Post by The Barbarian King on Oct 4, 2013 9:54:02 GMT -5
March 30, CLE (11:50 PM, Approximately)
Today, was a long day.
After an interrupted fight with the thing that slaughtered his village, after bringing the Queen of the Freljord back to Rakelstake in relatively one piece, after relieving fears and trying to keep his people optimistic about their situation, after scaring the life out of the scout who found Ashe's bow in the wilds when he simply walked into the medical ward she was placed in, after dealing with that same scout balling her eyes out with rivers of apologies, and explaining between her sobs that he had come to thank her for doing her job... Tryndamere was tired.
Physically he was fine. The last bouts of his anger sealed up most of the hole in his stomach, although some of it was still there; nothing fatal of course, seeing that he had the castle's medics patch him up suitably.
No... he was mentally drained, bereft of both anger and care as the last rays of the sun slipped behind the tall peaks of the Freljord. Day had become night, and the King was sitting in a large chair which overshadowed his form, turned so he could stare at the slow-burning fire; it was the only light source in the room, which itself was something between a living room, a study, and a trophy room.
A voluminous, award-filled room to make the King all the more depressed and keenly aware of how he felt at this exact moment: alone.
Clasped in his hands was a clay mug, filled with a brown, sweet-smelling liquid, and a spoonful of nostalgia mixed in. He was feeling it for all the wrong reasons, mostly the overwhelming sense of longing in his chest for something he could never have back...
When he was little more than a child, this was a drink, albeit a simple one, that Tryndamere's mother made him, at least while she was alive. Who knew how she got her hands on some cocoa powder from the Kumungu; the fuzzy, northern cows of the Freljord would have provided for the rest of the brew.
It would be a lie to say these were happy memories. They weren't.
The Barbarian King was being brought low by his very own mind, and needed someone there to pull him back up, even if a little.
Their company had returned, thankfully with no further injury. What had happened, they agreed, would remain relatively unknown save for the affected parties. It would be... unfortunate, to say the least, for the people and any outside parties to hear even a whisper of what had transpired. Though Ashe planned on giving a reason for her extended absence, should concerns be vocalized, she was not looking forward to it. The palace itself was also relatively quiet about the whole ordeal, knowing and understanding the solemn silence when she and Tryndamere returned. Save for the quiet crying of a scout who feared the worst and, as Ashe later learned, the very same woman who ensured her 'rescue party'. She had thanked her, but had also made a mental note to 'reward' her later.
Yet, here they were now. Ashe had taken to the shower; warm and inviting. Her arm, though still a little numb, was beginning to tingle. A sign of life, and one she accepted gratefully. With her hair still half wet, she had taken to wearing a simple night-slip and a bathrobe. She knew Tryndamere would not be in their overly-large bed laden with furs. No, the night was still young and it was still full of the horrors from the past. Ashe remembered the way he looked when he had offered his hand, the way she had felt when she had seen the large spike impaled through his stomach. A feeling she would not dwell on now, for she was safe. Tired, but safe.
Still she knew that she would not sleep. Or could not, knowing that Tryndamere would not be sleeping tonight. For however scared or alone she had felt, she supposed it must be the same, if not more so, for the King whose past remained as much of a mystery to her as hers did to him. It was odd, knowing that they had been married for almost two years with so few threads between them. At the thought, her teeth bit down gently on her lip, which was still tender from the cuts it had received earlier. It was not that she didn't want to. She didn't know why. It was all for the sake of Freljord and that's all it was, and all she had expected it to be. She did not have time for herself or her own happiness, and other matters always came first.
But she did not linger on these thoughts. With a soft sigh, she tugged her robe closer around herself, she made her way to the study. The flickering fire from beneath the half closed door was evidence enough of the Barbarian King's presence. She slipped in, quiet as a cat before shutting the door completely. She made sure to knock, though Ashe knew that Tryndamere would have been alerted. At first she was still, standing by the carved frame and wondering what she should say. It was not comfort she felt, but awkwardness. It was silly, if she thought about it. She shared a bed with this man, for goodness sakes!
