Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 10, 2013 3:04:04 GMT -5
May 27th, 23 CLE
Dragonfire was the most destructive thing he'd ever seen. A mile away, ablaze over the battlefield, it still felt hot upon his face. His face... Youthful, smooth: not marred by scars or rot or pus-filled blisters. He watched on, crimson eyes reflecting the flames, which washed the world in iridescent colors.
"Sergeant?" came a familiar soldier's voice. Swain snapped from his reverie. Still a boy, barely sixteen, he opened his mouth to respond to his adult charge, the soldier with whom he was entrusted.
"Yes. Let's march." He tore his eyes from the flaming destruction that lay beyond. Around they would trek, mindful of the mountain crags...
Hollowness.
There she stood, the lovely girl, hooded and cloaked before the matron in the bleak underground. Midwinter weather would have frosted these cobbles if not for the constant trickle of water over stone. The earthen smell of mold and mildew filled his nostrils, but it was nothing to the emerging scent of sandalwood and roses.
He had never felt so proud, so pleased, so full of admiration.
"There is one among you who has shown great promise and leadership," rasped LeBlanc, "One whose talents are outstripped only by her ambition and loyalty."
The slightest smirk tugged up one corner of his mouth as he watched her climb the platform stairs, dark and fierce in all her beauty.
Emptiness.
Vessaria Kolminye stood across the way, her crimson eyes a mirror to the Master Tactician's own. "Why do you want to join the League, Jericho Swain?" she asked as though she didn't know him--or as though she didn't know he knew she knew. But she did. Of course she did. He could not help himself a smirk.
"To become the next ruler of Noxus, of course," he rasped, lifting his cane to point its stone head towards her. "The League will help me accomplish this." The flicker of her eyes at his assertion did not escape him. This was their pact, their deal. These were his terms. He had no doubt she would accept...
Dizziness.
The world tipped. The abyss opened.
Falling.
With a sharp intake of breath, the Master Tactician awoke. His right eye sprang open. His left, he found, was slow to follow suit--and when it did, there was only blackness beyond. The pool of blood and pus and bile that festered in the back of his throat elicited a gag, a retch, a choking noise through the stillness of the room. His mouth tasted of vomit, but there was nothing in his stomach to upheave.
Through the window, the sunset streamed, washing the Grand General's bedroom in its acidic orange. The shadows cast by its harsh light seemed to shift between solidity and incorporeal-ness, to move of their own accord on the borders of his blurry, fevered vision. He clung to consciousness, but only just: lost in his mind floating between was and what had been and what might come to be, lingering in the space between reality and dreams.
And what had happened?
Suddenly, in a furious effort to cleanse themselves of whatever mucous had accumulated while he lay, the Master Tactician's lungs contracted. He coughed and coughed again. The breathing-mask bound around his head had sunk into the rotting flesh of his jawline, encrusted. Coughing, hacking, he attempted to remove it... but his hand would not respond. His arm lay heavy beside him as he wheezed. Please!
Numbness slowly began to dissolve. A dull ache spread downwards from the base of his neck as the circulation of blood returned to inert muscles. Curiously, it stopped just below his waist. The sounds of his racking coughs echoed off the walls of the empty room. Above him, the canape of the stately four poster bed swam in and out of vision. He closed his eye. Another cough, a gag.
A searing pain announced itself in his chest where the Eiwhaz, the rune of life and death, had been carved by magic through flesh and muscle. This agony awakened his right arm; a trembling hand lifted from beneath the comforter to splay across his freshly bandaged chest. Each cough sent lightning bolts of pain throughout his body, sparking from the source: the rune, the curse. Each cough tore tender veins apart again until blood began to seep through the general's wrappings.
...and what had happened?
Karthus.
A flood of bitter memories collapsed upon him like a wave, suffocating and intense. A dreadful noise, a dry sob of agony and desperation, interrupted the coughing fit.
So this was the result of defying Death.
He attempted to sit up, but his form would not comply.
Ruined. Wasted.
In a moment of pure panic, he realized that no feeling had returned to his legs.
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 11, 2013 3:16:48 GMT -5
"Sh sh sh, dear," a familiar voice cooed. "It's alright, you are safe now."
LeBlanc appeared at the foot of Swain's bed. She did not have her staff with her, and her usually perfect appearance was blemished by fatigue. It seemed odd for the Deceiver to not utilize any of her illusions. In fact, the only trace of magic that one could sense, would originate from her left hand.
