Syndra feels like travelling long distances is above her, but she has little choice. Shadow travel is a finicky thing, especially over long distances, and she needs a clear image of the area. She has never been to Rose Gulch; she must go there manually. She also has to admit that flying through the air has a certain appeal, gliding effortlessly across the breeze. Below her pass trees and fields, tiny specks of people. It was startlingly cold until she started keeping the air from stealing her heat. Now, she flew quickly and directly, occasionally swirling through the clouds and moving aside from flocks of birds. It was a queer happiness, a simple one. There are moments when she misses Lux - and her lips - but unfortunately the Light mage cannot fly. That, and that fact that Syndra has the unquenchable urge to protect her, and no matter what she says to herself, she can't think otherwise. She also has questions about the usefulness of a Light mage in a nighttime stealth attempt, but she kept that to herself. Lux will march with the army, and hopefully the few days they are apart will not be too draining. As she continues to think about the Light mage, her mind begins to wander, focusing mostly on the taste of her lips against her own. The air doesn't feel so cold; in fact, she feels quite warm, and her stomach is twisting. She doesn't know why.
Her lustful contemplation was broken by the smell of smoke reaching up to her, beckoning, calling for aid. She swept down, diving in an exhilarating descent. Soon, screams met her ears, and she glided upwards as the wind roared past her, hovering above a large building just starting to be coated in flames. Standing in a perimeter around it is about two dozen armed thugs, one carrying a Western rifle. They are holding back a tide of peasants clutching buckets of water, alternately shouting angrily and fearfully. Syndra drops down, letting gravity take its rare grip, and stops just before the man with the rifle, who is clearly the ring-leader of the brutes. He looks just as surprised as everyone else.
"What are you doing to my village, fool?" She can see the gears turning slowly in his mind, spitting smoke and sparks. She can tell he's come to a conclusion; he may not be intelligent, maybe a little simple, but there's one thing for sure; Davith is paying a hefty sum to beat some villagers and maybe carry a young woman or two away, and thus Davith has his loyalty. This guides his answer amid the confusion he feels. It is an admirable level of loyalty, though entirely misplaced.
"Wot you sayin'? Dis is Davif's village, an' he feels dat dese 'ere farmers need a lesson teached to 'em." Syndra cannot honestly decipher most of what he's saying, but she gets the message. In the time it takes for the man's heart to beat, her magic has seeped over the building and the area. The fire immediately puffs out, and the souls of the thugs do too. It starts with a whispered mutter, then a tentative swing, and then the group scream. Their hands drop weapons and sacks of food, and those same hands claw at necks, trying to dislodge a phantasmal claw wrapped firmly. They tear out their own throats, nails chipped, and die in agony as they bleed out, sobbing in abject terror. Syndra is a purple star, a beacon of death and hope in equal measure, depending on the viewer.
She is strangely conflicted on this matter, for someone who slaughtered two dozen men like so many mewling babes.
Her control has increased markedly. A strange calming sensation emanates from the star inside her soul, calming the roiling nature of the Dark that courses through her. It is almost tame, so easy to shape. It matches the ease with which the men died, and their terror is a relevant comparison to her own. It was so easy to kill them, too easy, and she fears what that means. She comes to a conclusion; hesitating, torturing herself over the deaths of others, will cause twice as much pain. She is too strong-willed and pragmatic to let an obvious opponent live, and yet she will despair the loss. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the power she has somehow come to wield. Her introspection is interrupted by a soft voice, but loud and hearty.
"So, then, what do you want with our village? More tithes?" She realizes she is crouched over the corpse of the leader, and stands to face the talker. He is a weary man, old beyond his too few years. Slung over his neck is a blacksmith's leather, and a hefty hammer takes pride in his right hand. It held in a stance akin to a weapon, having been used for that purpose too many times. The rest of the villagers carry such improvised weapons, likely prepared to drive out the bandits. They look upon her in much the same way; most are painfully thin, emaciated, clearly being driven to the brink of starvation by these vultures. The thought makes her angry, and she thinks for once that is a good thing.
