No Spirits for a Dead Horse (Semi-Closed)

A voice cut through the pulse of blood and steel, one that resonated fathoms deeper than the greatest depths of the sea and spoke in more than a singular voice. It was one he was familiar with, one he had heard many times upon the Fields of Justice, but one clear time that stuck into his mind like a thorn, when he came foretelling of some kind of doom, and the loss of many who lived in the Freljord. His blade stopped it swing, slowly coming to a rested position with the hilt on his foreleg. His head slowly became level with the land, and eyelids curled apart to reveal two frozen glaciers. They and his head turned to the source of this ominous voice, the spectral steed that had come to his lands once before... had he come to collect on his prophecy? He did not know. Tryndamere's head turned to the scout who also was watching the entire event unfurl before him. He shifted his head to the side once, and the scout went running to inform the guards, nearly tumbling down the hill in the process.

The Barbarian King stood within The Shadow of War, and with both hands drove the tip of his ancient blade into the ground before him, just enough to sink in and stay put. With a single hand still clutched around its hilt he stood before Hecarim, the long black hair that flowed from his helm billowing behind him as a forlorn war banner. His eyes locked onto the soul-flame pits that lay within the horse's steel helm, one warrior amidst the presence of another.

"So you have." He abrasively stated, both in recognition of the obvious and his return. The tension remained thick in the air... until-

"You are lucky you did not run into Sejuani, or else you would be in the middle of mounted combat. Not that you are unfamiliar to that kind of battle, Hecarim, even if you have always been a horseman." -the King made his attempted joke to break the ice.

((The guard will inform Rakelstake of the King's whereabouts and have the city on alert. This will no doubt let other roleplayers in Rakelstake know of what is currently happening, and they are welcome to join if they so choose. It will take time for him to get there and for someone to climb the hill, so wait a long while if you wish to.))

The Barbarian King stood there, listening to the spectral steed's words cut through the cold. His presumptions as to his return were correct then, he came back to fulfill that omen so long ago. The stony face he once held broke out into a smirk, developed into a grin, and transformed lastly to a roaring laugh. His head was thrown back in the tumultuous laughter, steadily dying down as he came back to the matter at hand.

"I know what you and your ilk have done to Demacia." He bluntly struck out, a harsh rejection of any sense of cooperation Hercaim might have had or come to expect before. The King's hand was still firmly clutched around the sword, but he had not yet removed it from the ground. "And after you return, you demand I give up where the battle was so you can bolster your numbers?! I am not a fool Hecarim!" The King ripped the blade from the cold earth, and slammed it back down into the ground beside him, freeing the earth of its frozen exterior with a wave of rage. As the snow settled, an area of the ground was visibly cleared from where Tryndamere's blade struck. It remained where it was, himself in a pose prepared for a fight but not one that was directly aimed at Hecarim as an offensive stance. The King's wrath was clear enough, and it screamed for battle. The King knew this was a precarious situation though, and he did not think having the threat of the Shadow Isles was something his people were ready for, not after recent events.

"It was the Void who came and struck against us, but I'll be damned if I tell you where the battle was fought." He was adamant about it too, and would not give up the location. Hecarim would have to kill him and rip the King's soul from his dead body to get the location, and that would be extremely difficult to do considering his opponent, a man who had literally refused to die time and time again on the Fields of Justice when the scythe was under his throat.

Whatever sense of diplomacy snapped in that single instance. The King began to charge the spectral stallion, the blade gripped by both of his rugged hands, the sword high in the air. His wrath flowed through the blade, screaming off of it like smoke, rage billowing from his skin like steam in the cold. The blade would fly through the air, cutting along a diagonal strike with the momentum of Tryndamere's charge behind it. If unblocked, it might as well be enough strength to knock that helm off of Hecarim's ghostly visage.

A feeling of satisfaction raced through well muscled arms as they tore the helm from Hecarim's head, yet the pressure cooked mind of the King had a new ingredient to suddenly absorb the excess rage: confusion. He quickly took a prepared stance for whatever counter measure the horse had planned, but instead it just... collapsed. The armor caved in on itself, still flickering with ghoulish embers. Had he done it? Had he struck down the Shadow of War in a single blow?

...no, that would be foolish. He remembered facing him on Summoner's Rift, how he thundered across that battle-worn stadium and caused havoc throughout the back and front lines while sustaining crippling amounts of damage. It took more than a single strike to put the horse down, and the King knew it. Even with the strength to eviscerate and sustain his blows he knew it. And yet, there the armor lay, a pile of scrap metal beneath his feet. The rage he once felt subsided into the air as his mind reclaimed control of his senses, the King's battle stance retracting. ...Hecarim was doing this on purpose.

His gaze turned to the helm, the still burning helm that he knocked away into the snow. His armored boots indented a path through the white, stopping only so he could pick up the helm and retrace his steps. Above where his body would have been, he tossed the helm with the rest of the pile. His blade was still unsheathed, its edge cutting into the earth with its weight. The Barbarian King stood there, expecting something to happen.