injured shoulder would do so.
With tentative movements he pulled a cluster of ferns aside, narrowing his eyes and focusing his senses as best he could as he tried to observe what was happening in the clearing. Barging in and yelling at the top of his voice didn't strike him as one of the best plans of action, after all.
"It has been quite a while, brewmaster," Garret heard the Deathsinger speak. The cold echo of undeath did nothing to hinder the velvety charisma such a being would possess. There was a degree of confidence hidden in the Deathsinger's intrigued voice – as though he were aware of something nobody else knew; it was a subtle sense of smugness which, now that Garret had heard it, he could not ignore. "Last we met, I recall you snapped my staff."
"Snapped yer spine too, I remember," Gragas shrugged noncommittally, before grinning like an idiot. "Ya flopped about like a fish outta water after that."
"Charming," the Deathsinger replied with a frown and a tone of voice that implied the brawler's reminiscence was anything but. "I am quite disappointed to be honest," he mused with a sour expression. "The enlightenment of death is squandered on the inebriated…"
"I'unno," Gragas said with a shrug. "I felt plenty enlightened last time I bashed yer face in with this," he chuckled, giving the keg clutched beneath his arm a hearty pat.
The Deathsinger's face seemed to fall just a bit more, Garret noticed – and the treant by the arch-lich's side seemed to bristle as it gazed at Gragas. "Such a simple mind," the undead spoke ruefully. "It must be quite blissful, waddling through life with no greater purpose than seeking out the next ingredient for that repugnant brew." Garret shuddered as the lich's voice echoed – the way the hovering corpse spoke such derogatory words with such a casual demeanour reminded him far too much of Thresh. "And yet… are you truly any closer to finding that key reagent, than you were when you started your little journey, Rabble Rouser?" He asked with a grin. "Stout as you are, your strength is waning… Time weathers those old bones of yours better than any Freljordian gale ever could… Not so, brewmaster?"
Gragas, despite all logic, seemed to ponder the unholy being's words, idly scratching at his beard and gazing off into the undergrowth, as though being outnumbered three to one hardly fazed him. "Y'know," he said with a curious tone. "Ya ain't wrong…"
"Of course I'm not," the Deathsinger replied smugly. "Life, after all, is so pitifully fleeting… Just imagine what you could achieve in death. Ponder all the brews you could concoct, all the traditions and techniques you could create over an eternity of immortal existence. Is that not food for thought?"
Gragas pondered the words for a moment longer – before smiling dumbly, to Garret's shocked surprise, and shrugging light-heartedly. "Nope," he said simply, popping the 'p' as well as a perpetually inebriated man could. "That'd be boring," he said. "Can't have a legacy if yer still livin', can ya?" He grinned.
That… That was one way to view it, Garret admitted despite the confusion roiling within his mind. He rolled his injured shoulder, noticing that the pain was already starting to subside rather quickly. Now, if only he could think of a way to aid Gragas against such impossible odds. "You seem unperturbed by your inevitable end, brewmaster," the Deathsinger said icily. "If that is truly the case… why not let us help you to it?"
With those words, the treant beside the lich snarled and shot forwards, the roots coiling around its feet sundering the earth as its twisted advance carved a path towards the rotund brawler through nature itself. It was as though the pale, earthen magic wafted off its form, basking mangled bark and dead leaves in an eerie blue glow, and the sneer on its main face seemed that much more intimidating for it.
Garret only barely restrained a gasp as the treant attacked, with speeds no being of such a size should ever be capable of. Instinctively he tried to focus, to clear his mind, to do all those Ionian-inspired things in the hope of creating just a bit of equilibrium between himself and Furia, but despite her excitement – and surprise – becoming more palpable, he could sense the disappointment from her already. It wasn't working. 'Furia, can you –' He started to ask inwardly, but his voice failed him when the bow he had in mind formed in his hand with several loud cracks and hisses. Plain again, just like all Furia's weapons, he noted. An arrow appeared in his free hand, and he wasted no time nocking it and drawing the bowstring back. His arm swayed uncomfortably, though, unused to aiming a bow – it was a setback that served only to make him grit his teeth in frustration and annoyance. There was no way he could –
The grassy knoll at the far end of the clearing, behind Gragas, suddenly writhed and bucked and heaved and a sickening, almost famished snarl echoed across the rift, a sound that served to make Gragas grin with an amount of confidence unbefitting of his inebriated visage. The knoll seemed to implode, collapsing on itself as the earth sank inwards, swirling like a vortex, growing bigger as it seemed to swallow up a good portion of the clearing.
Then the ground exploded outwards, like water thrown up into a wild burst, and with a manic grin, the sickly-green form of Tahm Kench leapt from the whirlpool. His grin widened when he saw the treant rushing towards Gragas, showcasing all those sinister yellow teeth in all their gleaming glory, before rearing back mid-jump and hacking loudly. The monster's maw opened wider than Garret had ever seen a maw open, and a blur of blue, white and black flew skywards from the fish-man's mouth, twirling elegantly despite its small stature. Garret let out a muted bark of laughter when he recognised Tristana there in the air, and with a quick spin the Yordle woman's cannon was trained right on the advancing treant.
She offered it naught but a wry smile and a downright cheeky wink before pulling the trigger.
The report from the cannon was deafening, one that almost made Garret stumble as he tracked Tristana's descent. The cannonball she'd fired, a seemingly molten glob of explosive steel, soared down towards the clearing like a comet, and crashed into the advancing treant with a sound akin to a thunderclap. The ground shook underfoot as a tremendous cloud of dust and smoke rose, and Garret only barely saw the treant's figure fly back and crash down before the Deathsinger's feet with a loud growl. Its behemoth arm had been reduced to splinters, and the side of its face had been charred badly.
Tristana landed daintily beside Gragas, blowing an errant lock of white hair out of her face with a boyish chuckle before aiming her cannon at the Deathsinger's frowning visage. "Sorry we're late, Graggy," she said cheerily. "What'd we miss?"
"Jus' a sermon," Gragas laughed heartily. "A right borin' one at that. Really if that shrub didn't attack I'd have fallen asleep."
"Preachin' before a fight, child?" Tahm asked with a grin, sauntering up to his two allies while tugging at the lapels of his coat. "Save it. You're about as charismatic as a jester at a funeral," he said with a wide smile, before turning a gleaming glance towards the Deathsinger's robes. "And you're dressed for the part, to boot!"
Garret watched as the now-mangled treant clambered onto its feet and shot a baleful glare at Tristana, who in turn stuck her tongue out at him, while the Deathsinger regarded the whole affair with a pensive frown. "What an unusual group…" He commented dryly. "I'm quite surprised the fish hasn't eaten one of you yet. I suppose, however, that the pleasantries are over. A pity…"
Then the Deathsinger turned – and looked Garret right in the eye.
The scholar felt his body go painfully rigid as the undead aberration locked eyes with him, bright emerald meeting pale, sickly green as the lich regarded him curiously. A part of him told himself to adjust his shaky aim, to turn the drawn arrow towards the lich and loose it, at least so this painfully cold stare-down could end – but a sudden burst of fear kept him rooted in place. The Deathsinger noticed this, and his pensive expression vanished – replaced by a cruel smirk that brought memories of ghastly giggles and scraping chains flooding into Garret's mind.
Then the lich spoke.
"Enough games," his lips moved, and suddenly the lich was looking behind him. "Kill him now."
A cry of surprise from the recesses of his mind and a burst of instinct spurred his frozen body into movement, as a knee-jerk reaction inherited from a centuries-old warmaiden propelled him to side just as the jagged dirk zipped by the side of his head, severing a few hairs in the process. Steel glinted in the dark undergrowth and Garret only barely raised his bow in time to stop a second dirk from forcing its way into his neck. His own self-preservation instinct worked in tandem with skills of a warrior long dead resting in his mind, propelling him backwards and away from the sudden maelstrom of fatal strikes and crippling swipes. It was all happening so fast – flashes of red and black and white and a wide, sinister smile, frozen in place, blinked before Garret as he eschewed analysis in favour of staying alive, and all the while that terrifying cackle bounced off the tress around them and danced in his ears.
He winced as one of the dirks caught him on the cheek, opening a cut that stretched across his nose, and bit his cheek to keep from crying out when the other dirk dug a shallow wound into the nook of his collarbone. Immediately he felt his senses his dull – he felt the muscles in his arms and legs constrict painfully, and suddenly every swing felt as though it took whole lungfuls of air. All the while his assailant danced around him, cackling madly as he trailed wisps of amber smoke in the wake of his attacks.
Finally a savage kick caught Garret clean in the stomach, and he was propelled backwards, stumbling and swaying in a bid to stay on his feet. The bow in his hands shattered like glass, dispersing into puffs of crimson smoke as the scholar blearily tried to blink away the sudden fogginess in his vision. "Aren't you a stubborn one…?" He heard his assailant speak, voice shrill and oozing madness, and warily Garret looked up. Both confusion and panic mounted when he saw the traditional jester's garb adorning his assailant's body, patches of black and white stitched together into a perverse parody of a circus entertainer's outfit – but the face…
Garret shuddered, visibly if the evil clown's mad cackle was anything to go by, when he saw that twisted porcelain mask adorning the monster's face. The brow was knitted into a constant scowl hovering over empty, almost soulless eyes, and the inhuman grin that stretched past the mask's cheekbones and almost past its chin could only be described as sadistic.
"Garret? Garret!" He finally heard Furia's voice echoing in the recesses of his mind – it sounded distant, distant and distorted, almost so much so that he nearly missed the note of panic it carried. All semblance of excitement and eagerness had evaporated. "Host, please… That thing… I cannot read its heart!" He heard her cry. "Garret that thing is not human! That thing is beyond you!" She warned. "Please, please focus, Garret! I am trying to –"
"You…" The jester said threateningly, its voice icy cold despite the grin on its glassy face as it pointed a bloodstained dirk at Garret's chest. "You need to stop struggling," it said with an audible sneer. "You're ruining the joke, and I hate hecklers!"
Again, Garret felt that discomforting tug in the back of mind, and he tried – he truly, truly did – to relinquish control to Furia; this monster, this demonic jester, seemed leagues more dangerous than its appearance suggested… but once more, their transition failed, and he could hear the frustrated snarl in the back of his mind as the crimson smoke wafted off his black arm. The wisps of smog curled around his arms, forming a simple yet broad shield on his left arm, and a short sword in his right hand. Already the memories flitted through his mind – steps forward, steps back, parries, stances… He gulped audibly, only hoping he could recall them all as he regarded the insane monstrosity before him.
"Oh?" The jester tilted its head as it regarded Garret's newly-formed weapons with a glint in its soulless eyes. "You must be fun at parties!" It cackled madly – before seemingly exploding outwards in a cloud of amber mist. "On your guard, Garret!" Furia advised from within him, and Garret assumed a haphazard stance, fighting against his quaking limbs as he scanned the foliage around him.
Something fell into place in his mind – a nonphysical exclamation of surprise and warning, and without thinking Garret pivoted on his heel, bringing his shield up just as the lunatic's dirks came hissing from the darkness. Their jagged tips bit into his shield, and cracks webbed their way across the kite-like surface as the insane clown resumed a relentless assault. It cackled mindlessly as its dirks bounced off Garret's shield, and every time he used his blade to swat one away the other would quickly exploit the opening.
More cuts tore their way across Garret's form – several lined his sword-arm and some criss-crossed along his shoulders. His head swam as he kept up his shoddy defence against the monster's attacks – the jester had even started toying with him. Those dirks would snake around his guard and prime themselves for a fatal strike – only to pull back as the clown blew raspberries at him from beneath its mask.
The clown relented in its assault, laughing madly as it hopped from foot to foot as it stood off to the side. "Encore, encore!" It laughed zanily. "This is too funny!" Garret cursed under his breath, swaying on his feet as the poison lacing the two shivs coursed through his body. His vision swam, his focus faltered and if his limbs weren't going completely numb he would've sworn his grip on his weapons was loosening. The jester cackled again, took a step back, and with a lightning quick movement it hurled one of the dirks at him, before disappearing in another puff.
The flying blade slammed into Garret's shield with much more force than the scholar anticipated, and he was sent stumbling backwards, fighting valiantly to stay afoot. He thought he could hear Furia's voice somewhere in the back of his head, but it sounded so soft, so distant he could barely make out make out what she was saying.
What he did hear, however, was the loud click of a mechanism locking in place behind him.
A sense of instinctive terror, born from years of exploring tombs, flooded Garret's body with enough adrenaline to make him spin on his heel and raise his fragmenting shield in a haphazard attempt to block whatever came his way – and none too soon, as the macabre jack-in-the-box erupted from the undergrowth, cackling with a childish tone as it spat small darts at him. He smelled sulphur, and for a moment his vision and hearing convulsed - and then the jack-in-the-box disappeared completely.
Light around him seemed to disappear as the undergrowth stretch and grew, all semblance of colour melting into mottled hues of black and gray. A loud thwack behind him drew his attention, and the hissing sounds approaching him made him raise his shield, out of reflex, if nothing else. He winced and yelped as three barb-tipped arrows slammed clean through his shield, stopping mere inches from his face before clattering to the ground as the sheet of defence shattered like glass.
"…what are you doing here, little brother…"
His breath left him as the ghostly voice drifted amidst the darkness, and his heart constricted painfully as the shambling figure lumbered from the darkness with an ailed gait. Garret's throat dried out and his mind reeled as recognition set in – what was once the proud garb of a Demacian Ranger now hung in tatters around a pale, wounded body, and that hood – that ever-present gold-trimmed hood – bathed a hollow face in shadow.
Yet this did nothing, nothing, to prevent Garret from recognising his deceased brother's form.
"…you don't belong here, Garret…" The Ranger's spectre hissed, one hand grasping a faded oaken bow, half-raised. The other hand clutched another volley of arrows, just waiting to be nocked, drawn and fired. The crimson sword threatened to fall from Garret's quivering grasp, as cold fear battled against cast-iron logic -
Pain lanced across his shoulders before the spectral Ranger could commence an assault, and the dark nightmare dispersed as spots of white exploded in Garret's vision. He yelped as cold steel slid across the bone of his shoulder blades, and pitched forward as yet another slash tore upwards along the side of his spine, rattling off his ribcage as it went. Mad laughter echoed behind him as he stumbled to his knees, body numb from a mix of deadly poison and soul-chilling terror. Despite himself he looked back to where the spectral visage of his brother had stood, and blinked blearily when he saw nothing but foliage.
An illusion…
Distantly he heard the deafening howls of rage in the back of his mind – amidst the confusion, the fear, the pain and the numbness Garret felt the lust for blood pooling around his senses. An uncharacteristic sense of fury pulled at his limbs, pushing his deadened figure into action. An alien sense of ire pushed up from his stomach – a sense of bitter distaste as the image of that tattered Demacian garb flashed through his mind. This ire joined the roiling cloud of piping hot fury that seemed to seep into his very bones, and a last time, that enraging image of the jester's face flickered in his mind's eye.
Their anger eclipsed, and bled into one raging inferno; one felt anger at having his regrets and losses turned into fear-mongering fodder, and another seethed and balked and roared at the cowardly assault on what was – by all definitions – the first companion she had in life.
Garret's arm pulsed crimson, and with a harsh intake of breath and wide eyes, he felt the numbness melt away, replaced not by comforting warmth – but by a blistering torrent of rage, a prickly envelopment of searing fury. This… This was not the anger, not the outrage he felt at having his losses turned against him, he realised bitterly. This… This was not his rage.
Finally, he felt his own control slip away.
Now he could only watch.
A cloud of red exploded around the scholar's kneeling form, accompanied by an outright vicious snarl as the now smoking figure, clad in mask of crimson smoke, lunged at the demonic jester with the intent to mutilate. Two blades formed in twitching hands, lashing outwards and clashing against the clown's own dirks with enough force to make the ramshackle crimson blades explode into smog almost as quickly as they had formed. This did not deter the now-possessed scholar in the slightest; two more blades formed the moment the first pair shattered, and when they shattered in turn, yet two more formed to replace them. Growling lowly, the warmaiden pressed the assault, throwing slash after errant slash towards the monstrous thing that had hurt her host in such a cowardly manner. The mad clown's laughter died as it heard the spirit's venomous growl, and it disappeared in a puff of amber smoke just as a freshly-formed warhammer spun in an arc with enough force to split its face in two.
It reappeared a few feet behind its newest victim. Furia hissed when she saw that damnable grin had seemingly grown even wider as it regarded her host's form with an appraising look. "Oooh, two for one, I see? Is this some kind of comedy collaboration?" It asked snidely, idly juggling its dirks before hacking up a fragmented cackle. "Oh, bravo! I did ask for an encore, after all! Ehe, two for one, two for one, what a hilarious punch line!" It cackled. "Please, let me show you my… appreciation!"
Once more the honey-hued cloud of smoke enveloped the insane clown, and its form disappeared in the puffs of smog for but a moment before it mirrored Furia's own earlier action, poising its dirks and lunging towards her with barely contained glee. Furia met its charge with equal fervour, growling like a spurned beast as she materialised twin axes in her hands. Blood-forged iron clashed against jagged, poisoned steel as the jester and the warmaiden engaged in a furious dance of death – with neither party gaining nor giving ground as flurries of blows reverberated beneath the jungle' foliage.