Whatever she was doing while the Grand General was unavailable must be taking a huge toll on her, body and soul. "How are you feeling, Jericho?" she asked in a soft voice.
Last Edit: Jun 11, 2013 18:08:38 GMT -5 by The Deceiver
A fair, familiar form hovered at the foot of his bed, her image blurry, her voice distant as though floating through a tunnel from far away. The answer to her gently posed question he could not bring himself to articulate: aching, cold, confused, furious, afraid… Yet strangely serene. The cocktail of medicines coursing through his system from the IV drip in the crook of his right elbow dissociated these contradicting sentiments further. Overwhelmed by frustration, he wanted to yell at her—though he knew she’d done everything right, everything within her power to remedy this unforeseen complication. Still, with what reaction could that question expect to be met but incredulous anger! He wanted to rage against circumstance, but all that escaped him was a piteous sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
The Grand General lay broken, barely able to lift his head from the pillow, barely able to make out the form of his weary partner, illuminated though she was by acid sunset. His one eye, bleary, strained to take her in, to ground his fevered mind in reality with the vision of his mate. How long had he been out and what had gone on while he lay unconscious? What would this mean for his country? Why hadn’t she informed him immediately of everything he’d undoubtedly missed! A hacking cough sprang forth from him again, splattering the inside of the breathing mask with black ooze. Another shock of pain seared through the jagged wound. He flinched.
“What day is it…?” came his inquiry, hoarse, warbled by bile and weakness. The skeletal hand splayed over his bandages came away damp with what blood had seeped through them. He extended it towards her in a desperate invitation to approach.
Once a young-and-confident soldier, once a champion of the League, the Master Tactician now lay more corpse than man, withered, doomed: the weakest he had ever been, upon the deathbed-throne of the Nation of the Strong.
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 13, 2013 1:56:06 GMT -5
LeBlanc's lips twisted downwards into a frown at the sound of Swain's groan and whimper. She shook her head, silently replying to him that she was not trying to be witty about his current state and that it was, surprisingly, an honest question from her.
Upon being asked what day it was, she stood up and took four steps, the click of her heels the only noise that could be heard. Once she was near his face, she sat herself on his mattress once more, reached over with her right hand and started to stroke Swain's cheek.
"This is not a request, Jericho. When I tell you, you will not overreact. You will not work yourself into a frenzy and worry me again. If you try to harm yourself any further by getting angry, by trying to move, I swear to you that I will end you with my own two hands." LeBlanc leaned over and pressed her forehead against his, her tone actually shaking with unabated emotion. "A thousand times over I would rather it be my hand that ends your life rather than your own. You will not put me through such a trial. You know how much I have lost and yet I bore it all with ease. I am no stranger to loss, so I say this once and only once, Jericho: You will not work yourself up into a frenzy. You will not risk an aneurysm, you will not risk reopening your wounds any further than they already are, and you will not, under any circumstance, force me to do the unthinkable."
The Deceiver slowly lowered her face next to his ear, her lips brushing the fringes of his lobe as she told him what day it was. "It is the 27th, Jericho. You have been asleep for six days. I have been taking care of matters for you to the best of my ability. No one suspects a thing."
Last Edit: Jun 13, 2013 1:57:04 GMT -5 by The Deceiver
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 13, 2013 20:36:10 GMT -5
The falter of her voice was more terrifying to him than any threat she could have leveled. Her weariness, her emotion, now evident at their proximity, served to reinforce the gravity of the situation. He leaned his burning forehead into the perfect silken skin of her jawline, brows knit, eyes shut tight. The general's skeletal hand rested on her thigh. "Fuck," he breathed. He did not give in to rage, but a sob of desperation escaped him, overwhelmed as he was by gratefulness for her devotion, by terror for their future, by the pitiful state of his form.
...his form.
His hand upon her thigh gripped weakly at her cape. "Evaine..." His whisper, hushed and hoarse, sounded of utter panic. "I can't..." Another whimper; a sharp intake of breath. The tremor of his broken body grew more pronounced. His shoulders shook. "I can't move my legs..."
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 14, 2013 2:08:05 GMT -5
LeBlanc's frown did not disappear. She simply nodded her head in an exhausted manner. "My magic...cannot aid you this time, Jericho. I would be able to give you the illusion you can walk, but the toll it would have to take would kill you in your current state."