"May I join you?" She spoke, her voice soft but clear as she moved her way around to the fire. The chair was large, which made even the hulking King seem small. Or perhaps it was the way he looked before Ashe turned to the fire and sat herself down cross-legged on the rug in front of it. She held her hands out, feeling the way the shadowed flames licked at her palms. "Thank you, by the way." Ashe could not remember if she had already said this, but she decided to again. Just in case.
Post by The Barbarian King on Oct 8, 2013 14:07:58 GMT -5
The fire crackled quietly behind its metal cage, snapping and popping like a little dog, but ultimately gnawing away at the food it had been given. Tryndamere heard the knock on the door to the study, but did not offer a response. He heard the soft pat of feet against the woven carpet, like a doe moving softly through fresh, fallen snow. He heard Ashe's voice, but it fell to cold ears; he knew she would join him regardless, so he said nothing, initially. As she sat down onto the carpet before the fire, she reached towards its warmth; slender, lightly muscled arms becoming imbued with its comforting heat. He was glad she felt some sense of comfort from it, even if he could not feel nor offer any.
It was when she spoke again that she was able to rouse the King. Simple words, really, "Thank you, by the way."
Tryndamere slid down from his encompassing throne, moving to sit next to her, inching closer to the flame. One hand grasped the couch for stability, while the other still held the clay mug in his hands. A brief moment of interlude passed between them, as his mind began to settle on the aspect of conversation.
His hand brushed against the earthy, abrasive mug in his hands, before he held it out to Ashe.
"Try this; you'll like it."
If she did take a sip of the reasonably hot drink, she would find her taste buds enveloped by sweet, yet bitter dark chocolate, infused with traces of nutmeg, cinnamon, and a hint of chili powder, mixed into a thick concoction bound by milk.
"When I was younger, far before I began helping my tribe claim victory over the things it needed to survive, my mother would make me this drink. Hot chocolate, she called it."
He turned his head towards Ashe.
"That mug was hers. It's one of the few things that survived the raid."
His eyes turned once more to the fire, letting the weight of his words sink in. His mind recalled that night, great riders ripping through the encampment... and him. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fist, yet those same notes of anger and frustration fell into nothingness as he released his empty grasp. He opened his worn, calloused, battle-hardened hand. It was strong, unbelievably so at times... but at what cost?
His eyes remained on his hand.
"I never told you what happened that night... have I?"
Ashe merely flexed her fingers in front of the fire, feeling the tingle of heat travel through her fingertips just as Tryndamere removed himself from his chair and sat himself down on the floor. It would have been an odd sight to see - the King and Queen sitting on a dark, woven carpet in, at first, a strange sort of silence. When the cup was held out to her, she blinked first, then took it with a small nod and an even smaller smile. The heat of the drink seemed to clash strangely with the fire, but it was comforting in a way.
The archer brought the mug closer to herself, taking in the rich scent and the way the surface of the chocolate seemed to ripple from the recent movements. She leaned forward, relaxing her shoulders so that she was hunching slightly. It was probably bad for her posture but for now, she took no notice of it. She brought the cup to her lips for a slight taste, cautious because she didn't want to burn her tongue. It was... surprisingly good. Sweet with an agreeable amount of heat swirled in with a mixture of other spices she could not recall currently. Ashe never considered herself an expert on things like this.
She remained silent as Tryndamere began to speak, his voice quiet. The nature of this conversation took the turn she thought it would. She could only nod as the King spoke of his mother, glancing down at the name of the drink. Ashe remembered tasting something like this before, yet not. It was different, but the concept of melted chocolate was not uncommon. Still, there was something homely about the taste. Something that made everything seem comfortable and safe. It turned her thoughts to her own mother and how she had also passed away in an attack on their tribe.