"No, brave serf. I come to bring, not to take. To build and guard. You have surely heard of Lord Rikmar, of the neighbouring province." Many nods follow, and just the intonation of his name brings calm, clearly a powerful one in this village.
"He is sworn to me, under me. I am his Queen, as I am now yours. I am your Sovereign, and I will deliver you from the rule of Davith, from oppression and fear." Mutters, some angry, some hopeful, ring. Most look understandably skeptic.
"Look to the bodies of these vultures. They bring pain and fear. I have no doubt they have plagued you for many years. And yet, now, that plague is gone. And soon, its unholy father, Davith, will too be laying dead at your feet. I bring him to you, alongside Lord Rikmar. If you do not trust me, trust him. He will come this way soon, asking for supplies and swords sworn to his cause. Yet you know he will see you cannot survive the winter, will not take your rice and mutton. Davith would take your food, your women, and destroy your homes!" She gestures to the charred wood behind her. She is about to continue when another voice, a young man, climbs to her.
"And yet you killed Sensei, as you did these men!" A lance of lightning arcs from the back of the crowd, pressing into her shoulder. She barely feels it, and after it is gone is more confused than scared or angry. The mass of people part around a man her age, like a river parting to a stone. She recognizes him as one of Sensei's older students, with a stronger talent than most. His expression flits from anger to fear in a moment, and he runs as he realizes his attack is useless. She floats for a moment, considering, then quickly glides after him. The crowd follows, abuzz. He is chased into a forest, before tripping over a root and wrenching his ankle. The mob are far behind as Syndra lands before him. He gasps in fear and tries to crawl backwards, away, but collapses after a few metres. His sobbing is a strange sound.
"Why did you attack me?" He gibbers something incoherent, then starts sobbing again. A pressure builds inside of her, recognizable from Lux's room. The magic inside crushes against her iron will. Her hand claws in patterns, drawing power, the air darkening, purple lighting the fool's face. His eyes are closed, his fate accepted. The hissing comes to her again, burying her under it, driving her from her own mind. She gasps, spine arched, and then the relentless tide against her willpower evaporates. The built up power explodes in a concussive blast, flattening trees for dozens of metres. The cacophony attracts the mob and shakes the student from his prayers. This time, it was easier to resist. She hadn't come as close to spiralling out of control. The student was staring up at her. His fear had evaporated, for some reason. Her hand, almost unbidden, extended, pale. Without breaking his stare from her face, his hand clasped hers. He climbed to his feet and then, once stable, fell to one knee. Her head was still swimming, still caught up in the clash of wills. Her eyes wouldn't focus.
"Thank you for sparing my life, my Queen. I will find Lord Rikmar's army, and help in in your name." His eyes do not blink, seeing something she cannot, the Light inside of her that had risen to beat back the tide of Dark. His heart is still, his mind pure, his aims clear. He walks off towards the villagers, an approaching sea of torches and farming implements. As he fades into the shade under the canopy, Syndra focuses her will. Her shadow tumbles from thin air, torn from its realm, and immediately starts screaming silently. Its agony presses down on Syndra as her magic presses down on it. As the earth starts to collapse under the force of her power, its screaming twists into something discernible.
"P-Please Mistress, please, I serve you f-AIIII-thfully, please, I am your humbleservantIsimply-!" The pressure lifts from it, and immediately the begging stops. She cannot kill it without severing her own soul. She cannot take the risk. The thing fades from view like a dimming light. She rises through a gap in the canopy, following a beam of sunlight, and then onwards.
She arrives after dusk. It is dark, but the night is lit up by the fires of the camping army. The soldiers were mostly settled, in groups, getting ready for their afternoon meal, presumably. The smoke was practically choking the night sky, dozens of camp fires throwing a blanket of soot into the sky. It made Syndra's eyes water. She floated through the air, trying to make out details from the camp below, if there was any grander tents set aside for the higher-ups. Apparently, there wasn't, or Syndra couldn't see it. She coughed, grimaced, and had an idea.
