Post by The Harbinger of Doom on Nov 5, 2013 2:34:05 GMT -5
(What I mean when I say Psuedo-Open is that it's open to anybody who has a particularly good reason to be mucking about the Freljord at this period of the extremely early timeline. This would mostly be confined to Noxians participating in "Barbarian Pacification", a small number of Champions on behalf of an Institute Expedition, and natives to the Freljord of bygone days.)
The wicker frame of the Institute's newest executioner stood starkly still, as it was prone to do. So much so, had he been standing still, that he was largely a snowdrift in appearance, only a little bit of his frightful, sackcloth visage showed from beneath the snow he had simply allowed to pile up around him. The institute funded excavators didn't question his standing there and allowing this to happen, as the creature already had a reputation within the institution's walls for being a bloody-handed monster who would kill over the least cause, and simply decided it was wiser to not disturb "him". Some of them were likely praying that the monstrosity would somehow freeze to death.
The excavation team had been on site for about forty eight hours, and in that time most of them suffered greatly at the miserable snowstorms that racked this particular region. Even more of them, however, were shivering not because of the cold, but because of what happened to the white bear that was foolish enough to accost them on the way to the dig site. Even now, with his power still only slowly building, Fiddlesticks had literally glared that bear off a cliff to its doom. While the beleaguered explorers were glad to not have to deal with an angry polar bear blocking their path, feelings towards their "bodyguard" were something along the vein of "With friends like you, who needs enemies?"
The truth of why the Harbinger was with them was, of course, more sinister than they could have guessed: There were suspicions of ancient demonic influence in these mountains, and if they proved to be true, he was to ensure nobody but a very select few would live to know of it. This, first and foremost, meant he would be devouring those fools who perceived him as some sort of dark guardian to them, as well as anyone else he suspected was in possession of this knowledge. For now, however, these rumours remained precisely that, and so the wicker man simply stood silent vigil off the edge of the tundra shelf they were excavating in earnest, waiting for either intrusion or evidence about what was going on in these mountains.
Post by The Master Tactician on Nov 15, 2013 1:32:09 GMT -5
In the early hours of dawn, the Freljord's chill was almost paralyzing--but for the wiry young officer staring out over the tundra, cold was secondary to the drive ablaze within his core. The sun had not yet risen, so the sky was pitch over the silver dunes. Winds whipped over the frozen plains, kicking up clouds of freshly fallen snow. They howled, these gales, like the forlorn cries of bereavement or the howls of wolves. The officer was as still as a statue, a great black bird upon his shoulder, listening--but not to the windsong.
He is near.
Crimson eyes ignited, piercing through the gloom, and off he set: cane, step, step, across the tundra. The soldiers would be sleeping. The guards on post would think he'd gone to mull over battle plans or assess the land by moonlight. But his mind was not on Barbarian battles, not on the clash of steel or spells, not on the securing and destruction of bases--but on the voice that called to his soul. It was somehow familiar, deja vu in an unfamiliar landscape, a dark dreamscape over which he limped.
Snows billowed up from the earth in ghostly wisps around the soldier's slender form until finally, his eyes alighted upon a silhouette in the distance: sackcloth peaking up out of a snowdrift. He stopped dead in his tracks. The Raven crowed.
"Gatekeeper," the voice not-quite-Swain's growled over the wintry lands. He was unsure whether the voice was contained inside his head or indeed, as it seemed, echoing out through the surreal surroundings--but either way, he somehow knew the creature lying dormant would detect his invitation. "Awaken."
Post by The Harbinger of Doom on Nov 15, 2013 2:42:58 GMT -5
"When have you ever known the Master of the Keys to sleep?"
The voice, ringing into the Noxian's head, was simply offering a rhetorical response, and the one it was addressing knew it, as the snows effortlessly slid off his wicker frame, a soft hiss like unto a sand dune being trod upon would be heard, indistinguishable from the countless other sounds like it, prodded into being by the cold northern winds.
What stood up, now in full evidence, showed the chaos that had been wrought upon the being by both its journey and arrival, and yet, the pale green fire of its eyes would be far too familiar to ignore. It stood there for a long moment, regarding its compatriots own form, ruined in its own fashion, in stoic silence. This silence was felt more than heard, and not even the howls of the Freljord could break it. Only one thing would.
The Wicker Man knelt into the snow, arm crossing its torso. It knew now why it was here. Why it was *truly* here. The voice whispered from The Harbinger's mind to the other's.