Furia's rage finally pushed past its breaking point – she powered through the toxins slowing and numbing her host's body, allowing the fires of her ire to propel the axes she wielded into an almost decimating cross-strike. The jester yelped as one of its dirks was sent flying skywards as the other split in two with an audible snap! With a downright bloodthirsty two-voiced howl, Furia cleaved into the madman's side with one axe, a sneer forming on the mask of crimson smoke covering her host's face as she forced the clown down on one knee. The remaining axe trembled in her grasp as she felt fiery rage peak within her. "Now…" she hissed under her breath, locking eyes with the insane clown. "Now you die, slowly and painfully… How's that for a joke?!"
The jester regarded her with gleaming eyes, that infuriating, maddening grin not once leaving its mask – if anything, it only seemed to widen at her ominous declaration. Then it sniffled, and snickered, its body twitching and shaking despite the axe buried into its side. To Furia's great confusion, the clown tossed its head back and laughed, long and loud and insane. She snarled at the sheer gall of the being before her, snarling as she raised her remaining axe high, primed to cleave the cowardly thing's head clean off its shoulders.
Then the laughter abruptly stopped, and the clown locked eyes with her again, and spoke.
"The joke's… on you!"
Furia had but a moment to ponder what the thing meant, before dozens upon dozens of razor-sharp dagger tips pierced outwards underneath the jester's frame. Surprise, shock and a wave of terror snuffed her anger immediately, and she had but a moment to loose a garbled, choked yelp of alarm before the puppet before her exploded in a wave of shrapnel. The sudden storm of flechettes tore into her host's body, piercing organs and bones indiscriminately as the jester's mad cackles rose from the undergrowth around them. Pain was nothing new to Furia – even this unholy barrage of steel was something she felt she could resist. But… Garret's body was not her own, and with mounting dread she felt their connection wither under the torrent of grievous injuries.
With quaking arms not her own, she desperately tugged at the bolts of steel that had been embedded into Garret's form, feeling their link dwindle and slip away as the critical wounds ravaged the scholar's health. What once were furious snarls and animalistic growls became panicked gasps as she tugged and pulled blade after razor-tipped blade from their shared vessel, heedless of the further damage it was causing. Finally, with a loud wail from Furia, the red smog enveloped them again – their link had been severed, and with a gurgled outcry of indescribable agony, Garret Hillock dropped to his knees.
The wave of pain that assaulted his senses struck with the same force as one of Piltover's trains – what had once been a prickly envelopment of sizzling rage had shattered as agony lanced him down to his very cells. It had robbed him of even his most basic motor functions – he couldn't speak, or breathe, or move, and it even felt as though his heart had stopped. His vision was clashing tufts of black and white, and with a pained gurgle, a mix of blood and bile pushed up from his stomach and through his throat, splattering onto the ground. The heat… The heat was almost unbearable; every muscle burned as though taxed to its limit and every errant breath sent the smell and taste of copper wafting across his strained senses, and before he could think to stop himself he retched again, his whole body quivering from the agony and terror.
"Tit for tat!" He distantly heard that manic voice behind him, coarse and buzzed due to the bursts of static tearing at his hearing. "Two for one! Two… for one…" Pain exploded in Garret's shoulder as a jagged dirk parted flesh and struck bone, and with a pained, fearful gasp he was hoisted back, kneeling upright as the mad clown giggled like a lunatic. Between bursts of static and tufts of white and black blotching his vision, Garret heard Furia in the recesses of his mind – a desperate mix of remorseful and outraged – but he couldn't make out her words.
"You know," the demonic jester spoke again, twisting the dirk buried into Garret's shoulder and drawing a pained intake of breath from him. "All things considered, you were quite the act," it said gleefully, and Garret's eyes widened as he felt cold steel against his throat. A part of him tried to struggle, it desperately tried as his hammered in his chest; every beat sent tremors of pain through his shoulder, as muscle tightened around the jagged blade embedded there, and any attempt to speak, to cry out for help just escaped him as another strangled gasp as the venom coursing through his veins made his throat constrict painfully.
An assurance bloomed in the back of his mind, a feeling that help was coming, that someone would save him somehow – but a deafening explosion sounded outside the undergrowth, and that assurance dwindled, fading into nothingness, leaving only his own fear-stricken thoughts.
He gulped, wincing slightly as the dirk held across his throat broke skin.
…Was this it?
Would this be his first death?
The mere thought stupefied him, and a mix of terror and deadly toxin finally stilled his struggling limbs.
"I mean, obviously, your jokes were a bit stale," the mad jester spoke behind him, and Garret felt the unperturbed shrug through the dagger embedded into his shoulder. "But the classics are just that! Classic! Quite amusing, yes," the jester spoke, before Garret felt its presence – it had leaned forward, that manic grin now inches from his ear. "But like every good comedian… I think it's time you bowed out!"
Garret flinched as he felt the cold steel drag across his throat – his eyes widened as the stinging pain flooded his neck and spread up to his face, numbing his mouth and fogging his vision; the burn, however, lasted only a few seconds before he felt sticky warmth cascading down onto his chest, and every breath he tried to take caused nothing but a spurt of thick blood to leap from the wound across his neck.
Dumbstruck, Garret barely registered the dagger being yanked from his shoulder, nor did he respond when he pitched forwards and landed flat on his face in the mud. He felt a shudder rock his body when he finally stilled, and once again tried to breathe or speak, but again, it only resulted in a squirt of warm red flying from the gaping wound in his neck.
…Odd, he thought as he lay there, weathering the searing heat that squeezed his muscles and bones, and the sudden burning ache blooming in his lungs as his consciousness faded, flecks of stark gray bleeding into his vision. Odd, indeed, he mused dumbly as he watched the mad jester take a low bow before some unseen entity – maybe its Summoner? – before disappearing in a puff of smoke. He thought…
He thought he'd be taking this 'death' thing a lot worse.
Could it be the Summoners at work, perhaps, he thought as the colour slowly drained from his sight. What was once a verdant undergrowth of varying greens and blues had now turned a stark contrast of whites and grays, and all the while Garret felt his consciousness… not slip away, but… wander, somewhat.
Why, he wondered as blots of white started tearing the monochrome undergrowth in his vision apart. The static in his ears had dissipated, replaced by a low, hollow ringing as more and more of his vision seemed to melt into whiteness. Why… am I not panicking…?
Finally, with a thundering crash and a deafening whine, the whiteness swallowed up everything – and even the ringing in his ears faded away.
Void.
That was all he could truly describe it as. Void, nothingness… maybe even afterlife if it didn't seem so absolutely unnatural. Looking through eyes that felt nothing like looking through eyes, he beheld the white nothingness around him, and his mind reeled.
This place felt… odd.
This place felt wrong.
Panic overtook him as he realised he did not feel. No hands to clench into fists, no limbs to move and flail, no lips to twitch in agitation and terror and no lungs to breathe or gasp or scream. A heart that was not there started beating erratically, and formless, numb eyes flitted around in anxiety as he tried to survey the void around him.
"…Garret?"
The void pulsed red for a moment as the voice echoed around him, tinged with worry and panic and… shame?
'I… I'm here,' he spoke – or at least he thought he spoke? – and the abyss writhed and twisted around him. '…W-What is this… place?'
"I… I do not know," Furia responded, her voice once again tainting the nothingness around them crimson. "It seems like… some kind of limbo. Such a place is abhorrent…"
The panic did not recede. 'I don't understand…' He said, and his voice quivered in tandem with the nothingness. 'Wha… What happened?' His question led to a painful silence – Furia did not respond at all, but somehow… Somehow he felt she was there, beside him in this nothingness. '…Furia?'
"I…" the spirit of battle hesitated, and the void trembled with her. "I failed you," she finally spoke, her voice so soft it barely caused an echo. "I was too late, too aggressive, too… I let my rage control me," she admitted, "just as I did when I lived, and… and you paid the price for it."
Garret paused, and felt some of his panic dissipate slightly. '…did I?' He asked mutedly, feeling the uncertainty pool in his stomach – or at least, where he was sure his stomach used to be. 'I… I cannot recall.'
"The clown killed you," Furia informed him, no small amount of bitterness tainting her voice. "It… It toyed with you, with us… Every movement, every action, they served only to cripple you, and to enrage me… Such a cowardly little monster, and yet… And yet, I let it get the better of me," she admitted. "I should have noticed… I should have noticed how its strikes had gotten weaker, how its guard had gotten smaller, but… I…"
That… explained much, Garret surmised. He tried to remember, honestly he did, but… the nothingness around him seemed to have settled in his mind as well. There was no recollection, no reminiscence of the previous day. It dawned on him then, that he could not remember anything vivid; his name, his age, his hometown… These he recalled. But the other sensations… He could not even recall what he saw when he had woken up that morning.
He could not recall if he had woken up at all.
The formless, shapeless heart that had just began to calm exploded into a frenzied series of thundering beats again, and the abyss around the disembodied scholar twisted and strained in tandem with his ragged, shaking breaths.
Just then, the abyss stilled – what was once roiling white started to darken and twitch and twist, and with several brittle chinks the nothingness around him cracked, white veins spanning across ashen-grey abyss. Eventually it seemed as though the scholar were surrounded by a web, an all-encompassing cocoon of jagged, sporadic strands, weaving closer and closer –
And finally, with a tumultuous crash, the abyss shattered.
It was not pain so much as it was exhaustion that assailed him the moment his feet landed on solid ground. The soles of his boots had touched down on well-kept stone with nothing more than a tap, and yet the impact had shaken every bone in his body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his skull. The numbness in and of itself was agonizing – lips shifted dumbly, forming unintelligible silent words, fingers and limbs danced and swayed like marionettes dangled from their hung-up little control bars, and although he felt little he was certain he was swaying almost drunkenly. His sight was a messy bouquet of dark and bright spots, only letting glimpses of green growth and pale stone into his sight, and his throat felt as though it had been lined with sandpaper.
And just as Garret Hillock thought this rebirth wasn't as terrible or abhorrent as he imagined it would be, the death he had suffered moments earlier caught up to him.
Bile pooled in his stomach and shot up his throat like a phosphorous cloud fired straight from a cannon, stinging at his innards as it pressed up towards his mouth, and only through a herculean effort did he prevent himself from retching on the spot. The numbness subsided and left him utterly weak in his limbs, and desperately his normal hand clasped itself over his mouth as he dropped to his knees, fighting the nausea that battled to push past a throat that was still stinging and constricting from the poison-tipped dagger that had carved a clean cut into it.
His vision swam and his ears rang, and only distantly could he hear the maelstrom of whipping winds surrounding him. Single blades of grass swayed between the cobblestones as the magics of the altar Garret rested on thrummed and sang as they alighted and ignited in a column of blue luminosity. Distantly he heard the muffled voices and the dulled, heavy footfalls, but he did feel the tiny hand that settled on his shoulder with worrying clarity, despite his other senses failing him now.
"….ere we go, just shrug it off, new guy," he heard an energetic voice speak – it was slightly distorted; as though it were speaking underwater. "Just need to get up," he felt a tugging on his arm accompanying this order, "and walk it off… Geh, a little help here, Tubbo?!"
"As th' lady wishes," he heard a distinctly familiar baritone intone with a deep chuckle, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, a meaty pair of hands had seized him by the shoulders and pulled him up to his feet so vehemently he could've sworn the force fought the build-up of bile in his throat back down better than he ever could. Blinking dazedly, he noticed his vision was starting to clear up, and he found himself starting into two wide, lively, yet very concerned dark eyes – or at least, they were concerned until he blinked in recognition.
"There we go!" Tristana cheered, a bright smile splitting her face as she reared back and took her hand off his forehead. He blinked. When did she…? "You all good there, new guy?" The bubbly Yordle asked, perched atop her cannon, which had been planted upright on the ground before Garret. "No incoming breakdowns, or personality shifts? You'd be surprised how often that happens." Garret blinked owlishly once, before shaking his head in a daze. He didn't feel any breakdowns incoming, he thought dumbly, turning to his right, and locking gazes with a pair of unnerving yellow eyes… and a row of vicious fangs turned up into a grin.
His daze evaporated before he could even blink.
With a gargled, strangled yelp Garret hopped back as Tahm Kench let out a downright hearty laugh at his surprise. Suddenly everything came rushing back into his mind – the Deathsinger, the jester, the horrid yet terrifying comedy lingo, the…
"…you don't belong here, little brother…"
He shuddered. He shuddered violently as the memory came to him, unbidden – the once regal attire of a Demacian Ranger, sundered and blackened by a death years past. Blue and gold had turned murky and blotched, and the once expertly tailored apparel had frayed and tattered over the years. But that voice… That voice shook him to his core. A voice he had not heard in years, belonging to a loved one that had left one day and never came back.
Garret expected many horrors on the Fields of Justice, after meeting Thresh…
…but seeing the ghost of his long-dead brother, Aaron, was not one of them.
And then…
Then a ghostly feeling of envenomed steel caressed his throat.
He very nearly dropped to his knees again right there.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, new guy!" Tristana had gone from cheerful to concerned in a blink, hopping off her cannon and closing the distance between them. "Just relax, okay? The first death's always the worst – just stay calm, and breathe, alright?" She instructed him, a calm, comforting smile on her face.
"First… what?" Garret asked, his voice a low whine as he clutched his throat. The Yordle woman's mere words had set off a slew of alarm bells in his mind. First death, she said.
He had died.
That monstrous clown had slit his throat, and had done so with nothing but a twisted grin and audible glee. Even now that masked face haunted his thoughts – the slanted white eyes and the manic smile, it seemed as though someone had reached into a nightmare and plucked that clown straight from its dark clutches. He shivered again, clutching at his throat with his normal hand. There was no scar, no dried blood, not even a hint to indicate his jugular had been gouged out – but the ghostly sting remained.
"We tried to get to you when we saw that clown attacking," Tristana spoke measuredly, still keeping a concerned eye on him as she propped her hands on her hips. "Buuuuut… Kog'Maw didn't make it easy. Kept dropping spitbombs in our way."
"…Kog'Maw?" Garret asked, a perplexed expression on his face as he rested his hands on his knees, propping himself up as he bent forward. The exhaustion was slowly fading, but that meant nothing before the hollow, icy feeling that had settled in his stomach.
"That grubby little entrée with the gum-cannon in its muzzle," Tahm Kench helpfully supplied, running his tongue across his fangs as he tugged at the lapels of his double-coat. "Morsel's about as fragile as a tissue, but the little thing packs a wallop to put a Bilgewater cannon to shame."
"Boomer dealt with him, though," Tristana said with a confident smirk as she patted the hand-cannon beside her with a gentle touch. "Then Graggy and Tubbo here ran the tree man and the dead man off. Oh! We even got the clown for you!" She suddenly exclaimed with a wide smile.
Garret spared her a questioning look, rising to stand upright again, and was just about to voice his question when a tumultuous rumbling shook their hearing. Both the scholar and the Yordle turned to face their fishy ally, just in time to see the smirk fall from his face as the rumbling sound intensified, bleeding out from between his clenched teeth. "Uh… S'cuse me a moment, if you will?" He asked, as cordially as a fish-monster with a seemingly aching belly could. Tahm turned away from them, pitched forward, and with an absolutely sickening belch, he retched a pungent clump of sickly-green spittle and various bits of undigested food onto the steps of the altar.
Garret regarded the act – and the result – with thinly veiled discomfort and distaste, if the way his expression was screwing up was any indication. As if on cue, the sight of the fish-person's projectile vomit merely caused his own stomach to clench and churn uncomfortably. "Ew," Tristana voiced her opinion, looking at the pooling pile of spittle with an expression Garret could only describe as repulsed. Even her ears, normally perky and upright, had drooped and folded backwards slightly. "That's… Ew. That's disgusting, Tubbo." Garret found himself agreeing – aware as he was that retching was a natural action, it was still an unsavoury action; the many times he'd actually partaken in it while on the run merely compounded that opinion. It was only then that Garret noticed just what Tahm Kench had regurgitated:
A black and red jester's hat - and the bells hanging from the pointy ears of the cap had already been half-eroded by stomach acid.
Despite himself, Garret shivered as he regarded the tattered little hat. No matter how gruesome a fate he had met at the jester's hands… he was quite certain being devoured alive was infinitely worse. And although he told himself it was not necessary, although he told himself that a being that could kill with such manic glee deserved to be treated as it treated others… a part of him still felt sorry for that clown.
With a grunt, Tahm straightened his two-coat's lapels again and turned to regard the scholar and the Yordle with an intrigued eye. When those yellow orbs fell on the disgruntled expression on Tristana's face, the fish-monster's wide maw twitched into an absolutely devious smirk, and with a lightning quick lash of tongue, the discarded jester's cap was snatched back into his gullet almost as quickly as it had been spat up.
If Tahm had been trying to get a rise out of the Yordle woman, Garret noticed, he had failed – while Tristana did shiver once in abject disgust, she managed to keep her features admirably cheerful. "Can we just… Ugh. You ready to go again, new guy? Garret, right?" She asked him with an inquisitive light in those big eyes of hers. "Or do you need a few minutes?"
For a moment, Garret pondered what she meant, before realising he had completely forgotten that the match had not ended yet. In fact he was quite certain it had only just begun. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, then back again, testing if the limbs would hold under the strain of walking. When neither threatened to collapse or give in, he took a deep breath, and flinched – the fresh air clashed against the taste of bile that lined his throat, but apart from that, his nausea was not threatening to return anytime soon. "I… I think the worst is past," he nodded to Tristana, mustering a small smile when the Yordle woman shot him an absolutely dazzling one before hoisting her hand-cannon onto her shoulder.