None saw as the smoke started to gather like rainclouds, pressing against an invisible barrier in the sky. When the blanket started to drift, lowering, none bothered to look up. When it swept against the ground and rolled over their camp like a cloud of death, they saw. The response was slow, alarms spreading, the night hiding the aftermath. The camp slowly picked itself up and crawled away, like an animal too fat to care for the predator, and when it had moved just so that it was spilling out into the opposite end of the valley, the smoke mysteriously dissipated once more, the hands holding it letting go once more. The camp had shrunk a small amount, asphyxiation and desertion. She saw such a group moving quickly and directly away from the camp; they were quite far by the time the smoke had cleared enough for her to see them. It was small, maybe two dozen people, and they were clearly running from something. She imagined they were escaped slaves or conscripts of some sort, and thus plummeted down from the sky, landing daintily a dozen metres forwards. At first, none noticed, due to the dark and the fact that they were paying attention to potential pursuers. When one man glanced forwards and saw her, he yelped, and then the rest turned their focus. Immediately, a short muscled man wrestled through them, holding a bloodied hatchet. The group stopped a healthy distance away, and the leader - with the rest of the men, armed, four in total, at his side - stepped forward.
"Are you here to stop us?" Syndra considers her answer for a moment.
"No. I suppose I'm here to help you." Unconsciously, as she says it, her feet lift off the floor and her eyes, unblinking, glow from within, a Dark purple.
"You caused the smoke cloud?" He sounded scared, as he should be.
"Your camp caused it. I simply blew it in the right direction. If you continue to travel for two days, you should meet Rikmar's army, if you wish the protection. I ask that you stay, however; I have need of you." She smiles, not that he can see her. The group behind him are starting to fidget nervously, unwilling to stay still. She can't blame them. He comes to a quick decision, waving them onwards. Like a breaking dam, the tide of humanity washes past and is gone in seconds, eerily silent; haunted. The leader stands still, wishing to go last and make sure of no betrayal.
"In return for this service, I wish a service from you." The man slowly nods, wary.
"What service do you ask?" She realizes something; the men were all carrying proper weapons, wearing proper clothing, the only ones in the group without bruises and scars from beatings. They were turncoats. She considered this; did he deserve to live, having served aside rapists and murderers, bandits? Was he one of them, a momentary change of heart forcing his hand? She knew the lies of morality. 'Good' was a lie, a tale told to children to protect them from the harsh truths of the world. 'Evil' was a label applied to the misunderstood, the victims of circumstance. She didn't care if what he did was good, if his soul was black and evil. Hers was too, after all. All that matters is what he makes of himself, of what he does now; his intentions for his afterlife.
"What is your name, turncoat?" The question catches him off guard.
"Mordreth, my Lady, of my mother's name, Ravver." He speaks the truth, but he doesn't know why.
"A fine name, Sir Mordreth. I hope your service under me will leave you a whole man." He seems relaxed, but she can see his muscles are tensed. The hand holding his weapon is white.
"And what service would that be, my Lady?" He manages to say it without cracking.
"I need you to help me defeat Davith."
The two stand on the crest of the valley above Davith's forces. A pair of guards lie at their feet, unmoving. Mordreth isn't a stranger to death or killing, but the manner in which they died… It was effortless for her, a mere gesture. He wondered if it was as easy to make the choice as to carry it out. She stepped up to the ridge and he flinched. If she was anyone else he would have grasped her and pulled her down to the floor to get her out of sight. Instead, he hisses, lying belly down next to her.
"My lady! If you stand up on the horizon like that, they can see your silhouette! Please, step down!" She turns and gives him a curious look, then nods thoughtfully. A strange shadow falls over them, but she doesn't listen to his advice or otherwise step back.
"Stand up, Sir Mordreth. They cannot see us." The only reason he stands up is because it doesn't matter if she does too, and hell, he's had enough of sneaking around. He doesn't know why she calls him Sir, but that isn't the strangest thing about her. Below them, the camp is sprawled once more, though the number of fires is significantly reduced. A twinge of guilt strikes her, but it passes. She had completed her intended purpose; to drive them to the other end of the valley.