Ashe gripped the mug a little more tightly, then softer. "It's delicious." She said simply, deciding not to comment on the raid nor give her condolences. They were past that point. There were similarities, but Ashe knew that the pain of losing one's entire family would amount to nothing else in this world. She set the mug with great care down onto the carpet before taking in a breath and turning her eyes onto the King. Ashe reached her hand out and touched her fingers against his open palm, where his sight was set upon.
It was a startling contrast. Her fingers were slender and pale, though worked from years and years of training with her bow. Yet her hand seemed fragile in comparison to Tryndamere's, who gripped his blade with such fury that it seemed to crack even more life lines onto even the heel of his palm. It was Ashe's attempt in coaxing Tryndamere into looking at her, rather than imagining the blood and reliving night terrors. She had been through it herself, and even the soft, snowy strands of her hair was memory enough.
Ashe attempted another smile, whether Tryndamere looked at her or not. "Do not think you have to."
Post by The Barbarian King on Oct 13, 2013 18:06:46 GMT -5
He felt her lithe fingers move over his palm, something the Barbarian King didn't expect her to do. He looked down at his hand... and hers. It was small, much smaller than his own, and light... he knew her hand was strong, but looking at how hers compared to his... it felt delicate. Strong, but delicate; something he wanted, no, needed to protect. His head tilted up and turned towards her; the long strands of his ebon hair shrouded over his face, like his current malaise. Yet through his downtrodden mood, his blue eyes pierced through that veil, and he saw her there, for him, now.
His hand grasped hers tightly, like a child in desperate need of comfort that the Barbarian King could finally admit to needing; the deep chunks of his armor had finally begun to show.
"What am I doing Ashe..." the King began.
"I am no leader of men; all I know is war, and battle, how to fight, how to swing my blade at my foes. I'm angry, all the time, and it's like a rabid dog that won't shut up. I tried diplomacy, tried talk, and I failed. The Freljord is still divided, squabbling over survival needs, and only came together when the Void struck; Demacia was attacked by the Shadow Aisles, and they fare better than us! Even when the Void did strike, all I could do was attack at whatever was set before me and my mindless wrath; I could not stop the Void from coming. I am no sorcerer, who can wave his hand and will it all away with my thoughts. That pompous crow in Noxus can though; they seem to be the only ones doing well.
The King was much more stressed than Ashe might have anticipated.
"And even you, you were kidnapped under our very eyes; I couldn't even avenge my clan or repay that damned Demon for everything he's done to me!
Pent-up tension within the King, bottled up for so long was finally set loose, transforming into anger.
"I have all this strength, all this anger inside of me, and what can I do with it to help the Freljord? Nothing! Nothing."
Tryndamere gritted his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. The last thing he wanted to do was lash out at Ashe. He forced his frustrated head to look down at the carpet, his hand still firmly grasped around hers.
"I've defeated my clansmen and declared King, but what right do I have to the title if I cannot do anything with it?"
Ashe did not flinch nor stir when Tryndamere's fingers wrapped around hers. She merely listened, allowing the words to trickle through the perpetual barrier that normally separated her from the King. She fixed her gaze on him, seeing the boiling emotion flit across his face; like an eagle chasing an inferno, it rolled back and forth. When the words began to flow, it was a torrent. Words that had been locked up and meanings that drove Tryndamere to such drastic actions.
And when the Barbarian King fell silent, Ashe sighed. Not in exasperation, but in purposeful thought. "Yes, it is true that a leader must be well spoken and charismatic. The people will follow, willingly, a leader who is kind and generous. They would willingly follow a leader who can tell them and show them what they want." Another soft breath of air escaped from her lips before she continued, "We do not threaten the people of Rakelstake to stay. They stay because they believe we can give them a life they all deserve. Our people do not deserve to live in a land riddled with strife and destruction. They believe we offer peace and yet with peace."