"Alright!" She cheered, trying to give him one of those motivational punches on the shoulder. Her diminutive height, sadly, meant her fist bounced harmlessly off his thigh, and despite his most valiant attempts to stop it, the gesture managed to draw a muted chuckle from him. It was relatively minor, but her cheerful demeanour managed to dispel some of his anxiety. That in itself was something Garret was thankful for. "Graggy managed to take out the tree man while you were out," Tristana helpfully supplied as she bounded down the steps. Garret followed with a skew smile, and he could hear Tahm Kench's lumbering footsteps as the fish-thing followed suit. "And right now he's giving chase, trying to keg-beat that dead guy to…" She trailed off, her face screwing up into confusion. "More death? I dunno," she shook her head. "I do know Kog'Maw and the clown are gonna be back soon, so I'm really not up for leaving Grag to fight against three people. Way I see it, Tubbo and I have got a way to pincer them just like we did last time, but… There's a complication."
Garret adopted a quizzical expression upon hearing the hint of concern bleed into the normally cheerful Yordle's voice, but before he could make any inquiries he lurched in place; something tugged at his stomach, and there was a weight in the back of his mind – a hint of an instinct he knew all too well: danger. As if acting on a hunch he directed his confused gaze into the trees to the east, squinting as though looking for something, anything to justify this sudden feeling of hostility. Then he finally recognised the suspicion in full.
He'd experienced a similar thrill of emotion during those colds nights he prowled Bilgewater's alleys, when a scream would pierce the air before being silenced with a wet gurgle and a song of steel.
Someone in that direction was in danger.
Almost as soon as the niggling suspicion, the inexplicable instinct had assailed him, it had dissipated, and almost immediately Garret found worry blooming in the back of his mind, and a ball of ice formed in the pit of his stomach. "What… What was that?" He asked, turning to face Tristana. The Yordle woman blinked owlishly, before uttering a bashful chuckle as her free hand scratched the back of one of her ears.
"The setback I mentioned!" she said with an awkward grin. "That was our fifth. She's… kinda pinned down." She squinted in the direction that the subliminal cry for help had come from, and her ears drooped again. "Doesn't help the odds are against her. She's kicked it twice already. We'll need to reinforce that front too – she's too stubborn to retreat… and I'm too stubborn to let an ally fend for herself," the Yordle said with a wry smirk.
"Bah! Girl's got her eyes on a one-way tunnel to ruination," Tahm mused as he waddled to a stop beside the two, yellow eyes gleaming dangerously in the Rift's sunlight. "Stubborn is an understatement. You can lead the mule to water, but you cannot force it to drink… That girl's her own worst enemy. A rank dish, so to speak."
"You two are making this 'she' sound… quite frustrating," Garret mused, a concerned expression on his face. "Is she really so bad?"
"Wha?" Tristana blinked once, realisation sinking in, before shaking her head. Her ears perked up again, Garret noticed, and that smile returned – even if it was a bit more subdued this time. "Oh, no, no, no, she's actually, you know… Well, okay, she's not always in the best state of mind," Tristana admitted with an awkward shrug, "but once she gets her head set on doing something, well… She was a prodigy back in Noxus. Climbed through the ranks faster than most of us Bandle Gunners get out of boot camp – and it shows."
Finally that subtle hint of looming danger dissipated entirely, replaced by a pooling feeling of concern and alertness in Garret's stomach. The hairs that had risen on the back of his neck slowly fell again, his anxiety replaced with a sense of worry he couldn't attribute to himself or his spiritual companion. He wondered for a while, trying to find the correct way to phrase his questions, when Tahm suddenly belched out a fit of hideous laughter beside them, three rows of fangs gleaming in the flailing gums of his maw. "W-What's going on?" Garret asked warily, taking a step away from manically laughing monster, and saw Tristana doing the same – the Yordle had even raised a hand to shield her face from flying spittle.
"You're not really clued up to the Summoner signals yet, are you?" Tristana asked with a slight droop in her ears as she hastily rubbed her palm against her pants with a distasteful expression. "That little lurch in your stomach you're feeling? That's an alert. A notification of sorts, imagine it like some kind of spiritual signal flare. That nasty little churn should tell us that Riven's retreating, and, well… As we said, she's stubborn," Tristana said with a perplexed expression. "She barely ever retreats."
"Next thing y'know, bolts of fire are gon' start raining down from a crimson sky," Tahm Kench chuckled as he gazed off into the distance, likely in the direction this Riven woman was retreating from, "and arcing walls of water are gon' come and drown us all. Mayhap I was wrong about her… Even the most unappealing dish can be made bearable with the right spices…"
"There's a chance she's hurt…" Tristana mused, before palming her face with a sigh. "Ugh. What am I saying, she's fighting that giant lizard, of course she's hurt… And that old scalebutt doesn't give up on his victims," she mused, a calculating gleam in those dark eyes of hers. "Two fronts to reinforce with superior enemies on both ends…"
"I…" Garret spoke up, a calculating edge to his voice. "I may be able to assist. Tristana, when you spoke of aiding Gragas, and… what was it, 'pincering' the enemies, how were you intending to do so? The same way you intervened last time?"
Tristana cast an inquisitive glance at Tahm's belly, her eyes shining in the midday sun, before she nodded. "Yeah. Not the smoothest ride, but it goes the distance so to say, and it's nice and under the radar for the most part. Like a… Sorta like a slimy APC. Why?"
"Are both our allies within your range?" Garret asked, idly scratching at the stubble that had built up around his chin. "Both Gragas and… Riven, you called her?" Upon receiving an affirmative nod from the Yordle gunner, who herself had a curious gleam in her eyes now, Garret continued. "I… Well, this deadened arm has its uses. I can scale trees rather easily, and I can cover ground using the jungle's canopy quite quickly, I've learned." He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "Can't believe I am about to suggest this, but… why don't I use the treetops to reach our closest ally while you and Tahm find to the other?"
Tristana blinked, shifting her hand-cannon from one shoulder to the other as she pondered the suggestion. "You know… That's not a half-bad strat you got there Garret. You sure you're up for it?"
"No," Garret answered honestly, mustering a crooked grin as he shrugged. The mere suggestion had made that ball of ice in the pit of his stomach expand. "Honestly I do not. So you should give the order before I regain all my faculties, Captain," he said, earning a lighthearted chuckle from the Yordle.
"That's Major, buddy," she corrected him, cheekily sticking her tongue out. "Alright, so that's all settled then," she affirmed, pivoting on her heel and strolling towards the middle-most exit, Garret and Tahm Kench following suit a foot or two behind her. Major indeed, he thought – she certainly knew how to take charge. "Riven's closest to us, Garret," the Yordle informed him. "She's east of here, 'bout… I dunno, bit less than twenty minutes, depending on how quickly you move across the canopy." A quick inward pondering revealed that Tristana's words coincided with a hunch that had been festering in his gut – something he only noticed now, as the exhaustion, numbness and fear started to bleed away.
Eventually they came to a halt outside the pseudo-gateway. The vast expanses of Summoner's Rift were spread out before them like a verdant canvas bathed in rays of golden light. Lush canopies of jungle bled into breath-taking valleys and fjords in the distance, a distant display of just how massive this battleground truly was. "This is where we split up," Tristana said with a nod. "Graggy's to the west, and he's still only got the dead man in his sights. Once we get there I'm betting the tree man and the worm will show up – heh, maybe even the clown too." She turned to face Garret. "That should give you enough of a window to get to Riven," she said with a smile, "and either help her kill old scalebutt or help her hobble away from danger – whichever's less comprising towards our main objective."
Garret nodded, already scanning the undergrowth to his left in a bid to find the quickest way to the highest tree, all the while keeping his hands clasped behind his back in a bid to keep the trembling at bay. His earlier death still gnawed at him, and even now he felt the distinctly chilly kiss of jagged steel against his throat. His current course of action added to his anxiety – a part of him wanted to strangle himself for suggesting that he go in the direction of the enemy alone, especially considering he was now heading in the direction of some kind of monster that could kill a Noxian prodigy twice, and nearly killed her a third time mere minutes ago.
But with a strained gulp, he fought that tiny part of him down – quashed it like he had so many times in the past. This was what he had signed up for, after all. He had known, the moment he suggested this to Furia, that it would not be pleasant or comfortable in the least. Maybe later he would go drown in grog until he managed to convince himself his current course of action hadn't been completely foolish, and let the hangover kill those thoughts while they were dormant the next morning. But now?
Now he had allies that needed aid.
And he would not let his cowardice taint his response to that call.
"Shall we be going, Madame?" Tahm Kench asked cordially, despite the devious grin on his face showing he was anything but. Again, the stretch of his alien lips revealed too many teeth to be even remotely natural, and those eyes held an unnerving glint to them. "It'd hardly be sporting to miss the main course, after all…"
Tristana's ears twitched once, before a conflicted grin bloomed on her face, and only then did Garret remember how she had arrived to aid Gragas in their earlier encounter. He scowled slightly when he realised Tahm Kench's method of transport was… less than appealing. Tristana herself didn't seem to have a problem with it, though – if anything the prospect of some kind of abdominal ferry seemed to excite her. "Yeah, yeah, just give me a moment," the Yordle responded, turning on her heel as she held her cannon close. "Just… Be careful, okay, new guy?" Tristana instructed Garret, a rare mask of solemn seriousness on her face. "Old scalebutt's really dangerous, and Riven… Well, it's as I said earlier. Sometimes her state of mind is… unhealthy. It's a miracle her Summoner managed to convince her to retreat at all."
Despite the fact that he considered himself a rather eloquent fellow at times, Garret found he didn't rightly know how to respond to that. 'Either help her kill old scalebutt or help her hobble away from danger,' the Yordle gunner's earlier words returned to him. He found himself frowning at the thought. Could this 'scalebutt' truly be so dangerous that even two combatants would need to flee from it?
Unbidden, he recalled his last 'adventure' on the Fields of Justice – and the rampaging alabaster behemoth whose strikes uprooted trees and upturned stone and boulder alike. Sion, the Undead Juggernaut – the monster who needed to be assaulted by three sources before he finally died.
And even then, he still kept going.
Yes, Garret concluded with a grimace, yes, this 'scalebutt' truly could be that dangerous.
"I understand," he said solemnly, nodding once at the diminutive Major before him and offering her as close to a sincere smile as he could muster. "I will be careful."
Tristana merely offered him one of her winning smiles before squaring her shoulders and pulling her goggles down over her eyes. "Alright, Tubbo – let's get going."
Despite his valiant efforts not to, Garret found himself looking away with a visible shudder as the fish-monster's whip-like tongue lashed out. He screwed his eyes shut just as the slimy appendage wrapped around the Yordle with a sickening smack, and by the time Tristana's jovial 'Whoop!' had reached his ears he was already darting into the undergrowth. A part of him felt bad at the cowardly act of fleeing even from an ally – but that monster, no matter how hearty and courteous he may have acted, had an unnerving aura of darkness around him, and Garret preferred not witness the thing with so many teeth consume one of his other allies, no matter how 'harmless' the Institute's magics rendered the act. There was just… something abhorrent about the action, something unnatural, as though it were more than mere 'feeding'.
Within moments he'd found another tree to scale, and was hopping from branch to branch with practiced ease. It took a lot of calculation – and no small amount of guesswork – to determine which of the wooden limbs were safe to rest his weight on. It was still a painfully slow process – but it was faster than hacking his way through the vast undergrowth. Plus, at the very least, he had a better field of vision from up in the trees.
A broken sword and a mop of white hair, he recalled – the only details of his fifth ally, this 'Riven' woman, that he'd been able to witness before she had disappeared through the far gate.
He came to a halt on a twisted knot of branches, and squatted down, emerald eyes seeking a foothold farther out, or further down in the vast green canopy surrounding him. His human arm was draped across a bent knee as he searched, while his mutated black hand wrapped its digits around a sturdy branch, anchoring him that much more in the bud of twisting vines and jagged brown limbs. Unbidden his eyes came to rest on his blackened hand, on the thumb and three fingers, one of which seemed far too thick at its base – and suddenly, Garret realised something:
Not once since his 'rebirth' had Furia spoken to him.
This realisation worried him more than the looming conflict ever could.
Had she ever paid mind to the concept of irony, she would have raged at the injustice; it was the height of unfairness that the greatest battle she had ever fought took place in death.
It was a tumultuous struggle, a thrashing, growling resistance against her own nature. She seethed and bristled as she fought against the fires of rage swelling within her spirit; it was a blazing sensation the likes of which she hadn't felt in a long, long time. It seemed to spread through every single ghost of a nerve it touched, roiling and churning within her so fiercely it made her grit her non-existent teeth in frustration and desperation. She knew of the underlying feeling that stoked the flames of rage within her; at one stage of her life she had known no other emotion, and now it was back, to haunt her, to taunt her.
Worthless.
The mere thought drew a venomous hiss from her, an acerbic sound that echoed across the crimson void surrounding her. The word stung like a barbed spear; it pierced through her bloodlust, through her excitement and elation, and struck home right in her heart before twisting, crippling her with a wave of self-loathing she had fought so hard to suppress in life. It was a maelstrom of emotion, one negative thing feeding off the other, trying to cripple her into inaction. In life she would take to the battlefields, to the wilds, anywhere where the rush and the thrill of battle could expunge such horrendous assailment on her soul. She would lose herself to catharsis, to rage, to frenzy and manic excitement as she flung herself into combat…
…but now, she could not; for she was not alone.
'…Furia?'
She flinched as the voice invaded the red void around her, every syllable jerking at her already fractured emotional state. She hissed, in displeasure, in discomfort, in despondency as she heard that voice; it carried that same calm tone it always carried when it spoke to her, and she fought viciously to prevent a sudden burst of anger from fuelling the fires of her self-loathing, of her uncharacteristic rage. But that niggling feeling wouldn't disperse; it lurked beneath the fear, the loathing, the uncertainty and the spite.
Failure.
For the first time, in both life and death, someone had made an effort to try and understand her, to compromise with her instead of viewing her as some maddened animal to be avoided. At the cost of great personal discomfort this person had not only accepted her nature, but actively tried to help her, to grant her the one thing she wished for above all else, after so long spent in the crimson nothingness.
…and she had cost him his life.
Her own foolishness, her own outrage had led to him dying at the hands of a cowardly little jester.
And it had been real. There was no magic that pulled him into limbo when he was clutching at the last straws of his life. There was no wave of celestial magic, no instantaneous healing, and no teleportation to safety. It was legitimate death. She had felt her host's heart stop, felt his lungs expel their last breath, felt his mind shut down – just as her own had, so long ago.
And it was every bit as terrifying as it had been, then. Were it not for this Rift's magics… They would both have been dead – all because she flew into a rage.
Fear was something she seldom felt – but in that moment, it had been her most prevalent emotion.
'…Furia? Are you-'
"What?!" She snapped suddenly, the red of her own vision bleeding into the crimson smoke around her as her spirit jerked and tensed after a second of ill control, before she regained herself. She flinched at how venomous she had sounded then, how livid she had sounded. The ghost of a jaw twitched as she tried to form an apology. That concept, however, was alien to her – and words had never been her forte.
'You seemed… distant. Distressed, even. I… I was worried about you.'
…and nevertheless, her host – that cowardly, foolish, yet well-intentioned man – weathered her hostility and volatility like a bulwark, instead offering her kindnesses she felt she did not deserve at that moment. "I… I am…" Still, she struggled. 'Sorry'. A word she had never said in life, had now come to taunt her, to wring her soul dry, and going by the ghost of a bitter taste lingering in a phantom mouth, it was succeeding. Again, she tried, and again her throat caught before she could truly form the words to express her regret, and her anguish was all the worse for it. "I failed you…" She admitted bitterly.
'…Pardon? What are…' Her host, bless him, seemed merely confused at her words, and the confusion only served to stoke the fires of her rage. But she would not allow that – she had snapped at him once already. With a downright animalistic growl, she quashed that wave of anger before it could take root. 'Furia, what do you mean?'
She sighed before the question was even fully vocalized. Why? Why did such pure concern and confusion cause this, this damnable sting in her being to ache that much more? Why did his words gut her harder than any blade had done in life?
"You… You joined this Institute, for my sake…" She started speaking, measuredly, mutedly, struggling to put her feelings into words every step of the way. "You could have left this place. You… You could have become a scholar, or, or a teacher or some other despic-" With a violent hiss she caught herself, before she could utter that condemning phrase, and once more she tasted acid in her phantom mouth. For Garret, despite his pacifism, did not condemn her nature – she would not fail to repay that kindness. "You could have escaped," she said, her tone clipped, strained. "You could have made a life away from all the violence… And yet… Yet, you chose this, for…" She swallowed, a phantom action in this red nothingness, as nerves constricted a throat that was no longer there. "For my sake, you bear this burden, Garret… And I…"
I let you die, the words rang in her mind, reverberating off every thought and serving only to blow gusts into the fires of her rage, and further add to the tumultuous blizzard of sorrow raging within. I let you die. I lost control. I dropped my guard. I, I, I.
"…I failed you," she said finally. "You… You trusted me, and I… I let you-"
'Furia, no,' Garret's voice interrupted her, and despite herself, she flinched – flinched! – at the sudden urgent tone his voice had taken on. It was such a baffling turn of events that a portion of her anger had outright evaporated at the interruption. Already, that unfamiliar uncertainty was pulling at the edges of her mind – why had he interrupted her?