"Where does Davith sleep? And his generals?" The turncoat freezes, entirely unable to answer. He wasn't any particularly special man, just a mook with a weapon. She turns to him, eyebrow raised, and he stutters out something intelligible. After a moment she turns back. A section of the ground in front of them boils and coalesces into a black form. Arms split off and a mouth grows, eyes blinking. Again, a sound nips at the periphery of his senses. He stares at the thing as it sways back and forth, mouth moving in a mockery of speech. Suddenly, the woman beside him speaks.
"You will hunt out the generals of Davith and eliminate them. Make it silent, unnoticed until morning. Afterwards, you will report to Lord Rikmar and tell him what you've done. Meanwhile…" She turns to him and the… Thing disappears. Where it stood in his vision is a dark stain, like a foul taste.
"Where do they cook the food?" He can answer this at least, pointing to a small cluster of fires at the far end. She can see men gathering like bees to a hive, presumably waiting for food.
"About a dozen men. Most of it is bread and gruel, grain stolen from the nearby villages. Meat is rare and mostly in broth. We don't get anything better, cheese and such, so it must go to Davith." She nods and starts walking off in no particular direction. He follows at a distance he considers not nearly far enough. At one point he goes to take a step and his stomach rises into his throat and the ground disappears beneath him and suddenly reforms as he falls to his knees and vomits.
The woman kneels next to him, looking concerned as he pants, unable to form anything meaningful.
"Sorry, I've never taken anyone else conscious through the shadows. I didn't realise it would make you nauseous." He considers a scathing response, spits, and rises to his feet. Taking a moment to look around, he recognizes the area. They are behind the cook's tent, on the edge of the camp; one side of the valley slopes up next to them. Syndra rises into the air above him, hovering a foot above the floor. He considers the fact that anyone who wasn't blind could see her like a purple spotlight, then tells her this fact. She responds with a snort, smiling. It shocks him into silence. She wanders off towards the tent, and as they come round the side it reveals a dozen men energetically trying to re-create the dinner they had already prepared but was mostly abandoned in the mad rush.
Mordreth immediately ducks back, hissing and gesticulating for her to reciprocate. It is as he does so that a man walks straight past him, stumbling drunkenly and asking when he's going to get his fucking food. There is no way he couldn't have seen Syndra, and then recalls what she had said earlier on the ridge. Feeling an idiot, he moves to stand next to her. She looks over at his scowl and giggles unbidden. His jaw drops open, the change in emotion extraordinary. The smile stays in place as she gestures around the hectic area and the drunk is chased away. Her task apparently completed, she turns to him.
"Prepare yourself, I am going to move us through the shadows again." He nods and breathes heavily. His reply is in whispers, though apparently they don't need to be. He can't help it.
"Where are we going? And what did you do here?" She nods as if those are good questions, then he's suddenly standing on the ridge again. He manages to keep his food down as she replies.
"The food is poisoned. It will render all who eat it very, very ill. It will only last two or three days, however, as I need the men to be able to fight when Lord Rikmar's army gets here. You've done well, Sir Mordreth." The question leaps from him, hidden anger driving it to be almost accusatory.
"Why do you keep calling me Sir? I'm just another man that joined Davith for some plunder!" There is silence for a few seconds as his voice fades, wishing he could take it back. She looks upon him with an unreadable expression, during which he is relatively sure she is going to kill him like the two guards.
"I am a Queen, Sir Mordreth. You are one of my knights. Or is that only in Demacia?" The raider isn't sure what to think. He has heard only tales of Demacia, and not many at that.
"A knight, my Queen? Are you sure? What… What have I done to deserve… Such an honour?" His tone suggested that this was far less an honour than Syndra made it out to be. She either didn't notice or didn't care. He decides to try harder to express his displeasure next time.
"You were instrumental in the destruction of Davith's forces. And there is nought for you to do before I send you to Rikmar's army, whom you will travel with until Davith is crushed." His mouth opens and closes, unformed words trying to make themselves known, but speech failing him.
"Tell me Mordreth, do you have a family?" The words spring from him as his mind continues to protest.