Post by The Master Tactician on Nov 15, 2013 21:52:07 GMT -5
A shudder shook the young man's body as foreign memories roiled in his core: scenes of subterfuge, betrayal, a far-off world his mortal mind could barely comprehend--and yet they were familiar, comforting in a way despite the indignant rage that stung at his soul like the whipping winds upon his cheeks, comforting because they would soon be set right. The appearance of this scarecrow in the snow somehow affirmed that fact. "Always watching, isn't that the way?" The bird upon his shoulder ruffled her feathers.
"You never sleep, and nor do you forget." Swain sunk his cane into the snow and folded his hands over its head, crimson eyes shining like searchlights through the gloom to lock with gleaming green. "Rise. She has enlisted your aid, then, and all is as it should be."
Post by The Harbinger of Doom on Nov 16, 2013 2:19:42 GMT -5
"She is kith and kin to those that need brought down, so eventually she becomes a loose end needing tied.
The voice was dispassionate, yet carried a distinct tinge to it, as if it were not one but two uttering this sentiment. The wicker frame rose from its "knee" to full stature, which is more than slightly tall given how rarely it actually bothered to stand straight, and just how ungoverned by human physiology his body was.
"And it is easier to tie off ends when you are near to them."
Post by The Master Tactician on Nov 17, 2013 16:25:35 GMT -5
"So it is," the soldier spoke. His voice wavered with the cold, but not for any lack of conviction. "You will be our eyes and ears within until the time is right." Thin fingers flexed over the handle of his cane. "What will has she for this plane that we may show her how we... share it."
Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 12, 2014 15:53:08 GMT -5
The young man's shape lifted its chin; the shadowed bird upon its shoulder cawed as light crested the mountains, heralding dawn. A smirk drew up one corner of Swain's mouth and he nodded, "But she is right to wish that, even if she seeks to find it far across the world from where it lies." He paused, shifting his weight in the snow.
"And when you return to her, you will tell her you have found us. You will tell her we have come to serve her--to instrument her reign upon this plane as only we can do: The Orchestrator, you, and The Deceiver too. And when the time is right, when the pieces are in place, we will go to her and pledge for all her mortal subjects to see... you and me and She."
Crimson eyes flared in the snowmist, beacons in the cold half-light between them. "But the time will come when we will rise above." A low growl seemed to echo out from the very snowdrifts, from the very sky...
"And on that day she will know what it is to be deposed, to be discarded, to be ruined."
"But until then, you will be our eyes and ears--and what she sees and hears, so shall we." The raven on the boy's shoulder took flight, fluttered over and perched upon the wicker frame as if in answer to the unspoken question, 'how,' and from her feathered body came a rush of memories: great nothingness and Her departure, a millennia in wait, vast undulating time and space, a rip in The Beyond and then a place--this place--where fourteen years ago the demon-god had fallen, heard Her call and thereafter resolved to rule it all.
This was The Birthright, after all, on a different plane, with a different name--but still. "Tell her we are subject to her will."
Post by The Harbinger of Doom on Jan 12, 2014 16:32:34 GMT -5
Something happened, as the bird landed upon the frame of the stoic sentinel. Something that neither of the inhabitants of the scarecrow truly saw coming until they saw the bird flying straight towards them, and the demon and the man agreed that a love of these birds was, indeed, a common ground. Time was moving differently inside of Fiddlesticks compared to without, and the quiet negotiation had reached a conclusion in the short time it took for the flight to conclude. The bird gave them a shock wave of memories, but then they gave it a shock wave in return; the essence of the void, which the bird delivered, took on the form of another bird, and that bird emerged from within the scarecrow, perching right next to Swain's own for a moment, before cawing at it as if to send it back to its master. Their master. Within the tattered recesses of shadow, void, and frame, more and more birds formed, though these remained immaterial, though the presence of the entire murder of crows was undoubtedly a thing Swain, and The Orchestrator, could feel. The sackcloth visage had its lips tug into a smile then, as the summoner and the demon became a little more complete.
"At last. We're finally agreeing."
The thought didn't seem directed at Swain so much as felt ambient, and had any of the excavators been awake, they might have even heard it.
"Your message will reach Her presently."
For the first time since their encounter, and for the entire trip in truth, his raspy, croaking voice was audible, and without another word, Fiddlesticks would trudge out across the Tundra, alone, knowing this message bore more importance to the lady than her excavators well being.
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.
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