A sigh echoed around her, and distantly she noticed through their connection that Garret had stopped moving, coming to a stop on a rather sturdy branch. 'You cannot blame yourself for this, Furia,' he spoke measuredly – and once more she found herself dumbfounded. 'It… It was not the most pleasant way to… to perish. But… I need you to stray away from those thoughts, Furia. What happened to us… Was no fault of yours.'
"But it was!" She had finally regained her voice. "If I had been focused I could have noticed a pattern, or a change in the clown's behaviour, I could have –"
'And if I had been focused,' Garret interrupted her, his tone oddly… calm? Warm? Comforting…? 'Then the clown would not have caught us flat-footed in the first place, Furia. Instead I let my hesitation and fear of the Deathsinger stun me into inaction. I had waited for the opportunity to react, instead of taking action, and it cost us dearly. Surely if you think you are to blame,' he said, a hint of wryness creeping into his tone, 'then the fault lies equally heavy on my shoulders, no?'
"I…" Her tongue knotted as she tried to argue, her frustrations mounting in tandem with her confusion. This stupid man… "You… If I had been capable of doing as we agreed, Garret… If only I could have taken control the moment you were ambushed, then… Then you would not have met such a grisly end. Instead… Instead…"
'That is hardly a one-way action, Furia.' That stupid, infuriating man's voice was the very sound of calm and concerned, and, and… Why did it have such an effect on her? Why couldn't he be angry, like every other human would have been?! If he had gotten angry she could have gotten angry in turn and be rid of these damnable conflicting emotions and… and… 'I wasn't exactly trying on my end either, in case you've forgotten. Too busy being numbed by poison and fear.'
"That doesn't…" For a moment she considered telling him that didn't matter. For a moment, she considered arguing further – only to realize she couldn't. Her outrage snuffed, only the cold, bitter grasp of sorrow and regret lingered, occasionally assisted by the slightest prod of fear. "That does not lessen the sting, host," she murmured bitterly. "I saw you die, Garret. I felt you die, and… it mirrored my own. So uncannily that…" Phantom teeth ground against each other, trying desperately to quash the acidic taste of weakness lingering there. "…It scared me, Garret. More than I ever thought it could."
For a moment, only silence reigned in that crimson nothingness around her. Finally, she heard a cough, and a deep breath. '…For what little it is worth, Furia, I am sorry.' She blinked, quite certain that if she still had a jaw it would have dropped open by now. 'I cannot imagine what it must have been like to relive death again. I only now realize how cruel it is.' Once again, that stupid, stupid, kind-hearted, caring man had proved her wrong. Once again, he had placed her own needs and wellbeing before his own… and for some reason that utterly confused her, the action made just a bit of her anguish fade away.
Why… Why was this happening?
How could he still be so… kind?
'I knew this was not going to be an easy path,' Garret's voice interrupted her again, 'before I even embarked on it, Furia. Our souls are vastly different, I'd wager. Finding equilibrium… is going to be difficult. Easily one of the most difficult tasks I've ever undertaken… but that won't dissuade me.' The resolve in his voice was palpable; it made the crimson smog around her tremble and quiver and convulse. 'In a way, I know what it's like… to be denied your own nature. You told me you sought freedom. I… I can relate to that. Now that I've obtained a semblance of mine… It is only right I help you obtain the same, no?'
Again, she felt a grimace flash across her phantom lips, as the emotions within her stirred and roiled. Once more he had chosen to look past the fact that her actions had led to his death, and chose to focus on her and it served only to frustrate and vex and fluster and confuse her so greatly she had trouble forming coherent sentences. When he had first contacted her, when he had told he would suffer all these burdens, just so she could experience a semblance of freedom… She had no idea how far his kindness would extend. She believed she had come to terms with her host's gentle and compassionate nature. But now… Only now she realized she had barely touched upon the surface of his kindness. And while this realization caused her distress…
…it caused her so small amount of peace as well.
Peace… What an alien feeling.
'Fret not, Furia,' Garret's voice echoed across the crimson nothingness again. 'We'll find a way to progress, to make this work. Regardless of how long it takes. It's going to be a long road, filled with many obstacles… But we'll overcome them. Together. I promise you."
'Promise'. That word had always meant so little to her in life. She had seen – and experienced – so many oaths broken that she had not even been bothered to care, later in her life. In the maddened storms of her own frenzy, she had disregarded words entirely. Yet… Something about Garret's tone made a small part of her believe that this oath was not one taken lightly. Again, she scowled, ghost brows creasing as she pondered the words spoken, but… to her growing confusion, her outrage, her frustration and her despair had been assuaged just a bit more.
Slowly but surely, most of the raging emotions within died down to a tumultuous bubble, instead of the raging inferno it had been.
Together, he had said…
Why did that word calm her so?
Over the few weeks he had known the lady of war now residing in his arm, Garret had quickly learned how to distinguish her emotions from his own. At first it was an action born of trepidation; a desire to be sure what he was feeling at any given moment was his, and not Furia's. But over time he had come to learn a valuable lesson by taking note of the emotions not his own. It allowed him a hollow degree of insight into his tenant's emotional state, something to ponder while he tried to completely understand and comprehend the warmaiden.
Was it any surprise then, that the torrent of anguish and frustration that suddenly bloomed within their collective being forced him to a halt?
From the perch he had rested on, he lowered his hand from his chest and exhaled shakily. Furia had not answered, had barely even spoken after he uttered that promise. But the way the despair and confusion were slowly leaking from his spirit was as good an indicator as any that he had gotten through to her. He frowned, in concern more than frustration. He had been correct when he surmised there was much, much more depth to Furia's being – depth she herself had yet to discover, even in death.
With a grimace, he rose to his feet again, maintaining his balance on the precariously swaying branch he had settled on. While he had failed to get a reaction from her, at the very least his words had managed to make the tumultuous maelstrom of emotion she was currently feeling subside – that was, in his own humble opinion, as close to a victory as he would achieve at that time. While her emotional state bothered him greatly, he realized that currently, words would aid her little. She needed to leave that state, however temporarily, and focus on something else.
With a shaky, yet resolute nod – more to himself than to anyone else – Garret resumed his trek across the canopy, nimbly hopping and swinging from branch to branch, just as he had done so many times before. There was a nagging sensation in the back of his head, one that told him he was headed right towards that 'Riven' woman – and whatever was pursuing her.
Furia, at that point, needed a distraction.
And Garret knew exactly where he could find one.
When that prickly sensation lingering in the deepest recesses of his mind had led to him understanding an ally was directly below him, Garret started his descent. What would normally have been a lengthy process had been rendered laughably mundane by the twisted black limb that had replaced his right arm – in addition to being completely numb to feeling it was also, apparently, stronger than a usual limb; enough so that the fingers could easily dig into bark and wood alike and find at least a semblance of grip.
Only now did he notice how high up he had been – after leaping from one height to a lower footing, without as much as a yelp, he proudly noticed, the sound of rushing water met his ears, and that unmistakeable scent of fresh riverside nature assaulted his nose, dispelling the acridly sweet stench of tree sap that had plagued him during his trek. The rushing sounds of water became ever louder, and Garret could hear it whispering as it scraped over protruding roots and crawled over smooth, wet stone. Even now, he could see the glimmers dancing across clear water below him. It pierced through the dense canopy and flickered in his sight, and the closer he got to it the more pronounced the wave of cool air that brushed against his face became.
He was nearing the ground now. The amount of jutting branches that looked stable or strong enough to support his weight were rapidly dwindling. He even had to stop once, eagerly scanning the twisting, jagged branches around him for some semblance of stability. There, he noticed – a branch far too thin for him to actually stand on, but seemingly strong enough to support his weight, and close enough to the ground for him to drop down without much in terms of ailment. With a determined grunt, he leaned back, leapt forward and extended his twisted arm. The four blackened fingers wrapped around the bark –
And he promptly yelped as the branch gave way with a loud snap.
Gravity took hold of him with what appeared to be manic glee, if the way the canopy blurred past him was any indication. Already, knowledge from aeons past sifted into his mind, highlighting ways to twist his body and alter his descent so that he could at least land on his –
His back slammed down on wet ground with a sickening squelch and a loud splash, as the rivulets of water flying into the air around him effectively masked the dry, strained heave he loosed as the wind got knocked clean out of him. His vision swam as the shallow river water he'd landed in finally calmed, and half-engulfed, half-swirled around him as he lay there unmoving. That, he thought, could have gone infinitely better. He grimaced at the poisonous cocktail of emotions he was experiencing. Shame, frustration, regret, exasperation…
Wait… Exasperation? That was odd. Was that Furia's emotion? He… wouldn't have been surprised if it were, to be honest.
Shaking the spots from his vision, he looked up – or at least, his perception of up – and despite the image seeming fairly upside down, he locked gazes with a pair of red eyes. They seemed inquisitive and showed no small amount of confusion, but they danced in the way only the eyes of someone highly alert and suspicious could. "…Not the best of first impressions, I will admit," Garret spoke measuredly, carefully picking his word so the alertness in those red eyes didn't increase. "Good morning. You are Riven, I take it?" He asked. Finally the eyes lost some of their sharpness, muted relief replacing the suspicion, and Garret heard footsteps splashing in the shallow water as his new acquaintance backed up a bit.
Taking that as confirmation that hostilities were (hopefully) over before they even began, Garret rolled over, grumbling under his breath as the shallow water proceeded to drench him completely, before rising to his feet. The mop of white hair was almost immediately familiar, framing a hardened face and done up into a spiky ponytail that pointed every which-way. Garret quickly took in the rest of the person before him; bronze skin, an outfit consisting of tattered travelling rags and bits and pieces of armour – Noxian armour, he noted, from the Noxian-Ionian conflict all those years ago. A smidgeon of white paint had been hastily drawn across her left cheek – but even that could not hide the tiny, yet uneven burn beneath it. Garret shuddered slightly when he saw that, and to his great worry he saw another burn stretching across the outside of her right thigh.
What worried him most, however, was her right arm – the gauntlet surrounding the hand had been completely crushed by… something, and the varying shades of purple and blue the limb was taking quickly clued the scholar in that the woman's arm was broken quite badly.
Red eyes continued to regard him warily, before twitching ever so slightly as a hiss of pain poured from Riven's throat. Gingerly, her bandaged left hand touched at the varying bruises decorating her broken limb, before she shook her head and trudged towards a moderately sized boulder, where she sat down. "Will…" Garret chanced speaking, observing Riven with a critical eye. She seemed quite hindered by that broken limb. "Will you be alright?" He asked honestly.
For a moment she looked at him again, seeming outright fatigued. He could tell she was gritting her teeth, despite keeping her lips set into that stern, straight line. "…Yes. Just…" She spoke, then trailed off, in a surprisingly soft voice, one Garret would not associate with a veteran soldier at first. "…Just keep watch," she finally instructed, grimacing as she set her gauntleted hand across her lap, and seized its rim with her free hand. "If he catches us off guard… we're both dead."
The 'he' in question, Garret thought, was likely the mind-numbingly powerful being that could make a Noxian prodigy call for a retreat. If this beast were anything like Sion, he'd prefer to keep well away from it. So he took up a vigil of sorts on the riverbank while Riven tended to her wounds, alternating his gaze between the wounded soldier and the direction she had likely been coming from. Riven, he noticed, was gingerly tugging at her gauntlet, trying to pry the crushed piece of armour from her arm, letting out small hisses of pain every now and then.
His face fell a bit, as he watched her fight against the pain that was obviously assailing her. It was a valiant battle on her end – but her voice, and her body, gave away what her face did not. He saw her shoulders quiver under the rags she wore, saw the muscles in her neck tense from how hard she was gnashing her teeth, and even her toes were digging into the leather of the sandals she wore. Garret always thought soldiers like her were impermeable; sights like these just reinforced how wrong he was.
A sudden crack echoed over the sound of rushing water, accompanied by a short-lived, pained growl from Riven before she slammed her jaw shut. Her features wavered for but a moment before a fire ignited in her eyes, and her face set itself into that same steely expression. Garret grimaced as she continued to tug at the gauntlet – that crack had sounded anything but healthy. "…Are you… Do you need help?" He offered lamely.
"…I'm fine." Garret winced – despite how low and soft Riven's voice was, that had sounded outright vicious. His thoughts were halted when, with another loud crack and another wince, the gauntlet adorning Riven's right forearm finally fell to the wet ground, revealing…
Garret's face fell when he saw what had been hiding beneath that gauntlet. Whereas Riven's upper arm was swollen and matted with blotches of purple and blue, her forearm had barely a trace of bronze skin; it looked like one giant welt and gods above, it was even going sickle-shaped. While he couldn't exactly see any bone piercing the skin – thank goodness – he was quite certain those were some severe fractures…
…and yet, despite the grimace adorning her face, and the rivulets of sweat dotting her cheeks and forehead, Riven didn't seem perturbed in the least. She regarded the mangled, swollen limb with a downright bored expression, and allowed herself a single, muted sigh before her good hand gingerly started pressing and poking at her broken arm, setting the bones back into place with several loud clicks and snaps that, frankly, made Garret shudder.
He chose to look away at this moment, as Riven went about resetting the bones in her arm. Instead he kept his gaze levelled in the direction he was quite sure his ally's battles had taken place, if the footprints in the mud and the trampled undergrowth he noticed were any indication. He had half expected a ruckus to be sounding in the distance – maybe the chaos of splintering jungle, or a loud metallic report like the one that had heralded Sion's appearance. Instead… There was nothing. There weren't even any critters hopping about. That served to unnerve him more than any brash, boastful entrance announcement ever could.
A blade materialized in his hand, then – wickedly curved and simmering. It seemed as though Furia caught on to his unease.
He scanned the undergrowth for a moment longer, and when he saw no threat looming in the distance, he glanced back at Riven. She had finished resetting the bones in her arm, and had paused halfway through ripping the bandages covering her left arm off with her teeth when she had apparently paused to regard his blade curiously. "I'd rather not be caught flat-footed again," he clarified to her, with an awkward shrug. "Once is quite enough."
She continued to regard the weapon in his hand – a scimitar, Furia's memories helpfully supplied – a moment longer, before her shoulders slumped just a fraction, and she proceeded with her task. With a quick jerk, she tore the knot keeping the bandages wrapped around her arm, and deftly removed them. "…I saw you on the Treeline," she spoke softly as she started to wrap the bandages tightly around her bruised arm. Her eyes quivered at the pressure, and for the briefest of moments Garret thought he saw a grimace flash across her face, before it was lost beneath her usual mask of neutrality. She cast an inquisitive glance at his blackened arm while she tended to her broken arm. "Can you let it out?" She asked simply.
"Her," Garret corrected, quickly and primly. "And I am quite certain we can transition now, yes." He ignored the way her brow rose by just a fraction when he corrected her.
"…Good," she relented finally, tightening the bandages and knotting it quickly, with nimble fingers and deft movements, before reaching up and grasping the dusty travelling cloak that had been draped over her right shoulder. "It… She… will be necessary, if we're to defeat what's coming," she muttered, and with a powerful yank, the cloak came loose with a loud rip. "There's no running from him…" She said darkly as she proceeded to spin the tattered cloak around her arm as well.
As if on cue, a loud crash sounded in the distance. It was far enough to sound muted, subdued, even, but its effect was no less pronounced; a cacophony of caws and hoots and screeches surrounded them as birds of every shape and size took to the skies, stirred from their nests by the enemy's approach. Garret risked a glance back at Riven, and immediately wished he hadn't; gone was the mask of neutrality, replaced by a frown and an expression of absolute worry. With a muted huff she finished binding her arm with the bandages and cloak, and quickly rose to her feet, pawing at the buckle of the belt that had been haphazardly draped around her hips. With a loud click the piece of apparel came loose, and she quickly set to work on trying to fashion a sling for her arm… with minimal success, if the way she were fumbling with the buckle was any indication.
Another crash sounded, far closer than the last, and as its echo died the silence that settled across the undergrowth was almost deafening. With a grunt of mounting dread, Garret turned and strode over to Riven. "May I at least help with this?" He asked - as sincerely as he could, given how his nerves were going brittle at the thought of approaching combat – while pointing at the buckle. "Distractions could be unpleasant if this 'he' appears now," he added.
She appeared taken aback at first – he could have sworn she did – but it lasted but a second, as yet another crash bellowed from the undergrowth, this once accompanied by the tell-tale sign of a tree slamming down on cold ground. Riven kept her gaze on the direction the ruckus was coming from – but stopped fumbling, instead using her grip on the belt to push the buckle out towards him.
He didn't need any other cues. He quickly relinquished his grip on the scimitar, which remained floating beside him, and quickly tended to Riven's makeshift sling – within moments it clicked into place, and gingerly he gave it a slight tug to make sure it was secure. Riven's arm jumped at the motion, but she was otherwise unresponsive. "Will you be alright?" He asked, softly, shakily. Riven turned to regard him curiously at first, but eventually nodded, determination shining in those red orbs.
"…Let him focus on me," she said, "and let her attack him from his blind spots."
Garret opened his mouth, intent to reply…
And at that moment, their hunter announced his presence.