Ashe allowed a moment to pass before continuing, smiling thinly, "There are unavoidable sacrifices. You offer courage and a ferocity to follow what you believe in. Your people are strong. You represent a strength that, in times of trouble, people will look to. What use are words when the night whispers to us and fills us with terrors from beyond? When that happens, we look to the strong and to our defenders." She did not know if her words were making much of an impact, but in a sense, this was for her as welll.
"As for me, do not think it was your fault or the people's." She shrugged, her eyes cast to the fire burning. It lit the crystal blues, shining with a soft guilt and, to put it simply, embarrassment. "I should have known better than to travel so far from the city, especially considering my... condition. As for the Darkin..." Ashe looked at Tryndamere, her voice softening. "Your revenge, however understandable, should not be the focus of your life. It will eat you up, devour you from the inside. Your anger will only harm you and your brethren." She knew she was repeating sentences Tryndamere would have heard before, but she knew well what rage does to someone. Herself. Sejuani. It was a sickness, a poison that destroyed far more than one would expect.
Ashe inhaled deeply, bringing herself back to the moment. To what was important now. "Tryndamere, look at me." She lifted her other arm, raising it at first to touch his cheek before instead allowing her fingers to fall onto his forearm. "You are a King. You are who you are. You... are an important person to these people." Ashe licked her lips, searching for the words. But there was something festering within. What first became an attempt to comfort the man had now become a situation in which Ashe could only recall happening one other time in her life. A different place, a different person. But she could not stop.
"You are not my King because you defeated your clansmen. You are not my King because we pitied the loss of your family. You are not the King of Rakelstake, if not Freljord, simply because we could use your barbarianism in order to strike down our enemies or our 'rivals'." The contact made her stomach clench and she knew. There was strength in unity, but there would be no comfort for her. Her heart jumped, scratching at the perpetual walls she had forgotten about, ever since the storm. Yet, this was not about her. Ashe breathed out. "You are strong. Not just your body, but your mind. The people look at you and they are inspired. They do not see a savage. They see a man with every desire to see Freljord living in peace and they will gladly raise their swords and shields to fight by your side."
Post by The Barbarian King on Oct 16, 2013 15:23:58 GMT -5
The King was finally able to express his angers and frustrations without using them as catalysts to fuel his unquenchable Rage; to Ashe, he was like a kettle unleashing pent-up heat into steam, a pot of water boiling over. She was the one who had to cool his over cooked mind and bring the temperature down...
And cool it, she did.
It started slowly, her words gently reaching for the temperature dial, turning it ever so slowly in a counter clockwise turn. As she did, the turbulent waters started to calm themselves down. The screaming kettle lessened to a whistle, then to mere vapors trailing out; the pot reducing to a roil, a light bubbling, to simple being of a scalding temperature. Her words continued to calm him until the waters inside were reduced to a state more akin of a hot shower.
Yet as she mentioned his wrath towards the Darkin, as she gently attempted to lift that pot off of the burner, she wouldn't be able to; the bottom of the pot was fused with the burner, inseparable. The source of his wrath was something much harder to remove altogether, the solutions not so easy.
Regardless, she let Tryndamere's frustrations settle and cool down almost entirely. As she let her hand rest upon the King's face, and told him why she and the Freljord followed him, his eyes met with hers. His own hand rested upon hers, holding it gently, acknowledging that her words had brought some comfort to him. A slight smile crept out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes trailing downwards.
Though you could not see the aura of rage, it was obvious in the way it poured off the King's body. Yet the colors began to simmer and Ashe could feel the air gasping in relief as the slow suffocation stopped. She did not know which part had soothed the aching atmosphere, only that there were stitches, a temporary suture to the proverbial wounds. Scars can always be reopened, bruises left to be touched and pressed because he must not forget. There was no healing, and not even an icy bath dug and filled in the pits of Freljord's coldest peak would chill this seething rage.
