A Shot in the Dark ((By Invitation Only))

His face was numb with weariness, his lids heavy. Had he slept this week? He could not recall.

The general shed his clothes, pulled the clasp from his thinning hair and hobbled over to the bath. As soon as had he lowered himself into the warm water, leant back in the tub, tiredness overwhelmed him and he drifted into the shadowy realm of his subconscious...

(( Read to this. ))

The scene rewound. Blood from the prisoner's abrasion froze in mid-air, retracted into his face. The gash on his chin sealed and the stone head of a cane withdrew.

Swain lowered his gaze, limped backwards out of the cell. The grate slammed closed. The twisting passages flew by in reverse, streams of water trailing upwards along paths of mold and moss, retreating into the low ceiling. The foul bird upon his shoulder flapped her wings as he trudged backwards up the stairs.

And all the while these words echoed in the dark: "Or I could watch you suffer alongside me. Suffer alongside me. Alongside me--side me, side me, side me."

Another voice spoke over the echo--directly to Nocturne, inhuman, cosmic, dark.

This is our vessel, shade. You have no right to haunt it.[/font][/size]

The scene replayed in fast-motion. The general limping down the steps, down the twisting passageways of the dungeon, into the cell. The interrogation. "You'll be slain by your successor, successor, successor, successor. Just as he was, he was, he was." The leering green eye through a mass of disheveled hair.

The eye expanded, its green iris stretching over the prisoner's face, consuming the cell, the dungeon, the general himself. Swain's crippled form tipped into oblivion, spiraled down, down, down, until his feet hit the familiar crimson carpet of the High Command Meeting Hall.

You have no right to break it. It is ours.[/font][/size]

High Command filed in, sat down around the cherrywood table. The faces of Swain's subordinates seemed somehow blurred, ever-shifting, only taking solid form in fleeting moments. Their voices were at once whispers and shouts, echoing through the dream. The walls breathed. The fire burned upside-down in the hearth. Beatrice perched, twice her usual size, atop the chamber door, perpetually screeching out over the din.

This scene, this quickly-crafted construct of his own subconscious, took form as though under water: everything sank slowly into place.

"I've called this meeting to discuss a growing threat," Swain felt his lips form the words, but his voice was somehow warbled, disconnected, irrelevant in this fever-induced dreamscape.

You will not find what you seek, Nightmare. No matter how deeply you dig.[/font][/size]

The imposing form of a magus-general rose. Zorn Agammond, leader of the southern legions, a figurehead leftover from Boram Darkwill's regime. "No, Swain. We have organized this meeting."

Swain's eyes blazed. He opened his mouth to reply, to chide Agammond for his insolence, but found he could not speak.

"You have failed Noxus," the magus-general continued, growing ever-taller, looming above Swain in the chamber until his shadow engulfed the High Command meeting hall, all of Noxus, the entire world. "And as such, we cannot allow you to remain in power. High Command is in agreement, agreement, agreement, agreement, eement, eement."

The scene changed again: the cell. But now, instead of the green-eyed prisoner, Swain himself hung from the wall, suspended by the wrists with embedded iron shackles. A familiar purple robe swept over the threshold. Its wearer lowered her hood: Vessaria.

She leaned down until her pointed nose was barely an inch from Swain's. "I know what you're doing, you're doing, you're doing, you're doing," she whispered. "You deserve this death, death, death, death, death."

A flash of lightning, clap of thunder. Zorn Agammond's looming form replaced the High Councilor's. An upward swing, a scepter in the dark.

The scene dissolved. Nothingness. Then:

Madame LeBlanc sat across the table from the green-glowing form of Boram Darkwill, sipping wine in his tent. "You are going to die tonight," she said simply as Swain drew out the chair beside her.

An incredulous laugh rang out over the Kalamandan countryside.

An upward swing, a scepter in the dark, the glimmering pink crystals.

"It would make no difference, Swain. You'll be slain by your successor--just as he was, he was, he was."

GET. OUT.[/font][/size]

A cosmic force rose up in the general's mind, equally matched to the Eternal Nightmare. A giant raven perched upon the world, spread its wings against the stars.

LEAVE AND NEVER RETURN.[/font][/size]