It started slowly, lowly, a muted exhale of breath sneaking between the roots of the undergrowth. Then it grew, louder and louder, until the outright demonic sound resembled a hiss that seemed to seep from the very nothingness in the air around them. Garret reached for the scimitar by his side, and felt that familiar pang of alien excitement bloom in his stomach, dispelling the earlier uncertainty and worry looming there, and Riven reached back, seizing the broken black blade sheathed at the small of her back, and drew it, holding it daintily even though it seemed to weigh a ton.
'Furia,' Garret chanced, his thoughts shaken by the sinister hiss that had been directed at them. 'An enemy approaches. Are you ready?'
And to his great relief, he received a reply.
"Always, Garret. Always."
Then another hiss came – and two piercing yellow eyes bloomed in the depths of the undergrowth.
The lumbering beast clambered into their small clearing with measured, yet weighted steps, each footfall making the earth beneath them shudder with dread. Like a great beast breaching water's surface, their enemy rose from the undergrowth, ferns and stray branches pulling at his form before ripping and snapping under his unimpeded march forwards. When the rays of sunlight filtering in through the jungle's canopy finally illuminated the beast, in all its monstrous glory, Garret's worry morphed to sheer, blood-chilling terror.
Like Sion, the thing was colossal – but that was where the similarities ended. The sunlight danced across scales that seemed like wrought steel, tightly wound across rippling muscle that spasmed and twitched, from anticipation or exhilaration or downright bloodthirst, Garret was too scared to guess. Adorned in pieces of armour reminiscent of ancient Shurima, the monster stopped five metres from them, its trunk like legs planting themselves into the earth as its reptilian tail danced hypnotically in the air behind it. A crocodilian head sat upon its shoulders, maw agape and bloodstained teeth glistening in the dim lighting, and its golden eyes, ablaze with mindless rage, were transfixed right on Riven.
And in its right hand it held a weapon Garret could only summarise as a guillotine.
This, Garret realized… This was an Ascended.
The excitement in his stomach, excitement he knew was not his own, suddenly exploded, flooding his body and setting it alight with heat and shivers. The red tints around his vision enveloped his sight, tinting everything crimson as his heart seemed to beat by the scores a minute. It seemed as though the distraction worked just as he intended it to. Finally he heard Furia's voice in the recesses of his mind, leaking bloodlust and excitement:
"Renekton…"
If Garret felt fear upon recognizing that name, the excitement and anticipation flooding him from all angles did not allow him to feel it. Even he had heard of Renekton; the Ascended hero of ancient Shurima, and a patron saint of the desert's warriors. That being was akin to a god...
…and now it was standing five metres from them. Its yellow eyes were still locked on Riven, who was – to her credit, and to Garret's extreme worry – slowly breaking away, with careful, measured steps. 'Do you…' He started, before flinching as another torrent of giddiness wracked his emotions. 'Do you… want to fight that thing, Furia?' He asked warily.
"Yeeeeeessss…" Gods above, the warmaiden had sounded downright aroused there. If his current emotional state weren't such a maelstrom he'd have been bashful about it. He tried to form the right words to speak, in the hazy midst of the torrential emotions he was experiencing, both his own and Furia's. He wanted to tell her to do as she wished; to go mad, fight to her heart's content, and not fret about death despite the fact that he felt he wouldn't be getting over it anytime soon.
Those thoughts died, when Renekton's golden gaze suddenly snapped to him – and those eyes turned blood red at the sight of his blackened arm. Another hiss escaped its gaping maw, one so loud, so forceful, so violent it sent droplets of spittle flying, and in a cavernous voice…
"Blood Fiend…"
…the Ascended spoke, and his statement shattered the silence around them.
For a moment, Garret was dumbstruck – and from the way Furia's emotions outright warped into a state of numb shock told him she experienced the same feeling.
The monster's legs tensed, then, rippling muscles coiling around its joints, and –
"Garret! Move!"
…and only his little hop of surprise at the sudden inflection of Riven's voice saved him from certain death, as the beast's titanic jaws slammed shut on the spot Garret's head had occupied a mere second before with enough force to buffet his face and make his hair whip back. His throat dried out and constricted, seeing those deadly fangs mere inches from his face, and immediately a flood of Furia's past experiences assailed him, steering his body into a hasty, haphazard attempt to put some distance between himself and the monster.
Renekton did not allow him that luxury.
The Ascended surged forward, guillotine flailing as it decimated fallen trunk and stone and shrub and foliage alike under its dicing onslaught, and before Garret could blink, the guillotine was sailing edge-first towards his neck, intent on removing his head from his body. He had no idea what spurred him into the haphazard roll to the side, but as the strike that would have killed him merely took a chunk out of a tree a foot or two behind him, he didn't question it – instead trying to buy himself some more time again.
The flat of Renekton's guillotine then slammed into the side of Garret's face, and cut those thoughts short.
Sky and ground became a blurred panorama of mixed colours as he was sent cartwheeling into the air, slamming into a mossy, fallen tree trunk with enough force to make it budge, and getting the wind knocked out of him in the process. He tried blinking the spots from his eyes, and the alien shock in the back of his mind faded away and the familiar bubbling, roiling excitement pooled in his gut again, but a shadow loomed overhead, and he could hear steel whistling through the air, and instinctively he hurled himself to the side just as the Ascended's curved blade reduced the fallen log to wood chips. Using the momentum from his roll, Garret scrambled back to his feet, vaulting over a small boulder in his way in a bid to put something between himself and the immitigable maelstrom of violence and hate pursuing him. The beast roared behind him, so loud it made his ears ring, but it had seemingly stopped to do so – and Garret took full advantage of that.
A desperate sprint put about ten metres between himself and the war-god, and he quickly spun on his heel, holding out his hands as if reaching for something – and within a moment, two more scimitars had formed in his hands. He locked eyes with Renekton, terror-stricken, adrenaline fuelled green orbs gazing into pools of burning, furious crimson…
Then a bronze blur shot into the air behind the tyrant, gleaming green in the muted rays of sunlight.
Riven's arc of flight managed to awe Garret into inaction for a moment – she spun mid-air as though the broken arm didn't hinder her in the least, and her good hand swung the broken runeblade down, aiming right for the Ascended's eye.
Fury, however, did not dull Renekton's senses in the least.
Red eyes blinked as they beheld the shadow floating beside the tyrant's own, and with a venomous hiss the Ascended swung his guillotine up to meet the Noxian mid-flight. Their blades clashed with a deafening impact, black against grey, jagged against curve, before the two disengaged. Renekton righted himself first, howling with rage as he swung the guillotine in a crescent, aiming to bisect the nimble woman mid-flight – and missing, as Riven twisted her body aside. The blade missed her face by mere inches, severing a few hairs as she descended, and when she landed on her knees, the spiky bun she had done her hair up into came loose, allowing her silver locks to cascade down, framing her face and just barely touching her shoulders.
She let not a minute go to waste – she leapt again, somersaulting backwards as Renekton's curved blade upended the very earth she stood on moments earlier, and Riven exploited the opening. With a battlecry laced with steel she surged forward, and her jagged blade lanced across the tyrant's chest. A burst of bright green energy erupted from the blade, a kinetic discharge so powerful it made the ascended stumble – but this served only to fuel his rage.
Garret shook himself from his stupor, and decided to take action. The scimitars clutched in his hands dispersed with a loud crash, and the red mist formed a bow, several arrows already floating beside it. Furia's own expertise with the weapon quickly dawned on him, and he repeated the process – nock, draw, aim, this time much more fluidly. He held his breath and kept his gaze on the reptilian titan; Riven was dancing around it, evading every powerful strike with a graceful hop or leap, a spin, a twirl, a flip – but she had been put on the defensive. The Ascended's assault was relentless.
There.
The bowstring snapped back into place as Garret loosed the arrow, and it slammed right into the side of the tyrant's face, shattering into mist. There was no way it could pierce his scales – but it did catch his attention. The beast turned to hiss at Garret – only to falter again, as Riven's blade slammed against the side of its face. Scale parted beneath its jagged edge, and the tyrants eyes widened – but not in pain. With a roar that caused the very trees around them to quake, the guillotine lashed out again, in such an encompassing, sinister arc Riven had no choice but to disengage.
That, it turned out, was exactly what the beast wanted.
There was something deeply haunting about the anguished, raw scream of pain that poured from Riven's throat when Renekton's muscular tail slammed into her right side, right across her broken arm. It was a blow powerful enough to send the woman flying, and despite her most valiant attempts to right herself in mid-air she still stumbled when she landed, dropping to one knee with a pained heave as her injured arm twitched and spasmed, and her whole body shook from the sudden lance of pain.
Renekton roared at them, in rage and triumph, before readying his blade, his murderous gaze settled on both of them. His tail swished erratically, the wound on the side of his face dribbled blood, and he seemed tenfold more agitated than he was when he had first appeared to them…
…But Renekton was no worse for wear.
That fact chilled Garret to his core. What was it with this Institute of War and its unstoppable forces of nature?
The excitement that had been pooling in Garret's stomach pulsed then; it writhed and roiled, coiling around his limbs and doing its best to ensnare his senses. Crimson bled into his vision again; all colour was replaced with varying shades of black and red and his sight shook, as did his body. "Garret…" Furia's voice was hushed, strained, even – all her earlier unease and discomfort forgotten in the face of such a powerful foe. "Garret… Let me fight…" Slowly, yet surely, he felt his grasp of his own senses slip away. And yet…
…He could not be worried.
'I do not need to let you do anything, Furia,' He responded calmly, closing his eyes as the bow in his hands shattered. The darkness of closed eyes slowly tinted red, bright and blood-hued, but that, too, did not bother him. 'I've told you before. This is all for you…' He said as he felt the familiar warmth he felt on the Treeline envelop him.
The transition was a success.
'Do have fun, Furia…'
Frenzy. Blood. The clash of steel against steel, and the sound of flesh parting under a blade's edge.
This was her home ground, her nature personified and embodied. To her, in the throes of combat there was no sadness, no uncertainty. There was no hesitation, no confusion – only frenzy, only bloodlust, only excitement, and the rush and the thrill of battle. Gone were the feelings of hesitation, the feelings of regret and sorrow – in the face of a war-god they had all but dispersed, leaving only… joy.
The look on the agile woman's face when Furia stormed past, charging right at Renekton with twin axes drawn and poised to strike, was nothing short of glorious.
Renekton roared at her, surging forwards to meet her charge head on. Her axes dispersed and she tucked forwards, rolling right between his legs and rising to her feet behind him, dashing to the left to avoid the retaliatory strike from the beast's tail. Her axes manifested again, and she leapt, finding footing on the root of Renekton's reptilian tail and slamming her axes down on his exposed back. Scales parted only slightly beneath the assault – but she had never intended to pierce through his hide.
She dropped down again, dipping low and slipping through under the tyrant's legs again as he spun to try and assault the person who dared to strike at his back. Her axes bit into the scales covering his heels, giving way with much less resistance. She had to desist, though, as the tyrant's tail lashed at her again.
This…
This was what she lived and breathed for, she thought as the Ascended launched a flurry of devastating swings at her, his guillotine screeching lowly as it seared the air as it went. Every strike was aimed to cull her, to cut her down with white-hot fury, and she loved every minute of it. Every time the blade missed narrowly enough to graze her, every time she was buffeted by the shockwave kicked up by the beast's swings. Despite Renekton's relentless assault putting her entirely on the defensive, she could not stop the peals of joyous laughter escaping her. Her own voice mingled with Garret's own, creating a truly cacophonic, alien sound – one she found to be quite pleasant.
A flash of green bloomed behind the Ascended tyrant, and from the corner of her vision Furia saw that Noxian woman return to the fray. Riven, Garret had identified her… Her face, pale from the pain and matted with sweat, was set into a grim mask of determination, and her blade… Furia's heart almost fluttered when she saw that blade. It had been reforged, be it by force of will or magic, she did not care. It shone with emerald might, three glyphs lining the dark flat of the blade, and Riven was wielding the now-colossal sword with one hand.
In the back of her mind, she noticed even Garret was astounded by that feat.
Whistling winds broke that train of thought, and once more Furia lashed out, shattering her axes against the side of Renekton's guillotine with enough force to push it off course. She resumed her nimble dance around the titanic beast, evading, weaving, hopping and dropping, lashing out whenever an opportunity presented itself. The beast snapped at her, and it missed narrowly enough that two fangs sank into the collar of Garret's duster and shredded it, but still she kept moving.
Riven commenced her assault from the monster's other side, her giant blade moving with no less speed than it did when it was broken. The newly reforged edge easily pierced the scales on Renekton's back, opening a weeping gash from his shoulder blade to his hip. The blade discharged another burst of magic, staggering the beast again – but still, it was no worse for fear.
And Furia noticed, with an amount of worry that pierced through the haze of her elation, that Garret's body was beginning to grow weary.
A plan had to be made. If her weapons were not strong enough to drive through the beast's scales, she would resort to force over cutting power; her axes dispelled, and the mist coiled in her hands, forging an enormous flanged mace. She hopped back, using the momentum to power a swing, and the head of the mace slammed against the base of Renekton's tail with a sickening crunch. The weapon itself had dispelled, but the impact had done what was needed – an oozing rip now lined the side of the reptilian appendage.
Her instincts screamed at her then, and her hearing, no less keen after centuries of death, heard an object sailing on a collision course with her face. Again, she nimbly moved – but too slow. Fatigue had caught Garret's body – just as the crushing backhand from the tyrant caught her across the face.
She hit the ground twice as she flew before she righted herself, quivering as the pain set in. Something she had last felt ages ago, now blooming on the side of her face… A short chuckle escaped her as she shook her head. A crude, almost primitive spear formed from her red smoke. With Garret's body losing itself to fatigue, she needed to keep her distance – at least until her host gained his second wind. She twirled the spear twice before readying herself to hurl it at the beast; she set her posture, squared her shoulders and raised her free hand, using her thumb as a reference point, before loosing the spear with a decent amount of strength.
It slammed home against the flat of Renekton's guillotine, knocking it off course before the beast's swing had even begun and allowing Riven several more moments to continue her assault. Renekton, ever the war-god, met her charge head-on; even with his blade thrown off course he was quick to retaliate with his free arm. He would slam his vambrace against her wrist and knock her own swing off course, or use it to parry her colossal blade with barely a flinch. The beast may have been slow, but he was skilled – skilled, and mighty.
Again, Furia formed a spear and loosed it, this time aiming for the wound she had opened across its tail. The monster, however, was well aware of her now, and a simple shift of his stance allowed him to combat both Riven and herself at once. The guillotine was heavy, and almost all-encompassing; in Renekton's skilled hand there was no direction he could not block an attack from. The heavy, curved blade spun in his hands as he moved, batting aside Riven's strikes and intercepting any of Furia's ranged attacks in the same action.
Riven changed tactics, then – she started using her natural agility to weave circles around the beast, keeping its focus on her. Furia took advantage of this with manic glee; spear after spear flew from her hands as she cackled madly, slamming into Renekton with deceptive force; they either shattered on impact and staggered him, or missed their mark due to Renekton's own deceptive dexterity. Furia chanced a glance at her momentary ally – just as Riven's eyes locked onto something interesting:
The wound Furia had opened across Renekton's tail.
It was enrapturing, seeing the gears in the woman's head churn as her eyes lit up with an idea. Furia breathed deep, feeling new energy return to Garret's limbs, and dispelled her throwing spears. She formed two scimitars in her hands, and charged, instinct laying Riven's plan bare before her.
Her own weapons lacked the heft to truly bite into Renekton's flesh… But Riven's reforged blade had no such problems.
Her blades trailed red as she charged, and she laughed manically as the beast saw her approach. His roar made her shudder, delight coursing through her being as her presence was acknowledged, and Renekton's stance shifted once again, aeons of training and skill manoeuvring into a position to fight both herself and Riven on equal ground. She dropped into a slide as the guillotine came full circle, hopping back up and slashing at his unguarded legs as Riven tried to position herself. Instead of repositioning his blade for another strike, Renekton spun in tandem with it, bringing it around again with even more momentum. Furia lashed out with her blades again, hoping to push it off course, but it barrelled through her weapons as though they were air, and only quick thinking saved her; the curved blade merely bit deeply into her cheek instead of taking her head off.
Her cry of pain was short lived, and soon it devolved into an insane, delighted giggle. Her might, the same thing that forged her blades from her bloody smoke, cauterized the wound immediately. The lance of muted, burning agony brought a content hum from her, as she revelled in feeling that which was, for so long, part of her very nature. Then she forged her curved blades once more, and sprang to action.
Theirs was a three-way dance of destruction and carnage; blades drifted and floated, trailed and coiled, striking and colliding and blocking and shattering with equal occasion. Again, Renekton's blade bit into Furia's flesh, tearing a gash across her host's chest in an opening birthed from the death of his second wind. Again and again, Riven tried to position herself – the cut across the beast's tail was at an awkward angle, and she herself had only one arm to drive her blade home. But again and again, Renekton's stance shifted, denying her a window to do so.
So Furia took the initiative. One scimitar dispelled, its smoky remnants fashioning a kite shield. Usually she found the object distasteful – there was no skill, no glory, to be found hiding behind a sheet of steel. For this gambit, though, it had to be. The shield shrunk, to the size of a mere buckler, and with a huff, Furia twirled the curved blade, holding it reversed. The beast swung its guillotine again, roaring in fury and bloodthirst, and in the moment Furia evaded it, she used it to signal the Noxian girl – a simple nod sufficed.
It had to suffice.