Yet Ashe was thankful. Thankful that her words had not gone unheeded and that she did have some semblace of a relationship with the King, even if not romantic. After all, Tryndamere was not known for his ability to listen to people. Even as he looked at her, it was a simple... comfort-yet-not.
Her fingers twitched beneath Tryndamere's touch and she gently slipped her hand from beneath the King's before patting his knee softly, both in consolation and reassurance. "We all have our moments of weakness." She brought both hands back to herself before resting them in her lap. "But it is not the moment we must focus on; it is the strength we can draw from those times."
Ashe shook her head, not yet done. "But Freljord cannot have a King who is focused on his rage. Freljord needs a King who will take care of the land, and..." She paused. "We must have the strength to put it all behind us." Her finish was empty, even she could hear herself as the syllables resounded on her tongue. There was something unspoken.
Post by The Barbarian King on Oct 29, 2013 3:56:46 GMT -5
"You say that as if I can halt my anger at the stop of a valor; it won't work Ashe. I know, I've tried."
If anything could be said about Tryndamere, he was brutally honest. He wasn't angry with his explanation, just blunt.
"I thought it would go away with time, and I did anything I could think of to quell my anger. It only festered, and whenever I stood upon the fields of battle, I could feel it roar inside. My wrath will not leave until I have found and slain him, the reason for it all, with the sword of my ancestors."
Tryndamere, to his great misfortune, was nowhere near the diplomat Ashe was. He spoke his mind as he chose, yet she could easily veil her own. He didn't pick up on her hidden meanings behind the inflections of her voice.
"But I swear to you that no matter how angry I become, and how... inept I am at leading, that you will have my loyalty. You are far more fit to lead the Freljord than anyone in the North, and you have shown that both on and off the battlefield."
The King raised his clenched fists, showing them to her.
"These hands, my anger, the men at my command, and my blade; they are yours, my Queen. For the Freljord."
Tryndamere's deep teal-blue eyes pierced through the darkness, twin glaciers upon the horizon aglow with the sunlight of the hearth fire. His words held truth and weight behind them, and he meant every letter. A fool, perhaps, but an honest fool nonetheless.
"I say it because I believe it true," Ashe replied, shrugging thinly. The gesture was small, and half hearted, almost as if she did not quite believe her own words. It had been so long and though she could still remember the feelings; the chill and the needled pain, she could not quite recall the path of recovery. "It is not a matter of trying. When you are ready, you will know." She sighed, "Or perhaps you only think that spilling blood is the only cure, and that exact reasoning will tear... us, our people, apart."
Ashe smiled thinly at Tryndamere's promise, words but water, flowing and slipping off her skin like a cold slab of ice. They were words she knew to be true. Stubborn and fearless, ignorant yet not of the way this came to be. "What will they say, the good people, when we advocate peace whilst their King relishes in the blood of his foes?" She knew she was being cruel, pulling at the thorns when she had no reason to.
She shook her head, "I do not need your anger, Tryndamere." Shifting, Ashe lifted her chin so that crystals met glaciers and this time, she did not shy away. "Anger, hatred, despair... I have known it. Everyone has. Yet not always for the same reason. My mother was killed because she was unprepared. I was angry, not at her murderers, but at her. She was reckless and she paid for it with her life."
Though her voice did not shake, and though her eyes did not flicker, her shoulders trembled subtly. Only one other had been privy to her thoughts, and they were long gone. "My companions were also killed out of foolishness: mine. And I despaired," Ashe laughed, quietly and without humor. "As you may have despaired, I too fell only to be wrenched away because I could wallow while my people suffer." Then, almost as she had said too much, she pressed her lips together.
"... I apologize. What I am trying to say is that we do not need bloodshed. At the very least, put aside your vendetta. It is difficult, I know. It is constantly on your mind, keeping you awake at night, eating away at your heart and I know how it makes your blood boil to fire." Ashe brought her eyes to the fire, watching the flames coil around until one devoured the other. "But I know it is not impossible."
