Post by x on Mar 28, 2013 23:48:01 GMT -5
ThreshWARDENTHRESHChainWarden KeatsWardenServeRUIN[/color]HUNGERenoughO'DoolHARVEST TerrorfearSOULSDUTY[/i][/color]ServeRISE
Thresh opened his eyes, took a long, rattling breath, and the voices, those grating piercing voices, went silent after their seeming eternity of noise. Like every previous incident in his long career, the first breath was always the worst. It was like bursting from the depths of the sea with one's very last mote of air, only to be re-submerged in the midst of the clamor for breath. There was no sweet relief, there was no moment of clarity before being enveloped in the crushing oblivion.
Death as he knew it was more like simply closing your eyes and going to sleep. There were even dreams as he slumbered through the time of his banishment. This one, though, had been nothing short of a nightmare. Yet there he drifted once again, a ragged shadow of himself, not even a physical entity in the world. The Ruined King's awakening had done few favors for the Chain Warden, certainly, but it also offered him a chance. Perhaps he would be with them sooner than he thought previously.
There they were, those familiar walls. Thresh had grown so very acquainted with those walls; they were one sight he would not grow tired of seeing. Those chipped stone walls, somehow still standing throughout the ages, were a welcome departure from the stolidness he had been forced to dredge through day in and day out. It was a large circular chamber, filled with long-since expired bait and tackle, worn out nets and scuffed up crates. Rusting chains hung freely from the wooden ceiling above, which itself was in ill repair. To Thresh though, it was a chamber more comforting than his King's throne room. Ease washed over him as his phantasmal form strode about the decaying room.
His essence quavered as a chill breeze blew through his ragged spectral form; the traces of salty sea air and the cool fog were all he needed as confirmation. He was home again, after what been far too long. There was so much to catch up on, so much to see. The vague outline of the Warden began to make for the bolted door nearby, until a sharp tug seized at it with a start. The metaphorical penny dropped: the Lantern was not in his custody. It called to him longingly; it wished to be rejoined with him, and had to intention of letting him go on without it.
Muttering in exasperation, Thresh's haunted form swiftly ascended, phasing through a plethora of chambers that passed in a blur. The uppermost chamber, open to the chilling air, was almost entirely desolate save for a ring of low, decaying metal walls and railing, and a strange mechanical plinth in its center. All around the jutting spire was naught but a vast sea of mist before and the grimly still ocean behind. To Thresh's further dismay, the impossibly thick blanket of fog had decayed immensely since last he had seen it; a dense, sprawling treeline lay exposed, and the outlines of what could have been buildings were beginning to show through all about the spire's base. The mists had waned while their master had reformed, and now that he was without the implement of his power...
This would not do. It was too soon, far too soon. They needed him, and he needed the Lantern. Extending his hand southward, Thresh cast out his malevolent will, calling out to his precious tool of misery...
April 1st
The Warden's Lantern lay propped upright on the ground, looking as forlorn as it had moments after Thresh had dispersed. It had remained unmoving ever since the incident the day before, but it was far from dormant. The sweet tones of misery, the luscious melodies of sorrow, they all called out to the Lantern. The souls of the fallen were ripe for the picking, countless dead who would walk the dark passage in time. One call sounded above all others though: the call of the Warden.
And from its gloomy resting place on the cobblestone path, the Lantern responded in kind. From both nowhere and everywhere at once in the plaza, a faint, almost imperceptible melody began to play, bringing with it the equally faint sounds of what could have been children. Within the dead recesses of the haunted artifact, a flicker of ghostly werelight. The Chain Warden may have left the immediate premises of Demacia, but his macabre influence was far from gone.
Thresh opened his eyes, took a long, rattling breath, and the voices, those grating piercing voices, went silent after their seeming eternity of noise. Like every previous incident in his long career, the first breath was always the worst. It was like bursting from the depths of the sea with one's very last mote of air, only to be re-submerged in the midst of the clamor for breath. There was no sweet relief, there was no moment of clarity before being enveloped in the crushing oblivion.
Death as he knew it was more like simply closing your eyes and going to sleep. There were even dreams as he slumbered through the time of his banishment. This one, though, had been nothing short of a nightmare. Yet there he drifted once again, a ragged shadow of himself, not even a physical entity in the world. The Ruined King's awakening had done few favors for the Chain Warden, certainly, but it also offered him a chance. Perhaps he would be with them sooner than he thought previously.
There they were, those familiar walls. Thresh had grown so very acquainted with those walls; they were one sight he would not grow tired of seeing. Those chipped stone walls, somehow still standing throughout the ages, were a welcome departure from the stolidness he had been forced to dredge through day in and day out. It was a large circular chamber, filled with long-since expired bait and tackle, worn out nets and scuffed up crates. Rusting chains hung freely from the wooden ceiling above, which itself was in ill repair. To Thresh though, it was a chamber more comforting than his King's throne room. Ease washed over him as his phantasmal form strode about the decaying room.
His essence quavered as a chill breeze blew through his ragged spectral form; the traces of salty sea air and the cool fog were all he needed as confirmation. He was home again, after what been far too long. There was so much to catch up on, so much to see. The vague outline of the Warden began to make for the bolted door nearby, until a sharp tug seized at it with a start. The metaphorical penny dropped: the Lantern was not in his custody. It called to him longingly; it wished to be rejoined with him, and had to intention of letting him go on without it.
Muttering in exasperation, Thresh's haunted form swiftly ascended, phasing through a plethora of chambers that passed in a blur. The uppermost chamber, open to the chilling air, was almost entirely desolate save for a ring of low, decaying metal walls and railing, and a strange mechanical plinth in its center. All around the jutting spire was naught but a vast sea of mist before and the grimly still ocean behind. To Thresh's further dismay, the impossibly thick blanket of fog had decayed immensely since last he had seen it; a dense, sprawling treeline lay exposed, and the outlines of what could have been buildings were beginning to show through all about the spire's base. The mists had waned while their master had reformed, and now that he was without the implement of his power...
This would not do. It was too soon, far too soon. They needed him, and he needed the Lantern. Extending his hand southward, Thresh cast out his malevolent will, calling out to his precious tool of misery...
April 1st
The Warden's Lantern lay propped upright on the ground, looking as forlorn as it had moments after Thresh had dispersed. It had remained unmoving ever since the incident the day before, but it was far from dormant. The sweet tones of misery, the luscious melodies of sorrow, they all called out to the Lantern. The souls of the fallen were ripe for the picking, countless dead who would walk the dark passage in time. One call sounded above all others though: the call of the Warden.
And from its gloomy resting place on the cobblestone path, the Lantern responded in kind. From both nowhere and everywhere at once in the plaza, a faint, almost imperceptible melody began to play, bringing with it the equally faint sounds of what could have been children. Within the dead recesses of the haunted artifact, a flicker of ghostly werelight. The Chain Warden may have left the immediate premises of Demacia, but his macabre influence was far from gone.