For the umpteenth time Furia slid between the Ascended tyrant's massive legs, and with a loud, bloodthirsty growl she drove her blade into the beast's heel. It pierced but a fraction of an inch, and shattered like all her other blades – but it served its purpose. Renekton levelled his gaze at her, rage blazing in his red eyes like an inferno. "Come then, oh warrior," Furia taunted, forming a spear as her shield expanded to its full size. "Is this what you call carnage?!"
The roar she received in response was all the answer she needed.
The guillotine lashed out with ferocity she had not witnessed yet; she weaved to the side and her heart skipped a beat as the blade passed by her face so narrowly she could feel the coolness of the steel wash over her. Renekton had switched hands before the curved blade had even completed its swing, chaining a second strike so soon after the first most would have been caught flat footed – just as Furia was; the blade lanced across her host's collarbone and tore a chunk out of her kite shield – but the brunt of the attack had been evaded.
Then came the strike she had anticipated.
Forgoing the use of his guillotine entirely, Renekton's clenched fist shot outwards, like a cobra striking in the blink of an eye. His fists formed a perfect shape, one geared to wreak havoc once it struck flesh, and Furia dispelled her spear and raised her kite shield. It would not last, she knew; it would shatter, just as all her other weapons did. But she did not need it to stop Renekton's punch.
She merely needed it to rob the attack of most of its force.
Renekton's fist slammed home – the kite shield halted it for but a second before shattering, and Furia's red-tinted vision blacked out as the fist slammed clean into her face. The mere impact jerked her head back with enough force to make her neck sprain, and the blow lifted her clean off her feet, hurling her back like a ragdoll. Her body hopped once before she tried to right herself, only to stumble back into a roll and hop again before coming to an abrupt, awkward stop. Furia scrambled to her knees, shaking the dark spots from her vision and hoping with all her might a part of Garret's skull hadn't been fractured, before looking up…
…Just as Riven brought her sword down on Renekton's tail, the blade aligned perfectly with the wound.
It was… underwhelming, Furia opined as she rose to her feet. There wasn't a crack of shattering scales or a crunch of steel fracturing bone. Just a snip, one barely causing an echo, and –
Renekton roared.
The sheer volume was enough to make Furia stumble, nursing the aching skull as she was. It was a gesture laced with agony, unbearable agony. She detected many emotions accompanying the pain. There was shock, frustration, some shame…
…But the most prevalent emotion was rage.
Riven sprang to action immediately, abusing the opening Renekton's agony had caused to its fullest effect. Her normally red eyes glowed green as her blade hummed with magic, it's runic engravings shining. A sheath of green enveloped the Noxian woman's blade, compressing itself and sharpening to a cunning, chilling edge as it pulsed with energy. Riven rolled her good shoulder, grimacing, before commencing her assault. She spun on her heel, trying to build up the momentum to swing the blade at the correct angle. A magical blade of that magnitude, at the right angle? Furia giddily wagered it would rend that war-god clean in half. So she grinned, the smoke making up her visage convulsing accordingly, and waited as time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Her anticipation turned to horror when the cloud of agony dispersed from Renekton's eyes before Riven had even gotten halfway through her swing.
Immediately her scimitars formed again, even as she felt her connection with Garret weaken as his body started to give out. Renekton seemed to sneer at her, his red eyes flicking from Furia to Riven, before he moved with an amount of speed no being of his size should possess. He spun, faster than Riven could even hope to, and hurled his guillotine – right at Furia. Elation dissipated entirely as shock and surprise took hold, and in the wake of Garret's fatigue all she could do was blindly pitch forward into a haphazard scramble and hope the blade missed. It sailed across her, the wind trailing behind it literally whipping Garret's long hair around, but Furia did not let that deter her. She shattered her blades and formed them into a javelin, hoping to at least put Renekton off balance before he could do… whatever he planned to do.
But fate, this time, did not favour her.
Riven's battlecry reached Furia's ears the moment the warmaiden had scrambled to her feet and taken aim. With a fierce expression the Noxian woman completed her spin – and her expression turned to one of shock and dismay when she found Renekton less than two feet from her. With a vicious hiss the beast lashed out, his vambraces colliding with Riven's wrist and knocking her blade off course.
The obsidian sword loosed its wave of emerald magics into a vicious blade of might that only expanded as it travelled – and it missed Renekton completely…
…instead flying right towards Furia.
A flash of green was all the warning the warmaiden had before her body – Garret's body – was forcibly jolted back, as though shoved. For those precious few painful moments time seemed to slow to a crawl. Furia saw everything clearly at that point; the way the steam floated from Renekton's nostrils when he exhaled, the way Riven's eyes had widened in sheer, unbridled horror – and Garret's now-severed left arm, floating haplessly before her as it plummeted to the ground.
Her senses start to leave her at a rapid pace as the pain exploded around her shoulder. With a distasteful hiss she weathered the onslaught of agony, struggling to stay upright as Garret's body started to fail. Their shared right was all but useless by now, and the way her head was lolling about spelt nothing good. With the last of her will, the last bit of power she could muster she formed a last spear, intent at least on delivering a last blow before her host's body gave in entirely.
But again, Renekton beat her to the punch.
The Ascended had taken advantage of Riven's shock, if the bruises on her face were anything to go by. Renekton's fists struck in powerful, clapping snaps, blows that seemed to daze the Noxian with every strike. Finally one of its titanic hands seized her right around the face and lifted her clean off the ground – and the lizard's eyes finally flicked over to Furia's stumbling form.
Her spear shattered as Renekton reared his arm back, and a bitter chuckle escaped her as realization set in. Using one enemy as a physical weapon against another… as expected of one hailed as a war-god. And yet… In the midst of her bitterness, despair started to claw at her heart.
She truly thought they could win. It was why she weathered that punch in the first place. She believed she and Riven could strike down this monster, as so many others had done historically – as she herself had done in life. Now… Now her host was without an arm. If the trauma didn't kill him… then Renekton surely would.
It felt as though her heart quivered at that thought.
'Do have fun,' he told her, and what fun it was… but at such a steep cost.
Her host would die again.
And once more, it would be all her fau-
'No, Furia.'
She jolted as Garret's voice reached out from their shared subconscious. Her eyes, white on that face of red smoke, widened as her host addressed her. That voice… it was wracked with pain and agony, but… It was still warm. Kind.
Still compassionate.
'This situation… is looking grim,' Garret spoke to her, chuckling ruefully. 'But… Don't fret, Furia. Don't fret for a moment. What I saw during this battle, Furia… I won't lie. It confused me, perplexed me. I cannot fathom how anyone can laugh so joyously in a fight for their lives. But…' He paused for a moment, as though the agony had overcome him briefly. 'But I saw you happy, Furia. And that… Despite the odds of dying now, that makes me happy.'
"But… You… You'll die again," she responded lamely. Now she couldn't even feel her legs; it was more sheer will that keeping her upright. While the pain was fast fading, so was their physical connection; and that caused her no small amount of worry.
'Well,' he chuckled, a dry cough slipping in between the syllables, 'we are fortunate then, that it is not permanent. Not here, at least.' He remained quiet then, for a moment, before speaking again. 'You have nothing to fret over, Furia. You have done well enough. I do not blame you for anything – so please… don't blame yourself.'
A blur flickered in her vision, and Furia refocused herself only to see Riven flying towards her at an alarming speed. Garret's words… kind as they were, they did not alleviate this… this sorrow she felt at letting him down again. But… When he had said that he was happy, seeing her happy… That foolish, foolish man had sounded so sincere when he had said it, she… she could not bring herself to disbelieve him.
So just as their connection started to slip away, just before Garret's mind took the reins and just before Riven bodily crashed into their shared vessel, Furia allowed herself to learn a single, crucial fact:
She still had much to learn about her host.
The impact had cruelly ripped him from the warm, comforting confines of their shared subconscious, and the pain that suddenly transcended mere feeling and took its place as Garret Hillock's defining existential factor made his vision white out and his throat dry up and constrict painfully as he was sent tumbling along. The agony that seemed to bask every nerve ending in the left part of his body in white-hot fire rendered him unable to even think; even the desperate, worried cries of… some woman off in the distance didn't register. His body shook and convulsed and quaked and spasmed and despite trying so, so hard just to scream, to give voice to his agony and at least find some way to cope, it was as though he had short-circuited completely; the body still functioned – barely – but the mind had shut down.
Eventually he regained some of his faculties. Beams of light that pierced through the jungle's canopy lit up his vision, throwing the contrast off balance and making everything seem hundreds of time sharper than it should be, and when he took a deep breath after holding his for so long the barest hint of a pained wail escaped him before he gritted his teeth, gnashing them so hard he would have sworn he heard the enamel crack and give way.
Worthless; he'd been made utterly worthless by that battle, even though he strictly wasn't even part of it. But… Despite the agony tearing at the tips of his nerves, and the way his vision swam and head pounded… He was content. An odd thing to say; whether it was the result of delirium due to a heavy concussion or just the knowledge that he'd come back in one piece that spurred him to say such a thing, he didn't know.
Red eyes appeared in his vision again, lacking that confident edge he'd come to associate with them in such a short time. Riven was… speaking to him, he'd bet, if her moving lips were any indication, but she looked positively mortified. Her hair had come loose, he noticed – it now hung down, framing her face and despite the situation Garret thought it made her look… quite pretty. But… where had those bruises come from?
A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, and Riven seemed to jump with fright. Out of nowhere, the Ascended – Renekton, his pain-addled mind remembered – surged back into his view. Riven was back on her feet in an instant, but her belt-sling had been lost, and her broken arm was now dangling limply by her side.
She didn't let that deter her.
Nimbly she hopped forwards, her blade – broken once more – thrusting and slashing at the reptilian monster's scaly hide. And Renekton… To Garret's great shock, and mounting horror – horror so pronounced it nearly pierced through the haze of agony afflicting his mind – that enraged, mindless, berserk beast proceeded to match Riven with his bare bloody hands.
Vambraces slammed into Riven's wrists and knuckles as she tried hopelessly to land more than a glancing blow, and fists the size of sideplates snapped out, slamming into her forearm and bicep. Garret could see the broken blade slipping from Riven's grasp as blow after debilitating blow, until finally the Ascended tyrant landed a devastating hook to Riven's face. The blow knocked her down to her knees and her broken blade went flying, and blood dribbled from her nose and the corner of her mouth as she weakly scrambled to get back to her feet.
Once more, Renekton's colossal hand wrapped all the way around Riven's head, and once more he hoisted her into the air as though she weighed but a pittance. She struggled, admirably, kicking and twisting and pawing at Renekton's arm with her good hand – but the tyrant seemed nonplussed. Garret's hearing returned just in time to hear the beast hiss, and with a deep, rumbling growl he reared his arm back and hurled Riven – clean out of sight.
Those baleful red eyes locked onto Garret again, conveying nothing but sheer, animalistic fury and an amount of raw hate he couldn't even hope to fathom. The reptilian beast purposefully strode to the edge of Garret's vision, where it bent down and retrieved the guillotine it had hurled at him, when Furia had been in control. Then it burned back, and started lumbering towards Garret, red eyes blazing and mouth oozing spittle.
"Die," he commanded finally, raising the guillotine above his head by the centre-most grip with one hand. "FILTH!"
Despite his most valiant efforts to show some bravery for once in his life, Garret's heart leapt right up into his throat as he watched that gleaming blade hover above him. They'd done well enough, he told himself. Furia had been happy – honestly happy – in that fight, and… that was all that mattered, he supposed. He said it once, and he'd stick with that. So he screwed his eyes shut, relishing in the darkness that overtook his vision, and awaited the inevitable killing bl-
A blast akin to a thunderclap deafened him at that moment, and despite his eyes being closed a bright blast managed to shine clean through his eyelids. His ears rang, and his body shook from the fright at the sudden loud report. Dust and other small bits of debris rained down onto his face, and with a mix of a terrified groan and a pained whimper Garret managed to raise his good hand and shield his eyes somewhat before opening them.
A cloud of smoke. He'd been caught right in the middle of some kind of smokescreen, it seemed. Unlike Furia's crimson smoke, that coiled and snaked, this cloud seemed to bloom from an epicentre. If Garret hadn't known any better he'd have sworn he'd been saved by some kind of bomb – but that was just ludicro-
Shadows moved within the cloud of smoke, and before he could even blink, Renekton's guillotine came plummeting from the air. This time, he did scream – hoarsely, and quite softly, given how dry his throat was, but the terror he felt at that moment had been real and immense, and even when the blade itself, sans its wielder, embedded itself into the ground mere inches next to his head, his mouth still hung ajar, lips quivering and eyes trembling from the terror.
Thank goodness, his delirious mind supplied, that he was hidden a cloud of smoke and nobody could see him.
Another clap of thunder echoed in the distance – from the other side of the river – and once again, a massive explosion rocked the earth beneath him. He tried to call out, to see if the interloper was friend or foe, when a strong hand seized him by the tattered remnants of his collar and pulled. Every lull in momentum led to the stump of his arm tapping against the ground, but like so many injuries beforehand, Garret's will managed to win out, and he powered through his pain by gritting his teeth. Another thunderclap sounded, a loud crack that split the air, and once again an explosion echoed close by. His head lolled back, partly out of fatigue and partly through a deliberate action, so he could at least see who saved him.
Riven.
She was heavily bruised – her left eye was nearly swollen shut, her nose was bent crooked, her lip seemed busted in three places, and the strands of light hair framing her face were tinted red; but she kept her face set into a grim mask of determination, sneering from time to time, whether from pain or fatigue, he could not begin to fathom. And behind her…
Garret nearly laughed aloud.
Never in his life had he been so happy to see a Yordle.
Tristana's cannon was aimed squarely at where Garret assumed Renekton would be now. Her normally jovial, happy-go-lucky expression had been replaced by a downright savage mask of focus and discipline, and her ears, usually expressive, had drooped low and folded back against her head. Her cannon belched fire again, and the recoil rocked her tiny frame considerably, but she remained planted where she stood, not even blinking in the face of the tremendous flash that flared from her cannon's muzzle with every shot.
The earth trembled again, then, and once more Garret heard a furious, bloodthirsty roar that he was very, very quickly learning to fear.
Renekton burst from the cloud of smoke Tristana's barrage had kicked up. His scales were singed and his colossal form seemed to weep wisps of smoke, but those red eyes shone with the same ferocity and rage they held when they first turned that shade. His gaze locked on Garret again, and he roared once more, the act actually dispelling some of the smoke that lingered near his muzzle. "You will not escape me!"He bellowed, arms seemingly convulsing from the force he was using to clench his fists.
Tristana clicked her tongue, muttering obscenities under her breath as she squeezed off shot after pinpoint shot at the lumbering tyrant. The first slammed clean into his chest, sending a ripple along the scaly musculature there and making the beast stagger a good few steps back – but Renekton shrugged it off and resumed his surged forward. The second shot was anticipated – it slammed against Renekton's raised vambraces with an unholy crash, denting the armour before the cannonball dropped harmlessly to the ground. Tristana frowned, then, and flipped a switch on the side of her cannon before firing a glowing cannonball towards her target. Again, Renekton raised his arms, in a bid to block the shot with his armour, but the moment it impacted, the Ascended was enveloped in a colossal plume of flame. It roiled and twisted as it burned everything around the beast…
…and yet, Renekton did not falter. He burst from the fire with a loud, bestial hiss, singed and charred in places all across his colossal frame. His vambraces clattered to the ground, fragments of them turned into malleable slag, but Renekton did not even stumble.
"…Dammit, dammit, dammit!" Tristana hissed, quickly fidgeting with the switch on her cannon again. Renekton was less than thirty metres from Riven and Garret now – and the beast had shown an uncanny amount of speed when trying to close a distance. The Yordle Gunner shifted her stance, bracing one leg backwards and one forwards before taking aim – right at the monster's face.
Their eyes met for a moment – red clashing against brown – before Tristana grit her teeth and pulled the trigger.
Renekton's eyes narrowed dangerously as the cannon belched fire. He hissed, reared back, bared his fangs –
And caught the cannonball right between his jaws, stopping it in its tracks.
The mere act shocked Garret and all his allies into inaction.
Renekton hissed, then, and scales and muscles around his maw rippled and churned as he bit down. Iron screeched and wailed as the beast's jaws squeezed down on it, expanding and popping and bending and shifting in shape until it was nothing but a vaguely elliptical hunk of worthless steel. The tyrant growled, the sound pooling around the mangled cannonball and echoing across the dead silence before he whipped his head to the side, hurling the mangled chunk of steel into the undergrowth.
Then his gaze turned to his three victims again.
Tristana let her shocked stupor last for but a minute; she quickly braced her cannon on her shoulder and darted forward with a speed only a Yordle could possess. She was by Riven's side before Renekton could even resume his surge forward. "Grab his other shoulder," she ordered Riven, as she grabbed Garret by the left lapel of his duster. "Hurry!"
Riven complied in an instant, years of routine and discipline kicking in at the sight of someone who would undoubtedly outrank her. She let go of Garret's arm and quickly seized him by his other lapel. A part of him was touched by the gesture, truly. Another part of him – one that pierced through the haze of pain with an urgency that frightened him, made him realize that Riven and Tristana would both die if they remained. "You… You two should flee," he wheezed, looking back at the Ascended. Renekton's eyes had narrowed to near slits, and every step he took covered the same distance Garret's allies managed to drag him. "If he's p-preoccupied with me you could escape…"
"Not happening, new guy…" Tristana grunted, reaching to her belt and yanking a grenade off it. She pulled the pin with her teeth and spat it to the side before hurling the grenade at the approaching colossus. "Remember what I told you earlier?" She said, and despite the grimness of their situation, she flashed him a grin. "I'm too stubborn to leave a comrade behind," she said resolutely, just as the grenade exploded in the distance.