Post by The Barbarian King on Nov 9, 2013 0:44:35 GMT -5
As Ashe spoke her mind, the truth behind the veil, his hands rested in his lap. Her words stung, prodding at the unhealed wounds of his soul, but he kept quiet and he listened. He's heard these words before, how his wrath would not only destroy those he cared for but himself in the process; and it was all true. He knew that he had to be the one to put it all behind him, to allow himself to heal and mend... ...but he couldn't. He knew all too well that no matter how fervently he tried to attain peace if mind, that Aatrox and the anger in his heart wouldn't let him. His rage was born from the Darkin, and only the complete and total destruction of his for could allow him to feel at peace once more. That, at least, is what Tryndamere felt to be true.
Ashe understood what the King was feeling... to a degree. At the same time, she did not understand; only her mother was torn away from her. Tryndamere's mother was taken from him as well: so was his father, his kinsmen, his elders, his friends, his siblings if he had any. His very village was torn from him, and all that nothingness he felt inside as Aatrox swatted him down like a fly planted the seeds of everything which defined him: wrath, anger, fury, rage; it was called by many names, and all of them correct in definition. It took root inside of him, spreading and binding itself to every fiber of his being. It violently cauterized his wounds, searing them shut. He had no time to feel sorrow, no capacity to grieve, and was only driven by overwhelming waves of anger. The eruption of flames would fill the void in his chest, but it would eat at the very same hole, increasing its diameter.
Tryndamere knew all of this, knew that his power was killing himself... but he wasn't ready to let go. He couldn't. Aatrox could easily do what he did to the King again, and make another Tryndamere. He probably has before, although they were not known. Tryndamere could forgive and forget all he wanted, but the Darkin Blade was still out there, thriving, an active threat to all with promises of victory and defeat. He would wreath the world in war, and burn it all to ash over and over again. Even if he ended up destroying himself in the process, Tryndamere would rather die and take his nemesis with him than allow Aatrox to do to others what he did to the King; his will was an endless bastion of flame, harming everyone and everything around him. He had two choices: slay the monster who breathed this fire into him or become the monster he hunts so passionately.
Tryndamere wanted to tell her that he would do it, that he would try and succeed at bringing peace to the Freljord as well as himself... but he knew it was a ruse. For the entirety of the time she spoke, he was looking at her, but as she finished with her request, his eyes fell down. For a while he was deep in thought, a long pause emerging between the two. It was almost as if the King refused to answer her, but that was not the case; he was at war with himself. Eventually though, he emerged from his mind, his head and eyes turning up to look at her. They were weary, tired, and accepting of his fate. It seemed his malaise would stay, and Ashe could do nothing to lift it.
"...I cannot give you what you want; I cannot give it to myself."
If she had known what Tryndamere thought, she would shed no tears. There was no anger left for her. Of course it was different. She still had cousins, and uncles and aunties, some who had turned to other tribes and others who had stayed. But she did not seek their counsel, nor did she seek their comfort or company. With a bare few friends she could call true, Ashe knew what loneliness felt like and was none the more affected by it. She did not embrace it as a poison; she saw it as a barrier from a world that was full of death and dying, of weakness and mercy and she balked at the very idea of embrace. Not because she hated it or because she did not want it, but because she knew the second she did, they would be ripped from her breast and taken far away.
As it were, the storm was enough and winter would always be upon them. Tryndamere was suffering, but he was not the only one. She would not coddle him any more than she had done. All she could do was offer her words, however empty, but she could not give him a false heart and a gentle touch. She knew stubbornness when she saw it. Her father - bless his soul - had passed from a festering wound, saying that he would not be gone forever. He would come back with the warriors of the ice, back from a land where even the fires were cold and the sun was but a mere ball of chilled flame. The fever had taken his mind, but still he insisted. Stubbornness and foolishness. They were both one and the same.