The Deceiver knew he would not react well to this bit of news, and she had detected the panic in his voice. She responded by lifting her legs onto the mattress and rested her body next to his. "If you need my help, dear, I can aid you to walk around this room with my own strength."
She rested her left hand on his shoulder, close to his face and started to breathe in, and breathe out. "Breathe at my pace, calm yourself, and if you are not asleep I will help you go for a walk."
No mockery. No condescension. No playfulness in her voice. However, even in his enfeebled state, Swain would be able to tell that something felt off about her touch. Her thumb, index, middle and ring finger were there, but her pinky...It felt lighter. Almost nonexistent.
Was it his imagination, or was there something amiss?
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 14, 2013 16:32:34 GMT -5
He shut his one good eye. She did not understand. It was not weakness that prevented all motion in the lower half of his body, but a complete disconnect of sensation: only dead weight below his hips, numbness, nothingness. A walk about the room would be impossible. Even his attempts to move, to better accommodate her on the bed—to shift his stiff position from the one in which he'd lain for six days straight—were futile. He shut his eye, swallowing his disconsolate correction. To say it aloud would affirm it as true, and he was not yet willing to accept this state as reality, as any more than just a strange, elaborate dream. Dazed as he was in the haze of medication coursing through his veins, it might have been as much. Instead he pressed his rotting lips together, choking down a mouthful of pus.
She settled in beside him, delicately, gingerly. In reaction to her bedside manner, the general clenched his graying teeth, both deeply moved and infuriated to see her so exhausted by her unwavering commitment to their cause, to their success, to him. His first breath matched hers, as she bid. But then the faint familiar frequency of her magic from the hand upon his shoulder caused the air to catch in his lungs. His jaw extended as he analyzed the nature of her spell, the crunch of encrusted blisters audible beneath his shifting oxygen mask. He knew her well enough to tell when something was amiss—especially when, in her exhaustion, her illusion only barely hid the truth—and this subtle disturbance in her aura did not elude him.
The Grand General brought his ghostly hand up to his shoulder and laid it over her dainty one. What might have been an admonishing grip closed weakly around graceful fingers, taking in the swollenness of LeBlanc’s knuckles, the undoubtedly bruise-hardened texture of her palm, the missing volume of her pinky. His calloused hand, though trembling, stroked gently over hers.
He shook his head, brows knit, and sobbed again, overwhelmed by everything she’d given. The past few years had been anything but easy, but never had she faltered.
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 14, 2013 21:48:35 GMT -5
LeBlanc watched Swain's hand slowly move towards his shoulder, expecting him to rest his hand on her own rather than on her fingers. She swore a silent curse in her mind, but her mask of calm did not change. Instead of acknowledging his discovery, her voice took on her characteristic silkiness as she cooed, "Now Jericho, what did I ask you to do? Breathe at my pace, it will help calm you. In, and out. In, and out, at my tempo."
It was her attempt to downplay the direness of her own situation, and was doing her best to divert the attention to helping him relax than letting anything possibly perturb him.
Last Edit: Jun 14, 2013 21:54:31 GMT -5 by The Deceiver
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 14, 2013 22:53:21 GMT -5
Again he shook his head. A telling spark of purpose flickered in his one good eye as it drew open. No matter the obstacles, there was nothing he would allow to jeopardize everything they'd worked towards. "No," he whispered.
The Master Tactician's brows knit in agony and desperation, deepening the wrinkles at his forehead. "We can't continue like this," he rasped. "Look at you." A grunt of exertion escaped him as he spoke, as though every word that fell from his lips were a laborious effort to produce. He fell silent for a moment, catching his breath with the help of Singed's oxygen machine.
"Send word.. to Laurentine's men in Zaun... that when Warwick arrives with the com--" He flinched, his withered hand falling from his shoulder to splay over the bandages on his chest. "The final component... at Singed's lab... it is to be shipped here." Dizziness washed over him. Sweat began to bead upon his forehead. "Immediately."
A cough escaped him, hacking, wet: the cacophonous sound of decay rattling through the bedchamber. Forlorn upon the windowsill, Beatrice ruffled her feathers. When the Grand General had steadied himself enough to speak again, his tone grew darker, grim, determined. "Evaine.
"Help me get a shirt on, and a shroud. And get me Darius. Please."
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 19, 2013 0:12:55 GMT -5
As Swain detailed his command, LeBlanc replied to him in a soft whisper, "Of course, dear, the moment I leave the room I shall do as you ask."