"ENOUGH!" Renekton's bellowed command made all three of them jump. Once more he powered through the cloud of dust and smoke Tristana's explosive raised – and he was bristling. He forewent any semblance of toying with his victims, roaring as he charged forward. His footfalls made the ground beneath them shudder and his fangs gleamed in the fires started by Tristana's bombs. "DIE!"
Tristana had worry in her eyes, Garret noticed. It… didn't suit her at all. Nonetheless, she let go of his duster, readied her cannon, and threw an inquisitive glance in Riven's direction. "Still got enough in your tank to fight a bit more, Riv?" She asked lowly, turning her attention back to the charging beast. Riven did not reply – but she mirrored Tristana's action, relinquishing her grasp on Garret's duster and drawing her blade. "I'll take that as a 'yessir'," Tristana said glibly.
It was… Garret did not have the words to describe what he was feeling now. Was this the camaraderie that the Institute inspired in its Champions? A Noxian Exile and a Commando from Bandle City, willing to risk life and limb against something akin to a deity from Ancient Shurima – all for the sake of a Demacian turncoat? His throat had gone dry all over again. Even after he told them to leave, they refused, remaining steadfast in the face of certain doom. They were…
A part of him felt these two were everything he could never be. He would have fled long ago. They were just like…
…Isaiah…
They were just like one of his brothers. The Dauntless one.
Well, Garret thought, if they were all to perish at that moment, so be it. After all, it wasn't as though the death would be permanent. He lamented the fact that he was missing an arm, and the fact that he couldn't even feel most of his body. That… was probably the blood loss speaking. If he still had both arms… maybe he'd have formed that bow again. If only so he could contribute.
Now… Now here they sat. A Yordle, a wounded Noxian and a near-crippled Demacian, facing off against one of ancient Shurima's Ascended.
He chuckled bitterly. It had been… somewhat exhilarating, he admitted. The fact he felt a pang of smugness not at all his own form in his heart was an added bonus. But now… Only a miracle could save them now.
Renekton was ten metres away and closing…
And then, much to Garret's absolute wonder, the unthinkable happened.
A raging maelstrom of blue magic surrounded the charging monster, stopping it in its tracks as it grew in intensity. It whipped up harsh winds, uprooted small plants and even flung small rocks around as it swirled around the tyrant. "No…" he muttered, as the blue magics grew in size and brightness. "I… I will NOT!"
And with a mighty bellow, and a jerk of his colossal frame, Renekton broke free completely of the magics that surrounded him.
It only took Tristana's surprised, terrified exclamation of "What the fuck?!" to clue Garret in that what he just witnessed was not supposed to happen.
Renekton hissed and roared, shaking his head before resuming his charge. He managed three steps before several silver chains surrounded him with a thunderous racket. They coiled like snakes, trying to restrict his every movement, wrapping around his stomach, his chest, his limbs, even his muzzle. And even then – they failed in their goal. The chains binding Renekton's legs snapped with harsh cracks as he broken free, and several more followed, shattering by their weakest links and dropping to the ground before dissipating, rendered useless by the Ascended's monstrous strength. Yet for every chain that the beast snapped, two more took its place. His surge forward had slowed to a crawl, and finally, when he was barely five feet from them, the silver bindings brought the beast to his knees.
Again, the maelstrom of blue magic surrounded him, growing in size and intensity unimpeded by Renekton's reckless disobedience. Yet even the vast, deep blue hue of the Institute's magic did little to diminish that hateful crimson glare in the beast's eyes. It alternated its hateful gaze between the three of them, and even with the beast's muzzle bound tightly, his message was conveyed quite clearly:
This is not over.
Finally, with a loud snap of magic and a flash of brilliant blue, Renekton disappeared; the carnage he left in his wake – a good half an acre of ruined jungle – and the wounds marring Garret and Riven's bodies were the only traces the Ascended tyrant had ever been there.
Silence reigned for a whole minute.
Then, with a tremendous sigh, Riven sank to her knees, all her energy seemingly leaving her at once. Her shoulders slumped and she was lurching forwards where she sat, and her eyes had grown bloodshot from the ordeal. The bandages covering her broken arm had come loose sometime during the fray – and to Garret's great dismay, the limb seemed worse off than ever. Tristana was quick to mirror Riven's action, plopping down on Garret's other side with abject terror still lingering in those dark orbs of hers. "Holy crap that was terrifying…"she muttered. "And I didn't even fight him!" She exclaimed. "Seriously, what the hell? It's been years since the Summoners struggled to keep Renekton on his leash like that…" She trailed off. "Something must've really pissed him off."
Garret said nothing. Honestly, he couldn't – the whole situation was just so mind-numbing he couldn't even begin to describe his sentiment regarding it. With a pained groan, he used his deadened arm to prop himself up. It took several attempts – plus some help from Tristana, who giggled every time Garret's arm gave out and he ended up on his back again – but eventually, he succeeded, leaving the three of them sitting there on the riverbank, catching their breaths. His stump wasn't bleeding anymore, he noticed – most likely the Summoners at work – and what started as a head-splitting, blistering pain had now regressed into a dull, almost ringing ache. But he didn't dare touch the limb. Agitating injuries was something he'd learned to refrain from long ago.
Instead, he turned his attention to Riven. The woman seemed absolutely exhausted – more so than even he was. It was a given, he supposed; she had been fighting Renekton the longest, and if Tristana's commentary was anything to go by, that monster had killed Riven twice before Garret had even met her. He remembered how, less than an hour ago, he wondered just how strong "old scalebutt" could be.
Now that he had his answer he was quite certain Renekton would be haunting his nightmares for days to come.
She must have noticed someone was starting, as she turned to face him, a startled gleam in her eyes. Now, that just wouldn't do, would it? "Are… Are you alright?" He asked, despite all logic telling him all three of them were most certainly not fine. He was expecting an answer laced with suspicion, maybe a bit of sarcasm – after all, his question had slipped out before he could stop himself. Instead he was blessed enough to see those red eyes widen just a hint in surprise – before Riven shot him a look that could only be described as completely exasperated. He could hear Tristana break down into a fit of giggles on his other side, but chose not to comment on it. "I mean… You fought that monster longer than any of us. You look… pretty well done in."
Riven's exasperated look lasted but a moment longer, before she sighed deeply, her shoulders seemingly slumping even further. "I… You should worry about yourself first," she said, her voice barely a whisper and she absently rubbed at her good eye with the back of her hand. "You're the one who lost an arm."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Garret replied glibly, raising his mangled, spiky black arm for all to see. To his great delight, the wisecrack managed to draw the barest of smiles from the white-haired warrior. Tristana, on the other hand, outright broke down laughing.
"Y'know, I can see why Graggy and Jax hang with you," Tristana said, flashing him a winning smile. "You're real chilled."
"Am I?" Garret asked, honestly, shaking his head to dispel some of the fatigue. "Because now that the adrenaline is finally wearing off I think I only made a joke because I might be a hair's breadth away from a complete breakdown." The fact that he was unsure as to whether or not he might have been exaggerating bothered him just as much. Honestly whenever Garret tried to entertain thoughts of what just happened – crossing paths with a being that was once revered as a god of war – his mind, his greatest tool, seemingly failed him, choosing to alternate between the thoughts 'I'm alive!' and 'I can't believe I'm alive!' "Honestly," he said, licking his lips. "Half a year ago my biggest concerns were bounty hunters and Demacian scouts. Now I've encountered a mad, undead beast from Noxus, a mad, sadistic spectre of a crazed Warden, a mad, completely evil jester than I'm not certain is even human and lastly a mad, bloodthirsty war-god from Shurima – all in the span of two days." He trailed off. "Part of me thinks this is all a dream, if I can be honest."
"Well," Tristana said with a tiny shrug. "Welcome to the League of Legends, buddy." She gave him a light yet hearty clap on the back, purposely aiming as far away from his left shoulder as possible. He… appreciated that. "You get used to it over time," she said wryly. "And don't worry about a breakdown either. I've seen breakdowns. Riv over there had a breakdown," she helpfully supplied, earning herself a baleful glare from the injured warrior, "after her first death. Trust me, you're far from a breakdown."
He… didn't quite know what to say to that, really. Fatigue, aches and pains, mental strain… It was taking its toll on him, he realized. He was usually quite eloquent, quite verbose, but now… Now he was savouring the silence…. at least, until a thought occurred to him. He turned to face Tristana fully. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I… was so caught up in events I didn't ask if you were alright as well."
Much like how Riven reacted earlier, Tristana's first response was a raised eyebrow. It lasted only a moment, however, before a wide smile broke out across her face. "Ah, I'm fine," she said honestly. "A bit shaken up, because, y'know, a croc squished one of my cannonballs, but hey! Nothing like a good near-death experience to get the heart pumping again, y'know?"
"No. No, I honestly don't," Garret responded honestly, a wry smile on his face. "In fact I'm quite certain our hearts nearly stopped," he said, beckoning towards Riven with his head. While she didn't vocally reply, she did give a subtle nod at his words.
"Eh, details," Tristana shrugged with a carefree grin. "At the very least, one day you can tell your kids you faced a god and lived. That's something huh?" She said with a smirk.
Despite his most valiant efforts, Garret uttered a short bark of laughter, and even Riven showcased one of those tiny half-smiles again. Any further conversation, however, was halted when all three of them were surrounded by the same vortex of blue magic that had saved them from Renekton's wrath. "Wha… What's this?" Garret asked worriedly.
"No worries, Garret!" Tristana hollered at him over the howling gales spawned by the Institute's magics. "Just a little teleportation. We're going back to the Nexus. In a few seconds you'll have your arm back," she said, offering him a confident wink as the magics surrounding them grew brighter and brighter.
A teleportation… That was convenient, Garret mused to himself. Too convenient, was his first thought, before he abolished it with a shake of his head. Although he had died once, and met people and creatures and beings that seemed to be woven from the same fabrics as nightmares, the Institute's magic itself had not done wrong by him yet. If anything, their quick response to the discomfort he felt after his last battle proved the contrary.
Back to the Nexus, he thought as the magic swallowed him whole.
Hopefully the rest of the match would be so disastrous.
Fate, for all the odes sang to honour it, can be an overwhelming petty bastard when tempted, Garret thought as the light around him died down and he found himself back in the Summoning Chamber.
With a tired sigh, Garret hid his face in his hands for a moment, rubbing at his eyes. The rest of their match… had been apocalyptic. Despite their most valiant efforts, the enemy had outmanoeuvred and overwhelmed them at every possible turn. The Deathsinger and that "Kog'Maw" thing had denied them so much ground, and the treant kept singling Tristana out, surging right past her allies to try and take her out of the fight before it had even gotten properly underway, and that… that damnable clown…
Garret had died five times because of that thing's envenomed shivs.
… and that was before Renekton made his grand reappearance.
After the Ascended tyrant stepped back into the fray… Well, Garret was quite certain "hell" was an apt term for what the battle descended into.
A thought occurred to him then, and he shuddered – violently. Renekton had killed both Riven and Tristana moments before the match ended. Riven had fought valiantly – for a brief moment, it even seemed as though she would overcome to crocodilian behemoth. Riven with one arm was a deadly fighter – with both she had been absolutely awe-striking. But… Renekton had done something, invoked something, that… Honestly, if Garret had thought he'd been terrified of the monster at first, his fear was all but increased tenfold after seeing the beast could become even stronger.
It was a nightmarish sight. Renekton's eyes had glowed like beacons, and the very cobblestones lining their home base's ground shook and tremble before they outright uprooted themselves. Renekton had torn the sand out from under the foundation of their own base, and surrounding himself with a snowstorm of such severity it had lashed the skin off Riven's arms and legs within seconds. His muscles… They… They coiled and spasmed around his joints, knotting themselves over and over until their mass had all but doubled. The tyrants scales had ripped themselves asunder and mended themselves again several times over, and within moments even some of the beast's armour had cracked and bent before falling to the ground, and before Garret's eyes the thing had effectively doubled in size and height.
Garret lost track of their fight amidst the chaos of the enemy invading their home base – but he remembered seeing the end of Riven's fight against the empowered Renekton clearly. The beast had all but snatched her up in his colossal jaws, and bit down with all the force crocodiles were known for. Garret… He heard Riven's skull shatter under the force of that bite. And Tristana…
Tristana had been caught in the middle of one of her rocket-propelled leaps. Renekton had slammed her down on the cobblestones with enough force to crack her arm and hip, and… Then he had trampled her underfoot, without even sparing her a second thought.
Those, too, were images that would haunt him for a while.
"A hairy match indeed, my boy," he heard Agvald mutter behind him, and a grizzled, mottled hand came to rest on Garret's shoulder. "Much as I hate to say this, that was but the first of many defeats you will experience while you offer service to this Institute."
Garret turned to face the grizzled old Summoner. At this distance, he could see the multitude of wrinkles and age lines and liver spots adorning the man's face clearly. What struck Garret most, however, was the expression on the old man's face: One of regret, and sympathy. "Death is never easy, my boy," he said seriously, emphasizing his words with another pat on the shoulder. "But for what it is worth, Garret; you handled yourself admirably."
"I…" Garret started, before trailing off and considering his words. "At first I wanted to say the deaths didn't bother me that much. But… I would be lying. I experienced it many times in that match, and… I am well aware I will experience it many times more in the future. It unnerves me, if I may be honest. Every time I died I felt that same heart-numbing terror during the event, and that same mind-breaking disbelief afterwards. I… I will not soon get used to that," he said honestly. "But there's a silver lining, Agvald. Something that… Well, foolish as it may sound, there was something that made all the dying somewhat worth it."
"Oh?" Agvald seemed genuinely intrigued, removing his hand from Garret's shoulder. "Do you care to enlighten me as to what this silver lining is?"
"Furia," Garret replied simply, and already he felt her perk up and take notice from within his subconscious. "That clown may have infuriated her more than once," Garret said wryly, "but… all the other times she fought… I was watching, Agvald. I saw how she acted, I… I know what she felt. When she lost herself in the throes of combat, when she was caught up in the thrill of battle… I sensed joy. I sensed happiness, elation. There was a sense of freedom to her actions. When she took control, she was free; free to do as she wished after centuries of imprisonment, free to fight to her hearts content, free to adhere to her nature without scorn or judgement. The… The elation, and the unbridled happiness she felt at those moments… That makes every death worthwhile in my opinion," he said with a shaky smile. "Because I have felt that same joy, when this Institute absolved me of my past, and offered me a future. It's… It's one of the best feelings, one I cannot hope to put into words." He trailed off then, thinking back to the times Furia's peals of laughter in the midst of battle weren't mad or frenzied, but true; true, and honest. It… It brought a smile to his face, knowing he could make her happy like that. "I care not for victory or defeat," he said finally. "I joined this Institute because I promised Furia I would try to coexist. In a way… I wanted to make her as happy as this place has made me. Knowing I can succeed… Well, that makes me as happy as the endless combat makes her."
Agvald regarded him for a while longer, a curious glint in his eye – before a smile appeared on his face that seemed to disperse the darkness cast by his hood. His eyes twinkled and his shoulders shook in silent laughter. "Truly one of the purest hearts to walk these halls, I dare say," he said warmly. "We are lucky to have you, Mister Hillock."
"And I thank you, sincerely, for believing such a thing of me," Garret said with a light bow. "Just as I thank you for guiding me through that battle. It may have been disastrous, but… At least Furia and I knew we weren't alone in that battle."
"Ah, think nothing of it, Mister Hillock," Agvald said jovially, before walking back to the podium. "Such is the lot of the Summoner. So few new bloods actively care about the Champions they link with, truly a pity." He cleared his throat. "Now far be it from me to rush you, Mister Hillock," he said with a smile, "but I do believe the Starchild was looking for you. She's waiting right outside that door, if I'm not mistaken."
Garret paused, considering that bit of information. Soraka was looking for him? That… gave him a few mixed feelings. On one hand Soraka was an absolutely lovely person, always smiling and kind and compassionate. But… she was part of the Institute's medical branch. Had she discovered something about his condition? A part of him showed excitement regarding that thought. Another… showed trepidation. "Well," he said finally, "I'd best not keep the fair lady waiting. Once more, thank you for your help and guidance, Agvald," he said with a courteous nod. Agvald merely returned the gesture, and gave him another smile, before turning back to the podium.
Garret took that as his cue to leave. With a purposeful stride, he approached the door. For better or for worse, if Soraka wanted to speak with him about something, he'd comply – if only because she'd been so good to him since he came to the Institute.
He paused, though, when he had his hand resting on the dark oaken door's handle. There was… a warmth in the pit of his stomach, he realized. A sensation of contentedness that he knew for a fact could not be his own, not after how shaken all the death and destruction in that match had left him. With a smile he realized exactly whose emotion that was.
Had Furia heard him?
Honestly speaking, he hoped she had – because he had meant every word of it.
And with that thought, the feeling of warmth and contentedness seemed to grow that much stronger.