"Y-Yes, my lady, two sons. One of them is somewhere out in the world with his own wife, and the other is still but a babe. We… We live quite close by, in a little house I built with my pa years ago." Syndra smiles at him, a smile which makes her seem less an intimidating Tyrant and more the girl she is. He isn't sure whether he likes it, but wishes she would use it more nonetheless
"Then, my knight, prepa-"
The noise the arrow makes as it buries itself into Syndra's chest, right into her heart, haunts Mordreth to this day.
Syndra seems more in shock than pain. One hand reaches up to grasp the offending object, inquisitive, whilst the other moves in quick, twisting patterns. Mordreth turns with axe raised- drawn with a far less than fluid grace, he was ashamed to admit - to where the arrow came from. He was unsure as to how he could help, and if he should at all, considering his new employer now has an arrow sprouting from her chest. Another arrow follows the first which thankfully both misses and reveals the shooter. Mordreth even manages to take a step before he is knocked to the floor with a wave of force, a shriek promising pain greater than he had ever imagined following. He hears a startled scream - cut off with a wet squelch - from the shooter. This all happens in the space of a moment, and then the dark, scuttling little things sprout from the ground and rocks. They shimmer with purple, but are painful to look at. A chorus of voices drill into his skull, his vision blurred. Blood drips down his neck from his nose, and he can't hear his own screaming as the pressure builds up, higher, and higher-
"Harm not my knight!" The pressure lifts, his heart pounding like a drum to match his head. He falls to his hands and knees and vomits the rest of his food, his equilibrium shot. He can vaguely see his Queen struggling against some unknown force, then with another shout the scuttling shapes vanish. A pale hand shakes in his vision; or is it his head that is shaking? Blearily, he reaches out and grasps it, lifted to his feet and vomiting again as the sudden change overwhelms him once more. His throat is burning now. His Queen presses one dainty hand to his forehead and the poor man is blinded in a sudden white flash. When it clears he is standing easy, the ringing and pounding headache faded to a minor annoyance. The burn of bile in his throat is cleared. His eyesight is slightly sharper, and a few aches he didn't know he had were lifted like a mantle from his shoulders. His Queen stands before him, rising from a crouch, and with her smile and a soft halo of light, his fear evaporates as easily as the pain. He isn't sure what to say, or think, but there is one thing that he knows he must do.
"Thank you, my Lady, for… I believe saving my life. What… What were those things?" Her smile thaws, but is remembered by both. He sees her for what she is. He sees more, now, inside of her, to the light that is trying to shine through the choking darkness. His throat closes, and a strange emotion, a strange thought, wipes over him. She needs his help. She cannot survive in the Dark alone.
"An… Errant servant of mine. Do not worry." He doesn't; if she says not to, he will believe her. He looks around; there are dark stains, like shadows, on the ground, in the shape of those revolting bug-things. He can vaguely see splatters of red, blood, from beyond a pile of rocks where the archer was. He realises he had dropped the hatchet and grasps it, covering the blade once more with the sheath. It is then he sees that the arrow is still sticking out of her chest. He gasps, takes a step back, and she looks down. With a bored gesture, she grasps it and pulls. It slides out with a wet sucking sound, and clatters to the floor. Even her clothes seem unharmed. She otherwise ignores it.
"Envision your house. Your wife." He swallows his shock and replies, tongue heavy.
"O-Of course. May I ask why?" She reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder, eyes darkened. He sees only the halo of light that is not there any more.
"Prepare yourself. We are to travel. Try not to lose your stomach again." He chuckles, somehow not minding the humour. Her smile, however, is dead and buried.
He closes his eyes and remembers when he had finished the house with his pa, who was dead now. He'd died in bed, happy and peaceful. His face was cragged like a rock, deep lines from both frowns and smiles. His hair was grey, but still full, a shock of colour against the dark tan of his skin. He'd worked hard, fourteen hours a day, fit as a fiddle. His life was filled with love, but was a meagre one. He scrounged every penny, then put it together to give his son the one good thing he could. He thought of his wife, whom he'd met at the market. They'd both been trying to sell food and bolts of silk, and reached an agreement; to split the money they both earned between them, to make sure neither went hungry. She was probably at home now, singing a song to their son, in their house in the woods.