"Then I cannot offer you any more." Ashe said softly, her eyes devoid of all that was raw and sympathetic. She stood, stretching her cramped legs but did not wince as she felt the pang at her thigh. Even at her full height, she did not look so imposing with her light gown and thin shoulders. In fact, they had all said it. Too slender, too fragile, too pale. If only she had the pointed ears to complete the look, she could have passed for a being spoken only in myth and legend. Yet her eyes were striking, a feature most Freljordians were proud to claim. The bright sea-glass or the piercing azure that cured the ice of famine, it was the sheen of the eyes that proclaimed the health of a child. She looked at Tryndamere now, both of their gazes unyielding and she saw in him the same foolishness she saw in her father until his dying gasp of fairies and wyverns.
Ashe inclined her head stiffly, careful not to show the pity she felt. "Thank you for allowing me your company tonight, my King. But I'm afraid it is growing late and I am weary from my... unplanned adventure. I must also thank you for leading the rescue party." The voice had returned. There was no affection to be found, only practiced politeness. They would all be cursed in their solitude. Ashe wished not for a man who would drown in his own sorrows, despite his admission to these faults. No matter how strong a sword-arm he possessed, nor for his strength. Their marriage was... not a mistake, but she wondered how valiant this Barbarian King could truly be. She would not allow anything to get in her way. Freljord always came first.
Another small inclination and she turned. "Have a good night."
Post by The Barbarian King on Nov 24, 2013 20:13:04 GMT -5
He offered no reply to her, remaining silent while he sat next to the fire. He was still strongly downtrodden, and could not find the strength to acknowledge her evening farewell. His malaise clung to him like a sickness, and it kept his mind weighed down by the most recent of events. He merely waited for her to close the door, or leave, he didn't care which. Now he just wanted to be left alone.
The only sounds in the room were that of the crackling fire, and of the King's breathing. But the air was charged with ire and stress, and Tryndamere the fire. He rose from where he was sitting, the red mist beginning to shroud his vision. His downtrodden mood was set aflame by the uncontrollable rage which spread from him like wildfire. He was unbelievably angry, as the realization that rationality did nothing for his current state, fury took hold once more. He turned, and like a beast, lifted the great chair he was once sitting in, throwing it across the room. Nothing was safe from the King. He upturned his desk, launching it at the bookshelves. He ripped trophies from his walls, tossing them about in his fit. Everything around him was Being thrown about in his wrath, his inability to kill Aatrox, his relentless and unstoppable anger, everything was overflowing once again, as it has been for all of his life.
And then, a crack, and a shattering sound.
His eyes darted around, immediately pointing to what he had heard came from. In front of the fire, smashed to little pieces, was the clay cup. Tryndamere's eyes went wide with panic, as he rushed to the fire. He was down on his knees, looking at the broken mess before him, little bits of clay midst a now ruined puddle of drink. His anger was quickly washing away, as he picked up a piece of this simple relic from his past. His hand was shaking as he held the broken chip, and his mind coming back to him. He looked around, and his office was a complete wreck. Everything had been upturned and thrown about, all because of his rage, his endless, unstoppable rage. Tryndamere gritted his teeth, his head bowing down as his chest became tight. Tears of anger began to stream down his face, as everything he had done set in, and the last memento from the few peaceful moments of his past destroyed before him, by his own hands. Ashe was right. His anger destroyed everything around him, including himself. Nothing was safe, not the Freljord, not his castle, his queen, not even a simple cup once held by his mother's gentle hands.
His head snapped to the sky, and he let out a roar of anger, of pain, of sorrow. In the remains of his office, Tryndamere yelled and wept in fury and agony, and would continue like this until he passed out from sheer exhaustion, pent up in his den. He lay on the rug, fighting the nightmares that plagued his dreams once again.
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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.