When he said her name, her first name, she raised an eyebrow in slight confusion. He never referred to her in such a way unless they were being...informal, it was an incredibly dire situation, or unless he was about to ask her for something, some sort of request, one that he knew she would most likely not enjoy fulfilling.
She was not wrong.
"Darius?" LeBlanc looked slightly confused and slightly miffed about the favor. She stood up and started to make her way to his closet. A wave of her hand opened it, and the Deceiver started to sort through the articles of clothing. "I can meet with him in your place, dear. You need to go for a walk, just a bit about the room, and then you need more rest, understood?"
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 19, 2013 13:45:01 GMT -5
“I don’t need more rest,” he answered indignantly. “I’ve been asleep for six… fucking… days.” How dare she take that tone with him. Another wheeze constricted his chest, squeezed tight his failing lungs. “You cannot and you… will not keep up this charade.” The Grand General’s fists clenched on the blanket in a display of his frustration until the veins in his skeletal hands bulged.
“Darius is my…” he paused to catch his breath. The silence that fell in this interim was punctuated by the breathing machine’s rhythmic hiss: the pitiful in and out of life-giving oxygen to a man who once stood at the helm of myriad troops, who once conducted astoundingly effective engagements against impossible odds, who once crushed enemy armies beneath the heel of his boot—a man who now lay dying in his bed. “My second for a reason. He places Noxus… first… the same as you and me. If I cannot… count on him… to hold Noxus’ reins in my stead… what good is he… to me?
“Think if you should… fail or falter. H-how would the world react if they should see you standing… in… for me. If they… were awakened… to what you can do…” His single blazing eye watched her intently as she sorted through his clothing. “It is better for him... to see this now… than to discover it later.” Finally, Swain fell silent, the deliberate rise and fall of his shrunken, bandaged chest enough in itself to exhaust him. He cast a forlorn, one-eyed glance down at the IV in his arm. Graying teeth ground together behind the breathing mask.
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 19, 2013 16:08:18 GMT -5
"Darius, is a meat head," LeBlanc shot back in an annoyed tone. "You are completely and absolutely right, Darius does put Noxus first. He put Noxus first to the point of decapitating several generals he thought were too weak to continue breathing. Darius can only hold the reins so long as he believes in your strength."
She spun on her heels and faced Swain after finally selecting his clothing: A white cotton undershirt and a pair of stylish yet comfortable black trousers. "You can count on him to hold the reins to Noxus, when he believes that the coachman is taking a break for a leisurely smoke rather than..." Before she said any more, LeBlanc closed her mouth. Though she always had a more controlled disposition, apparently the weight of her responsibilities along with taking on Swain's and keeping up multiple charades at once finally trickled her patience down to its final drop. Despite this, she knew that she had not meant to be so rude to her Jericho.
"Jericho, dear, Darius can never know about your condition. The facade must be kept, or else he may start asking more and more questions about past actions, future actions, about any actions. It's human nature that when presented with the truth of one lie, they believe the weight of your other words suddenly flies to the skies."
The Deceiver walked over and sat on his mattress, her voice dipping in tone until one could swear each word she spoke was a dagger twisting in one's ears. "And you, Jericho, are allowed to tell me what you believe needs to be done. You will, however, never, NEVER, tell me what I cannot do. I am able to keep this charade up for as long as needed, I will keep this charade up until my bones snap and my sanity a fevered dream of a maniac believing that the kidney stones he is urinating are diamonds his body created. You, however, will not argue with me on this, you will get dressed, and you will go for your walk. Understood?"
Last Edit: Jun 19, 2013 16:12:43 GMT -5 by The Deceiver
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 19, 2013 18:55:41 GMT -5
"I can see... you.. coming apart at the... seams!" The general's gravelly voice rose an octave. His pale face reddened at her tone and at the effort of their argument. Prickly heat stung his cheeks as an anger rose in him the likes of which he'd never felt towards her before--but it was an emotion born as much out of genuine concern for her well-being as rage against circumstance. All this talk of walking exasperated him further. He half-considered attempting to sit up, that he might speak to LeBlanc on her level, but then dismissed the thought, for the struggle to position his wasted body would only make his state more painfully real.
"I... can't walk... Are you going... to make[/i] me able... to walk? Then do so in... front of... DARIUS!" The Eihwaz seared in protest of its bearer's over-exertion. "I... need.. to speak.. with him." Swain shut his eye and held his breath as the mark's agony overwhelmed him, a tortured expression on his half-rotted face, his jaw set, his chin bent down over his chest. When the worst of it had passed, he drew in the machine's supply of air with a gasp and fell back on the pillow.
