Audience at Darkbourne Hold

"Forever strong," the Grand General echoed. He did not speak again until the door had closed behind Urgot with a sharp click, until the sound of scuttling metal legs had faded down the hall. Then his gaze snapped sharply in the direction of his High Commander. Step, step, cane, he strode to the table, leaned over it, one gnarled hand spread over the mahogany.

His eyes flashed, briefly illuminating the darkened hall. His voice was calm, dangerously measured. "You would do well to remember what information belongs in whose ears. As perplexing as you may find this little tidbit, people respond to celebrity. Urgot is a national hero, the embodiment of Noxian resolve: a symbol." Swain lifted his chin, still standing imperiously over the general. The Raven at his shoulder clicked her beak. "He is a figurehead upon the wall. Your men will train his as they would their own. The strong will distinguish themselves from the weak and order will be forged from chaos." He scowled. "Unless you tell me your officers are incapable of such a task."

The Grand General withdrew from the table, leaning heavily upon his cane. He pursed his lips behind his shroud, awaiting Bleakwood's indication of comprehension.

Swain offered a gruff nod after scanning the page, noting the circled names. "These will suffice," he said, stepping back from the table to indicate that Bleakwood should rise. "I will expect them at the western base camp at five hundred hours, March twentieth, ready to commence training."

He lifted his chin; the bird at his shoulder mirrored this movement. "You're dismissed. Forever strong," came his authoritative growl.