Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 7, 2013 1:56:41 GMT -5
(( Continuation of: The Experiment ))
Sleet shrouded the fortress on the hill—nothing like the sparkling flakes of Freljord, but a grimy gray, born from the chemical-laden clouds that floated perpetually over Zaun. The house itself seemed a prime contributor to the city's pollution. Dripping pipes stuck out from every wall; billowing chimneys had been added here and there, haphazardly. These creaked and swayed against the wind, giving The Mad Chemist's mansion the appearance of a writhing, many-limbed monstrosity. This imagery was, perhaps, relevant to the goings on beneath the mansion's floors.
In a dungeon room, surrounded by bubbling vials and smoking flasks, two men stood facing one another. The taller of the two was wrapped from nose to toes in tight, graying bandages. His yellow eyes gleamed as he held up a syringe. “This may hurt,” he said, but his tone was not one of concern. Contrariwise, his words dripped with zeal, a burning furor at having acquired this distinguished test subject.
This subject, the other man, seated himself upon a wooden table, the sleeve of his Noxian military robe rolled up past his elbow to receive the syringe. “Let's get it over with,” he growled. From the cages that lined the room, beasts of unnatural form seemed to quiet, to watch intently as the glinting needle hovered above the subject's sickly flesh, as the scientist's fingers hunted for a vein, tap-tap-tapping his patient's deflated bicep. Finally, the bandaged examiner found his mark. He squinted one eye and plunged the needle deep into his subject's arm.
Swain lifted his chin, waited as his accomplice pushed the elixir down, down, down into his blood. Heat spread from the site, a prickly sensation. Pain? Hardly. He thought, surprised. Then Singed removed his needle, straightened up and said, “Ready for a ride, Grand General?” A sadistic smile lifted his bandaged cheeks. Swain had only time to meet the chemist's eyes before agony washed over him.
His breath caught in his chest. His eyes bulged. He gripped the table hard to keep from collapsing to the dungeon floor. The pain spread like a wildfire inside him, burning flesh from muscle, searing muscle from bone. Sweat beaded on Swain's forehead. Over the blood rushing in his ears, he could barely make out Singed saying, “Deep breaths. It'll pass.” His vision blurred and then went black. There were no more bubbling vials, no more cages of Singed's beasts; there was no more Mad Chemist, only The Master Tactician and his pain.
And a form. A monster. A great black bird that sat perched upon the world, wings spread against the stars. Its caw echoed through space, through dimensions. The flapping of its wings shook the very Void. Then it spoke: The answer lies not in mortal brews. It is before you, Jericho. Open. Your. Eyes.[/color][/size]
When he came to, Swain lay on his back on the wooden table. His military garb was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. “Welcome back,” said the chemist, offering a bandaged hand.
Swain took it and sat up. Out of habit, he rubbed his chin—and found the flesh beneath did not feel raw or sore. His eyes grew wide. “Mirror,” he said.
Singed allowed himself a chuckle, pointing to a dusty looking-glass in the corner. The Grand General crossed the room in a few even strides. His cane lay discarded on the floor. When he drew nigh the glass, he was speechless. His face, once marked with the scars of battle and the lines of premature age, was smooth and chiseled, a picture of youthful perfection. He pulled down his shroud, brows raised. The mass of decay that had mangled his chin and neck began to heal before his very eyes. He gasped, running his fingers over the closing blisters.
Singed approached bearing a second syringe, “Now, not to forget, the tempering serum.” Swain remained staring into the mirror, lost in his own reflection, as the scientist located a vein in his now-muscular forearm and injected his elixir. “Easy as that,” Singed said, withdrawing his needle—but the words had not even left his lips when his patient's eyes began to droop, his scars to re-appear, his flesh to blacken.
“What?! No!” Swain snarled at the mirror. “What happened!” He whirled around to face Singed, who seemed perplexed, scratching his bald head. “What happened!” the Grand General repeated, leaning on a nearby shelf as the chronic weakness in his leg returned.
Singed frowned, “This is certainly unprecedented.” He stalked to a nearby table, pulled out a leatherbound notebook and began to flip through it, muttering to himself.
“Don't turn your back on me!” Swain roared, beside himself. “Why didn't it work?!”
