Post by The Master Tactician on Dec 29, 2012 0:25:14 GMT -5
Silence hung in the dark corridors of Swain Manor. Not a footstep could be heard, nor the crackle of flame. The servants had long gone to bed. The guests had retired to their suites. In the darkest hours of the morning, Jericho Swain stood before his mirror. “It spreads each day,” he said aloud—but it was not his own reflection he addressed. The full-length glass portrayed a darker figure, a monstrous beast, not quite bird and not quite man. In apparent explanation, Swain pulled the collar of his military robe down from his face—where before it served as a shroud for the disfigurement beneath.
His mouth hung crooked, a maw agape and slashed with scars. The flesh about it, creeping down his chin and neck, was textured as though burned, spotted here and there with black decay. He waited for the figure's response in the dark, one gnarled hand gripping his cane, the other tracing the map of deformity upon his face.
“Help will come,” growled the figure in the mirror. “Await the catalyst. We will rule the world together, you and I. All of Runeterra will be ours.” Its voice shook the room; its six eyes flashed in the darkness, glowing red.
Swain pursed his mangled lips, silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, his voice a fervent whisper, “When?”
“Await the catalyst,” the demon in the looking glass repeated.
“How will I know it,” Swain asked, his expression growing desperate.
“Already it is in your world. When the time is right, it will find you,” answered the demon.
The general forsook his cane, taking the mirror in both hands. He leaned into it, eyes burning; the cane fell to the floor with a soft thud. “Look at me! I shall die if I continue to play host to your legion. Send me help!” he spat.
And through the spit-flecked glass, the demon answered, “It will find you. We have taken you this far, yet you continue to skepticize. Some gratitude is in order, Grand General.”
A dizziness came over Swain as the demon dissolved beyond the mirror. He found himself suddenly looking into his own sunken eyes, his own marred visage. “No!” he roared, smashed his fist hard into the glass. The mirror cracked upon impact, its jagged edges cutting into his knuckles. “I'm not finished!”
His voice echoed through the darkened chamber answered by a “Caw,” from the mantelpiece. A giant raven sat over the hearth, watching the general intently with its own six eyes, an imitation of the avian demon. He met its gaze—stood for a while, chest heaving—then exhaled heavily, seeming to regain his poise.
Finally, with a labored grunt, Swain bent to pick up his cane. He pulled his shroud back over his nose and hobbled to the window. Outside, the sun hovered just below the horizon. As it rose it spread its feeble winter rays through the ebon sky. The general frowned, resigning himself to yet another sleepless night...
His mouth hung crooked, a maw agape and slashed with scars. The flesh about it, creeping down his chin and neck, was textured as though burned, spotted here and there with black decay. He waited for the figure's response in the dark, one gnarled hand gripping his cane, the other tracing the map of deformity upon his face.
“Help will come,” growled the figure in the mirror. “Await the catalyst. We will rule the world together, you and I. All of Runeterra will be ours.” Its voice shook the room; its six eyes flashed in the darkness, glowing red.
Swain pursed his mangled lips, silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, his voice a fervent whisper, “When?”
“Await the catalyst,” the demon in the looking glass repeated.
“How will I know it,” Swain asked, his expression growing desperate.
“Already it is in your world. When the time is right, it will find you,” answered the demon.
The general forsook his cane, taking the mirror in both hands. He leaned into it, eyes burning; the cane fell to the floor with a soft thud. “Look at me! I shall die if I continue to play host to your legion. Send me help!” he spat.
And through the spit-flecked glass, the demon answered, “It will find you. We have taken you this far, yet you continue to skepticize. Some gratitude is in order, Grand General.”
A dizziness came over Swain as the demon dissolved beyond the mirror. He found himself suddenly looking into his own sunken eyes, his own marred visage. “No!” he roared, smashed his fist hard into the glass. The mirror cracked upon impact, its jagged edges cutting into his knuckles. “I'm not finished!”
His voice echoed through the darkened chamber answered by a “Caw,” from the mantelpiece. A giant raven sat over the hearth, watching the general intently with its own six eyes, an imitation of the avian demon. He met its gaze—stood for a while, chest heaving—then exhaled heavily, seeming to regain his poise.
Finally, with a labored grunt, Swain bent to pick up his cane. He pulled his shroud back over his nose and hobbled to the window. Outside, the sun hovered just below the horizon. As it rose it spread its feeble winter rays through the ebon sky. The general frowned, resigning himself to yet another sleepless night...