He opened his eyes and was standing outside the cabin; Syndra was nowhere to be seen. His wife opened the door, his father's rusty sword held in hand, shaking like a leaf. She yelled out as her eyes adjusted to the light, the other hand shielding her from the sun.
"Stay away, or you'll regret it! Leave us alone!" He could hear his son crying inside.
"It is me, Allia! I am back!" His voice wavers.
"Mordreth? Oh, it is you!" He ran to her and she dropped the sword, wordlessly embracing him. She smelt as he remembered, of a good summer day; dew and barley.
"I'm so glad you're back," she whispered. He knelt and grasped the sword, sheathing it reverently.
"I'm so glad I'm back, too. I missed you." They broke apart after an eternity. She kissed him, and his heart sank as he realized something. He moved inside the cabin, keeping the sword in hand. Their son was still bawling, unsettled. He picked him up and swayed him, whispering sweet nothings. His wife took over after Bron had mostly calmed. Remembering his task, Mordreth climbed up into the second floor as Allia grilled him on his journey. He'd left several months ago, just as Bron had been born, to join Davith's army. Davith had threatened to burn the farm down unless half of the men on the farm had joined him. He imagined his farmhands were escorting the slave women to Rikmar's army even now. The story was mostly done - since he and his farmhands had avoided going out to extort the villages, it was almost all guard duty - once he'd found what he was looking for; a whetstone. He climbed back down as his wife fed Bron, blouse open, and realized he hadn't seen his wife for several months. He decided the sword could wait for a day, sitting next to her and doing his best to sear her into his memory. When their son fell asleep, he did his best to sear him into hers.
And yet, despite laying in his wife's arms, his mind continues to wander to Syndra. He doesn't know why she isn't here. He doesn't know why she sent him, yet didn't come. He doesn't know why he wants to get up, take the sword he sharpened, and find her, but he knows he must. She needs his help. She can save the world, he knows it, but she must be helped by all who are able… He doesn't know why or how he knows this, but it is as true a fact as his love for Allia, and his son. He doesn't know how to broach this subject to his wife, but that doesn't faze him. He will find Syndra again.
Syndra watched as the shadows cocooned him. He had a blissful smile on his face. His memories were clear as she pulled them from him, leaving behind just a shard of Dark power. As he vanished, the tears escaped her. She would never - could never - have that. A loving family, or a house filled with memories. All she had was a dark castle and unwilling subjects. As she thought this, the insectoid Dark elementals crawled once more from the ground. They were less elementals and more manifestations, a result of heavy Dark corruption; if she was to swell an area with death, they would appear naturally. For now, however, as weak as they were, they would serve her purpose.
"Find the scouts of Davith, the guards, the rangers and foragers. Kill them all. Let none leave the boundaries of the camp. Make them afraid of me." A scuttling chorus harmonises within her. The way Mordreth reacted before, to him it was agonising. She could feel his pain, his suffering. To her, it was a heavenly - or infernal, she supposed - choir. They hissed and rattled and were gone, hunting.
Rising once more into the air, she saw dots of fire roaming in the forest and hills around the valley flicker, swoon, and die with the lives of those who carried them. She could feel a sort of connection to each and every mite, when they killed and were killed, in pain or exultant in victory. It was hard to separate her experiences and theirs, but she would not be overridden by a pack of minor beings. It took several hours for Davith to pull the rest of his men in and stop sending patrols that weren't a score or larger. His men were lined for drills, suddenly so aware that if Rikmar were to plunge from the valley's sides, he'd be crushed utterly. Most of his soldiers had become acutely ill with some wasting sickness which no one had ever seen. He wasn't a sitting duck, he was an injured duck unable to run from the pack that chased it. Which was just how Syndra wanted him. Now, even if there were scouts outside the camp, and even if they spotted Rikmar and came back to tell Davith, they would have a very hard time getting in to do so.
So far, the plan has gone well. It is only a matter of time until it comes fully to fruition, and then nothing will stand between her and Lux.