“Just a moment, Grand General.” Singed continued flipping through his journal, absorbed in his study, unperturbed by his subject's rage. “This can't be right.” The gangly scientist took up another notebook, cross referencing his findings and measurements while Swain huffed by the mirror. “I don't understand. All the components are correct, their quantities precise... Unless.” He quirked a brow at Swain, “What did you say was the nature of the ailment?”
The Master Tactician grit his teeth. “I didn't.” He paused a moment, weighing options. How much should he reveal? How much should he conceal? "Magical," he offered simply.
Singed shook his head, turning again to his reading.
Defeated, Swain hobbled back to the patient table, bent to pick up his cane with a labored grunt. In a matter of minutes, the decay had returned in full force—as had the ever-present agony that accompanied it. He pulled his shroud back up over his nose, narrowing his eyes at the back of his physician's head. “I don't like to be kept waiting, Singed,” he warned.
“I'm afraid that can't be helped, Grand General.” The Chemist snapped his notebook closed, laid it on the table and turned to face Swain. “I will have to conduct further research. Perhaps in a few months, the serum will be ready.”
Swain slammed his fist into the table in frustration.
Singed sighed, took up the bag of medicine and held it out to his patient. “You should continue with this dosage while I complete my study, just as a precautionary measure.” The fervor in his voice was gone, replaced by a subtle dejection, a hatred of failure. After the general snatched the bag from him, he folded his lanky arms over his chest.
“I hope for both our sakes you work quickly, Chemist,” Swain growled. “My offer won't be on the table forever.”
“I'll get to work, then,” Singed said, feigning a civil smile before turning back to his notes. “I trust you can show yourself out.”
Without another word, Swain hobbled to the elevator, the bag of syringes in one hand, his cane gripped tightly in the other. The metal grate slammed closed and he watched as the lab disappeared behind him. So close, yet so far.
We did tell you, you know.
“I'm tired of these games,” Swain said aloud.
Then stop playing them.[/color][/size]
He frowned.
All is as it should be. Prepare your forces for the coming storm.[/color][/size]
The elevator halted on the first floor and Swain slid the grate open. He trudged down the hallway, through the lounge and up into the foyer, where his entourage still stood at attention. He beckoned silently to his Raedsel--who then followed their Grand General through the heavy front door, down the crooked steps and back into the night—on the road to Noxus before the sun had even graced the horizon.
Sleet shrouded the fortress on the hill—nothing like the sparkling flakes of Freljord, but a grimy gray, born from the chemical-laden clouds that floated perpetually over Zaun. The house itself seemed a prime contributor to the city's pollution. Dripping pipes stuck out from every wall; billowing chimneys had been added here and there, haphazardly. These creaked and swayed against the wind, giving The Mad Chemist's mansion the appearance of a writhing, many-limbed monstrosity. This imagery was, perhaps, relevant to the goings on beneath the mansion's floors.
In a dungeon room, surrounded by bubbling vials and smoking flasks, two men stood facing one another. The taller of the two was wrapped from nose to toes in tight, graying bandages. His yellow eyes gleamed as he held up a syringe. “This may hurt,” he said, but his tone was not one of concern. Contrariwise, his words dripped with zeal, a burning furor at having acquired this distinguished test subject.
This subject, the other man, seated himself upon a wooden table, the sleeve of his Noxian military robe rolled up past his elbow to receive the syringe. “Let's get it over with,” he growled. From the cages that lined the room, beasts of unnatural form seemed to quiet, to watch intently as the glinting needle hovered above the subject's sickly flesh, as the scientist's fingers hunted for a vein, tap-tap-tapping his patient's deflated bicep. Finally, the bandaged examiner found his mark. He squinted one eye and plunged the needle deep into his subject's arm.
Swain lifted his chin, waited as his accomplice pushed the elixir down, down, down into his blood. Heat spread from the site, a prickly sensation. Pain? Hardly. He thought, surprised. Then Singed removed his needle, straightened up and said, “Ready for a ride, Grand General?” A sadistic smile lifted his bandaged cheeks. Swain had only time to meet the chemist's eyes before agony washed over him.
His breath caught in his chest. His eyes bulged. He gripped the table hard to keep from collapsing to the dungeon floor. The pain spread like a wildfire inside him, burning flesh from muscle, searing muscle from bone. Sweat beaded on Swain's forehead. Over the blood rushing in his ears, he could barely make out Singed saying, “Deep breaths. It'll pass.” His vision blurred and then went black. There were no more bubbling vials, no more cages of Singed's beasts; there was no more Mad Chemist, only The Master Tactician and his pain.