The first thing he noticed outside the small single-person Summoning Chamber was the buzz of activity. Summoners decked in robes of all kinds of muted colours were flitting up and down the corridor with haste in their steps. Some robes fluttered, some floated, some remained perfectly static. It was… a huge difference from the abandoned corridor he had seen earlier.
He spotted Gragas further down the corridor. The stout man was almost impossible to miss – he was having a laugh with a short Summoner clad in magenta robes, seemingly as inebriated as he had been when their skirmish on the Rift had started. Tristana was standing beside him, animatedly talking to a kneeling Summoner decked in blue. Despite the smile on her face, her ears had drooped quite low. Getting trampled probably spooked her – and Garret found he couldn't blame her. He had heard her body turn to pulp under Renekton's weight.
Gragas spotted him easily enough, and offered him a haphazard, drunken salute. Tristana noticed him too, and waved energetically – her ears even perked up a bit. Garret returned the wave with a similar amount of enthusiasm, if a bit less energy. Honestly he was exhausted after that match.
Gragas saw something – or someone – behind Garret, and pointed, a tactless action one could only expect from Gragas or Jax. The rotund man shared a last few laughs with his Summoner before turning on his heel and waddling down the corridor. Tristana remained in place after her Summoner left too – she seemed to be considering something. Eventually, she merely shrugged, smiled, and trotted off after Gragas. Garret smiled. His stout friend must have invited her to their favourite hotspot – "drink away the sorrows", as so many people across Valoran said.
He shook those thoughts from his head. He had someone to speak to, after all. He turned on his heel to look down the other end of the hallway, and his eyes fell on Soraka immediately. Not just because of her uniquely exotic appearance, but also because Garret viewed her as a friend, after spending so long in the Institute – even if he had only been a Champion for two days.
Soraka smiled as she stopped before him. "Seems everyone knows I've been looking for you," she said with a smile. "How did you match go?"
"Terribly," Garret said honestly, yet his smile matched hers. "But, what's past is past. I'd rather not spend much time wallowing in the bitterness of defeat. It's nothing a good night's rest won't fix," he said confidently.
"Indeed," she replied, now beaming. "Focus on the light, and the darkness will not hinder you. Would you mind walking with me for a moment, Garret? I think… I may have a way to help with your concerns," she said, motioning down the hallway.
"But of course," Garret agreed, quickly falling into step beside her. "Yours is a council I quite value, Soraka. I'll always make the time to listen, if you've got something on your mind," he said with a smile.
Soraka regarded him with a smile for a moment, before speaking. "I've been thinking about what you told me earlier, about how you're willing to keep searching for a way to reinforce the equilibrium between yourself and Furia. It would seem there's some kind of spiritual dissonance between your spirits, and, well, I may have found someone who is willing to help," she said with a smile. "There's a champion who walks these very halls at times, who shares his being with four spirits of nature's will. I remember an old friend of mine told me of how this man nearly lost himself to his spirits, and how meditation, peace, guidance and wisdom helped this warrior achieve harmony with his animal spirits. I…" She trailed off for a moment, before coming to a stop. She smiled at Garret then, and despite the purity of the action, there was an excited twinkle in her eyes.
"If you are so willing," she started, "I know of two people who are willing to help you achieve resonance with Furia's spirit. Tell me, Garret: Have you ever heard of the Wuju Monastery?"
The sun had long since set when Garret finally stepped over the threshold and into the warm, homely atmosphere of the bar that he, Jax and Gragas frequented. His first tryst on the Rift had lasted well over five hours, so it really wasn't much of a surprise that it was so late after he had to run the gauntlet to get all that administration done. Still, he was here now. He could kick back, relax, share a few mugs of grog with the few friends he'd made during his stay here, and then finally retire for the night. The fact that his body almost yearned for his bed merely reinforced this train of thought.
Idly he picked at the intricate bracelet that now surrounded the wrist of his human arm. It was nothing too confining or restricting – merely a way for the Summoners to warp him to Institute during the long journey that lay ahead, and for them to warp him back once he was done. A tiny, tiny part of him expressed childlike excitement regarding what the next few weeks had in store, and he harboured no doubt that this part would only grow as the days ticked by until his departure.
"…Garret?"
Furia's voice startled him mildly, he had to admit, but nonetheless he smiled. He and Furia hadn't really spoken since the battle on the Rift ended. At first he had been worried… but that sliver of warmth and contentedness he felt before exiting the Summoning chamber told him he shouldn't be. Furia was still aware, still there, looking, listening. But, as she had said: she wasn't proficient in vocalizing her feelings. She would speak when she was ready to. It was a lesson Garret should have learned by now. 'Yes, Furia?' He answered kindly. 'Anything you need?'
"Just…" She trailed off, and the confusion pecking at the depths of his subconscious told him Furia was indeed fumbling with her words. "Just… answers. What you said earlier, Garret… About… About my happiness…" She trailed off. "Did… Did you truly mean it?"
'Every word of it,' Garret responded immediately, without a moment's hesitation. What he had said in that chamber was something he believed in with a spectacular amount of fervour. 'We reached a compromise, did we not? And I never go back on my word.'
"Even… Even if you died, so many times?"
Ah. That old chestnut. He had expected to feel frustration at the continued prodding regarding his many deaths. Instead… Instead it was rather heartwarming, from his perspective, how a bloodthirsty warmaiden could be so worried about his health that his death caused her large amounts of unease. It proved to Garret that there were, indeed, many depths beneath Furia's initial veneer of bloodthirst and frenzy. 'Yes, Furia. Even if I died repeatedly. As I said, it will… it will take a while for me to grow accustomed to dying on the Fields of Justice. Just as I am certain it took every single Champion of the Institute a while to grow accustomed to it. But the joy I saw you display when you were in your own little world there, Furia? The honest elation and happiness you felt?' He said, smiling to himself. 'I would weather countless deaths if it meant you'd be happy like that. Because that, Furia, is what made me happy today.'
For a few tense moments, silence reigned in Garret's mind. But he knew Furia was still there – the confusion and the relief, surprisingly, that floated in his subconscious and sudden ball of warmth and giddiness in his stomach? Those were clear indicators. "I…" She started, her voice surprisingly shaky. "I… T-Thank you, Garret…" She said finally, and despite her quivering voice and the confusion she must have been feeling then…
Garret had a feeling she meant it.
'Think nothing of it, Furia,' he responded warmly. 'We are in this together, and we'll succeed together – just as I promised. Now! Let's go find our friends, shall we?'
Garret found Gragas and Jax somewhere near the back of the bar, with a not so surprising third party present. Tristana had forgone sitting on one of the chairs around the table and had instead opted to sit on the table itself. Her mood was chipper, her smile was wide and her ears, expressive as ever, were perked up and lively. Judging by the amount of empty mugs packed into piles between her and Jax, it seemed as though they were involved in some kind of drinking contest. Smiling, Garret shook his head at the sight. He didn't know which was more humorous to him: the fact that Jax, of all people, was facing a Yordle in a drinking contest…
…or the fact that the Yordle was actually keeping up.
Gragas noticed him first, and welcomed him with a jovial bark of rowdy laughter. Jax and Tristana followed suit – Tristana offered him one of her energetic waves, and Jax…
"Well look who decided to join the fun!" Jax said in his usual brash manner. "You're late to the party, bud. Got a looooot o' chugging to do if you want to catch up."
"I must politely decline," Garret responded, sliding into the seat across from Gragas. "I am quite certain I would die if I drank at the rate you two are going," he said. "Fancy seeing you here, by the way," he said, looking at Tristana. She merely offered him one of her dazzling smiles.
"Graggy invited me," she said energetically. "Said there was booze and good atmosphere, so I thought 'why not?' Nice enough place, really. I might even stop in more frequently," she said, pausing to take a sip from her mug. "We invited Riven too, but she said nah."
"Just as well," Jax piped up from where he was sitting. "Pity parties should be kept to a one person minimum, y'know. And that girl? Hell, I get the feeling there'd be a looooot o' pity to go around if she ever got shitfaced," he muttered. "By the way! This makes ten," he boasted, setting yet another empty mug on the growing pyramid before him. "You're gonna lose at this rate."
"Wha-What are you-What?!" Tristana had gone from laid back and relaxed to shocked in the blink of an eye, rapidly alternating her gaze between Jax, the ten empty mugs in front of him, the half-finished grog in her own hands and the seven measly mugs before her. "Wha-No! I call shenanigans!" She sputtered, rapidly beckoning to the bartender for a refill before raising the mug to her lips and chugging the remaining grog at a rate that made even Garret raise an eyebrow in wonder. As soon as she was finished, she raised a fist to her mouth, belched softly – and daintily, much to Garret's surprise – and set the mug down on her pile. "Clever plan, Jax. Distract me with small talk while you chug away. Well you're in for a shock – I'm a Commando. I'm made of stern stuff, I can probably-" A loud hiccup cut her off mid speech, one loud enough to make even the bartender chortle under his breath. Tristana's cheeks flushed as she realized what had happened. "…Aw, dammit," she muttered under her breath, before perking up, ears twitching. She looked towards the entrance of the bar, and raised an eyebrow in wonder. "Huh. My Summoner's here. Wonder what that's about…" She mused, before turning back to Jax. "I… will be right back. Don't be an ass and drink without me, you hear?" She instructed, before vaulting off the table.
"I don't see no Summoner," Jax taunted her. "What, running already? You know you can just admit you lose. I won't hold it against you… forever, that is."
Tristana replied with a mirthless laugh. "I am not running," she said, and promptly blew a raspberry at Jax. "A Bandle Gunner never turns tail. Unless it's to taunt you," she said smugly, before sauntering off.
Jax gave a… less than virtuous chuckle at that line as Tristana walked off. "Yeah? Well she can taunt me as much as she wants. I won't even complain," he said, drawing a chuckle from Gragas. It took Garret a good moment to realize what Jax had meant by that, and he even gone as far as to look back at Tristana himself, before sputtering and righting himself immediately.
"Really, Jax?" He asked dryly. "Even the Yordles?"
"Hey, especially the Yordles!" Jax objected, mock indignation lining his voice. "Do you know how much energy those little balls of happiness are sporting? Hell, some of my wildest nights have been with Yordles. Worth every ounce of tiredness the next day, lemme tell ya."
"Really," Garret responded, sounding anything but impressed. "Even her?" He asked, motioning to Tristana.
"What, Tristy? Hell no," Jax said. "She's got the looks, don't get me wrong. But she's military. That's bad juju right there. I generally stay away from the military folk. They've normally got more baggage than they know what to do with and last I checked, I ain't no fucking valet service," he said. "Anyways! A little bird told me the Starchild came and whisked you off after your match. What was that all about?" He asked. "Heard you lost. Did you score some pity nookie? Eh? Eh?"
"Please stop," Garret said, looking at Jax blankly. "I'd rather not have my interactions with her becoming awkward because of your… Well, because of you," he said. "Besides I hardly view her in that light."
"Oh really?" Jax said, sounding as though he didn't believe a word of. "You wanna look into these lenses of mine and tell me you haven't looked at those heavenly hips of hers at least once?"
He was being baited, Garret realized, quite heavily at that. "I am not having this conversation with you," he said firmly, leaning back in his seat and reaching for his grog. "Anything I say now will enable you. So I'd rather not say anything at all," he said, raising the mug to his lips, taking a sip of his grog…
"...Did you stick it in her shitter?"
…and promptly he choked on said grog. In hindsight, taking a sip of anything when Jax was in a teasing mood was probably extraordinarily foolish of him. Such is the curse of one easily flustered. Despite his spit take, though, he found himself smiling – Jax's comment had come completely out of left field for him, and, well, far be it from him to say a spit take isn't funny, even when he was the one doing it. Going by Jax and Gragas' uproarious laughter, the atmosphere had likely become even better for it. When his fit of coughing died down he found himself laughing along with them.
It was… a cathartic experience, really. It had been ages since he'd had a proper laugh in a bar.
"Eh, we're just fucking with ya, buddy," Jax said good-naturedly, adding an eleventh mug to his pile in blatant disregard of what Tristana had instructed him. "I can see that fancy bangle on your wrist. You planning something big? Maybe a bit of cross country travel?"
"Cross ocean travel, more like," Garret admitted. "I've been thinking about ways to achieve some kind of harmony with Furia's spirit, something that will let us transition easier on the Fields of Justice. Soraka, well, she told me about one the Institute's Champions who apparently had trouble with his own spirits. Apparently the people in Ionia helped him achieve harmony with them. I'm thinking if there's any place that can at least point me in the right direction, it's Ionia."
"Fancy that," Jax said, sounding legitimately surprised. "Hell, here I thought you'd be fucking off to Shurima first. That place seems to make everyone even vaguely interested in history wet. Ionia, though…" He trailed off, seemingly in thought. "Eh, it's a nice enough place. Lots of temples and monasteries alongside the long roads. Got its fair share of shit, though," he said seriously. "Like that sexy little ninja-nurse. She's from there. And that's not even starting on folks like Syndra," he said, shaking his head. "I don't give a damn what people say, twenty-two is too old to be actin' like a fucking brat."
"Well, the way you're speaking," Garret said with an honest smile, "makes it sound like Ionia's absolutely full of cultural treasures and marvels to discover, and great people to meet and avoid," he chuckled. "That probably part of why I'm so excited about it."
"You should be," Jax agreed. "Just remember: Keep away from the foxes. Seriously." A twelfth mug was added to his pile. "So how long are you gonna be away."
"It all depends on how long it takes me to find an answer, really," Garret spoke. "But I plan on taking the long road. There's a fishing village near the southern tip of Ionia where I plan to disembark. From there I'll make my way upwards. There are a lot of shrines and temples I want to dot down on a map again, maybe even pay my respects at some of them," he said with a shrug. "Need to stop by Soraka's monastery as well."
"Not really doing much to help your case here, buddy," Jax taunted with a lecherous tone. Garret shot him a baleful glare in the hopes of shutting him up, but as fate decreed, it failed miserably. "In any case," Jax continued, "if you're going on a long ass journey it's only proper we drink to it, eh?" He said seizing a new mug of grog. "So what are we drinking to?"
Garret pondered the question for a moment. "Answers, I guess," he answered eventually. "Answers, guidance, and harmony – clichéd as that may sound," he said.
"If it gives me an excuse to drink, I'll drink to it," Jax said dryly. "So there we have it!" He exclaimed, raising his mug. "To answers, guidance, harmony!"
As three, they raised their mugs, ignoring the distant 'Hey!' from Tristana when she noticed she action, and emptied their mugs in one clean motion. Garret savoured the breath he took afterwards. Just speaking of his upcoming trip to Ionia made the excitement within him bloom. There was so much for him to learn, so much to discover, and the fact that Soraka had guaranteed her two friends could at least help guide him towards a solution had him hastily agreeing before the Starchild even finished speaking.
He looked down at his mutated arm. Every now and then a pulse of red would travel beneath the leathery black skin towards the fingertips, illuminating the musculature beneath. This was his primary motivation – harmony. He had made a promise to Furia – and he was intending to keep it.
For better or for worse, for progress or delays, Ionia would at least shed some light on this situation.
"Garret?" Furia's voice stirred him from his thoughts. "I… I have a question."
'What seems to be the matter, Furia?' Garret asked. 'I'd be happy to answer to the best of my ability.'
Silence reigned for a few moments, before Furia cleared her throat.
"What did Jax mean by that 'shitter' comment?"
Garret's face immediately set itself into a mask of neutrality, and the scholar desperately fought to keep a blush from his cheeks. Maintaining a neutral expression was critical. Under no circumstances could Jax even suspect what Furia had just asked him. For a moment, he considered playing the question off. Feigning ignorance, as it may have been. But… He did say he'd answer to the best of his ability. And he was a man of his word…
He let out a long-suffering sigh.
This was going to be awkward…
Post-Chapter A/N: And thus, Chapter 5 - and with it, the whole "Emergence" arc - comes to a close. Hey, remember how I said I'd do everything in my power not to write a 40k+ word chapter again?... Yeah, so do I. If there was an emoji for soul-rending shame I would be spamming it here now. Nonetheless, I am quite confident that the chapters of the Ionia Arc are going to be much more bearable.
So! This took... quite a while to update. Honestly speaking, I have no excuse - my creativity tanked at one stage due to heaping personal issues and problems and I take full responsibility for that. For what little it is worth, I am sorry I dallied so long.
For those interested, and those who are still confused, Garret filled the role of the 'jungler' for his team.
Some concerns I want to swat down before they take root: A) I'm quite aware the... "unique" way that Renekton addressed Furia by went forgotten. This was deliberate on my part - I'd bet one's memory tends to be foggy in the post-survival wave of catharsis after escaping certain death at the hands of a vengeful Ascended. Secondly, some of the people who follow the lore closely are no doubt aware there is no "Wuju Monastery" in canon. The closest counterpart is, indeed, the Shojin Monastery - but that's in Ionia's Placidium, the central hub of Ionian culture and if I had to include that in a chapter, then you, my dear readers, would be on the receiving end of a 100K+ word chapter.
I do not intend to put you through that.
It's about time I stopped rambling, isn't it?
So to end off this author's note, I want to extend special thanks to everyone who took the time and effort to leave an encouraging review in my time of absence, and thank you, readers, for bearing with such a juggernaut chapter once more and reading up to this point. Those gestures alone mean much to me.
So until the next chapter - which will arrive much quicker than this one did, I bid adieu, and a ton of best wishes for the festive season!
-Chaos.