His voice grew quiet again, barely a whisper, a despondent rasp in the half-light of the setting sun, "Don't... fucking... tell me... what... to do," a plea that she allow him to retain some shred of dignity. The pain in his chest; in his spine; in his lungs; in every aching, atrophying muscle, was nothing to the shattering of his pride.
Post by The Deceiver on Jun 22, 2013 1:09:43 GMT -5
LeBlanc's eyes narrowed with a dangerous glint. Her fingers twitched. Her lips moved to say something, but Swain's pathetic plea stopped her. She gritted her teeth, took a breath in and her demeanor became that of implacable calmness.
"Jericho, with all due respect, I would not let Darius see you if you had a splinter," she replied. "I don't think he will react very well to your current condition. I'd prefer if you see him in person, to at least show him that though ill you are not to be trifled with. If I bring him here, and he makes a single twitch that shows anything but complete and utter loyalty to you, even in your current state, I will execute him on the spot. If you want to see Darius, you will see him yourself on your own two legs."
Whether or not she had misheard him, or intentionally ignored the fact that he said he cannot walk, could only mean one thing when one spoke to the Deceiver: She had a plan.
"Jericho, my dear, I beg of you, do not put me in such a position. If the illusion has been kept up this long, and he is aware of what we have been doing, it would undoubtedly shake his trust in you. I will not fetch you Darius, because you need to do it yourself. All I need you to do, is believe that you can."
Post by The Master Tactician on Jun 23, 2013 2:23:53 GMT -5
The Grand General drew a steady, calming breath. She was right in that the facade must be maintained, and he had no doubt his partner's powers were capable of granting him just that: a charade of illusory capacity, even if only temporarily. But such things always come at a cost. She had said to use more runic magic on his form would aggravate the Eihwaz curse; he remembered that much clearly from the fateful night he'd dealt with Death--and that implied that they should need another.
He nodded once, his one eye falling closed, and extended a gnarled, trembling hand for hers. When calloused fingers met and intertwined with silken white, he felt a warmth spread through his withered body unrelated to the IV's cocktail drip of medicines. ...believe that you can. Of course he could. He could do anything to which he set his mind. He could lead troops to victory against impossible odds. He could rise to power over the strongest nation in Valoran from absolutely nothing. He could manipulate anyone to play their part in the Grand Scheme. Of course he could walk--and the lucky soul who would serve his country in helping him to do so now sat floors below in the guardsmen's mess hall, eating a late supper all alone.
Gradually, the scene formed in his mind. Swain watched as the man dipped his bread into his stew, his helmet off, his brown eyes lost in thought. Then, quite suddenly, a flash of purple light enveloped him and he was gone.
Seconds later, the Master Tactician opened his eye to see the guard standing beside the grand four-poster, his face pale with shock, still chewing. The man swallowed hard and fell to one knee, perturbed and boggled by the scene before him: the skeletal form of his nation's leader, rotting away; the sultry, sinister sorceress about whom he'd heard only whispers.
"Grand General," he whispered. "Ma'am." He could not be certain why, but an overwhelming terror seized him then. He bowed his head.
Welcome to Maelstrom, Original Characters, Summoners and Champions alike. We are a divergent setting roleplay forum for the ever-popular MOBA by Riot, League of Legends. This means we are based in Riot canon, but your characters' actions can have a real, lasting impact on the world. Together, the Maelstrom community endeavors to bring the League of Legends setting and characters to life through collaborative storytelling and meaningful development. We welcome you along for the ride.
Hang out in a citystate, visit the Institute of War, explore the uncharted recesses of Runeterra. Whatever you decide, good luck, have fun and happy writing.
hello new skin yes. gonna work out some kinks but let me know what you guys think. it's not all that flashy but i didn't really like the tabs so the side bar is back. oh and the cbox has also made it's appearance. -rurin.
Maelstrom was created by Swain. Written content is copyrighted to their creators on this site. The skin is created by Wolf and mini-profile template by Kuroya of Gangnam Style. The board and thread remodel is by Kagney and has been heavily edited by Rurin. League of Legends is owned by Riot Games. Maelstrom does not claim ownership to any images used unless stated otherwise.
cbox
Chat box has been removed for the time being. Please contact me at Wyerden@gmail.com, or skype name DearCryophoenix with for any questions or concerns.