And a form. A monster. A great black bird that sat perched upon the world, wings spread against the stars. Its caw echoed through space, through dimensions. The flapping of its wings shook the very Void. Then it spoke: The answer lies not in mortal brews. It is before you, Jericho. Open. Your. Eyes.[/color][/size]
When he came to, Swain lay on his back on the wooden table. His military garb was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. “Welcome back,” said the chemist, offering a bandaged hand.
Swain took it and sat up. Out of habit, he rubbed his chin—and found the flesh beneath did not feel raw or sore. His eyes grew wide. “Mirror,” he said.
Singed allowed himself a chuckle, pointing to a dusty looking-glass in the corner. The Grand General crossed the room in a few even strides. His cane lay discarded on the floor. When he drew nigh the glass, he was speechless. His face, once marked with the scars of battle and the lines of premature age, was smooth and chiseled, a picture of youthful perfection. He pulled down his shroud, brows raised. The mass of decay that had mangled his chin and neck began to heal before his very eyes. He gasped, running his fingers over the closing blisters.
Singed approached bearing a second syringe, “Now, not to forget, the tempering serum.” Swain remained staring into the mirror, lost in his own reflection, as the scientist located a vein in his now-muscular forearm and injected his elixir. “Easy as that,” Singed said, withdrawing his needle—but the words had not even left his lips when his patient's eyes began to droop, his scars to re-appear, his flesh to blacken.
“What?! No!” Swain snarled at the mirror. “What happened!” He whirled around to face Singed, who seemed perplexed, scratching his bald head. “What happened!” the Grand General repeated, leaning on a nearby shelf as the chronic weakness in his leg returned.
Singed frowned, “This is certainly unprecedented.” He stalked to a nearby table, pulled out a leatherbound notebook and began to flip through it, muttering to himself.
“Don't turn your back on me!” Swain roared, beside himself. “Why didn't it work?!”
“Just a moment, Grand General.” Singed continued flipping through his journal, absorbed in his study, unperturbed by his subject's rage. “This can't be right.” The gangly scientist took up another notebook, cross referencing his findings and measurements while Swain huffed by the mirror. “I don't understand. All the components are correct, their quantities precise... Unless.” He quirked a brow at Swain, “What did you say was the nature of the ailment?”
The Master Tactician grit his teeth. “I didn't.” He paused a moment, weighing options. How much should he reveal? How much should he conceal? "Magical," he offered simply.
Singed shook his head, turning again to his reading.
Defeated, Swain hobbled back to the patient table, bent to pick up his cane with a labored grunt. In a matter of minutes, the decay had returned in full force—as had the ever-present agony that accompanied it. He pulled his shroud back up over his nose, narrowing his eyes at the back of his physician's head. “I don't like to be kept waiting, Singed,” he warned.
“I'm afraid that can't be helped, Grand General.” The Chemist snapped his notebook closed, laid it on the table and turned to face Swain. “I will have to conduct further research. Perhaps in a few months, the serum will be ready.”
Swain slammed his fist into the table in frustration.
Singed sighed, took up the bag of medicine and held it out to his patient. “You should continue with this dosage while I complete my study, just as a precautionary measure.” The fervor in his voice was gone, replaced by a subtle dejection, a hatred of failure. After the general snatched the bag from him, he folded his lanky arms over his chest.
“I hope for both our sakes you work quickly, Chemist,” Swain growled. “My offer won't be on the table forever.”
“I'll get to work, then,” Singed said, feigning a civil smile before turning back to his notes. “I trust you can show yourself out.”
Without another word, Swain hobbled to the elevator, the bag of syringes in one hand, his cane gripped tightly in the other. The metal grate slammed closed and he watched as the lab disappeared behind him. So close, yet so far.
We did tell you, you know.
“I'm tired of these games,” Swain said aloud.
Then stop playing them.[/color][/size]
He frowned.
All is as it should be. Prepare your forces for the coming storm.[/color][/size]
The elevator halted on the first floor and Swain slid the grate open. He trudged down the hallway, through the lounge and up into the foyer, where his entourage still stood at attention. He beckoned silently to his Raedsel--who then followed their Grand General through the heavy front door, down the crooked steps and back into the night—on the road to Noxus before the sun had even graced the horizon.
