Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 9, 2013 16:30:09 GMT -5
September 8th, 16 CLE
It is said that every Lightshield is born with anti-Noxian sentiment in his blood. Jarvan IV is no exception, even though he is the first Lightshield born to the age of the League of Legends. As his forefathers had before him, he led Demacian troops into bloody engagements with Noxian forces, and on many occasions he has bled alongside wounded allies and fallen comrades. In his most crushing defeat, he was outmaneuvered and captured by a Noxian battalion under the command of Jericho Swain. This mistake nearly cost him his life at the hands of Urgot, but he was rescued by the Dauntless Vanguard, an elite Demacian strike force led by Jarvan's childhood companion, Garen.
The engage had been a success. Minimal casualties. Swift, effective. Jarvan IV's forces had been made to scatter and retreat. The prince was but a child commanding an army, inexperienced, brash. The slightest of smirks crept over Colonel Jericho Swain's face as this thought crossed his mind--but the expression of sadistic mirth was quickly extinguished by another, less welcome notion. Jarvan IV was still nowhere to be found and, while his capture was not the official goal of this operation, it was an absolute necessity.
Fires of grim resolve burned in his eyes as he leant in his tent over the makeshift wooden table, removing markers from his map. At his shoulder, his hellish raven clicked her beak, as though sensing his frustration in the way he plucked the painted indicators from their strategic placements. Had the prince fled? Left his unit in disarray, to be hunted down and captured one by one? The coward.
Swain's train of thought screeched to a halt as the frantic voice of a runner rang out through the camp. “Colonel! Colonel we caught him!” The colonel straightened up, leaving his pieces scattered on the table, one fist brought behind his back, the other clenching his cane. The messenger burst into the tent, bloodied, muddied, pale and panting. “The prince, commander,” he panted. “We've caught him.”
Crimson eyes flared in acknowledgment. The bird at Swain's shoulder let out a shrill shriek, a display of her master's concealed excitement. “Where is he,” he snapped.
“They bear him forth, commander,” replied the runner, drawing back the tent flaps, his extended hand indicating the ridge in the distance, over which the regiment forces now marched. Swain's brows shot up as he watched their approach. A few uneven steps brought him to the mouth of the tent, his luminous eyes wide, burning hatred through the morning's chill. The exemplar of Demacia. The paragon of “justice.” Finally, the moment for which he had been waiting.
The smirk returned. There in bonds, dragged forth by the formidable soldiers of Swain's battalion, was Jarvan Lightshield IV. He had been beaten into submission, judging by the bruises spreading over his youthful face. But he was alive, just as the colonel had commanded. Scarred hands folded over the commander's cane as he watched the group approach, a look of sinister satisfaction settling over his half-shrouded features. Finally...
His Victory evaporated around him. It had been so simple, so easy. Every kill emboldened him, and Jarvan IV pushed forward with greater and greater pride. This would be a victory of legend. He didn't pause to wonder why they so easily retreated. He didn't care to look behind him, and he chased down the fleeing soldiers as he outpaced his own. He bellowed at the top of his lungs to advance, pushing deeper. How did was he so blinded by bloodlust? The Noxians turned so quickly, so surprisingly that Jarvan IV paused. What had changed? They turned from their flight, and quickly he realized they were beside him as well. He turned as fear and panic light the faces of the few Demacians beside him, turned and saw the column he lead being crushed from both sides, trying hopelessly to follow. His men were utterly destroyed, they didn't stand a chance. This was a massacre, and many men were lead to slaughter this day. He was crushed with shame and anger, as the last wisps of the dream were shredded and burned. Outsmarted.
The prince's men were dead and he was overpowered shortly after. He fought as hard as he could which resulted in him killing or wounding several attackers. But, one mere man could not withstand the strength of hundreds. It was like a man trying to fight the ocean, only to get swallowed by it. They bludgeoned him down and put him in chains. There was nothing the prince could do to stop them from dragging him back to their camp.
As they approached the camp, several Noxian soldiers approached Jarvan. They spat at him and landed a few blows as he was drug deeper into enemy territory. They screamed profanities and taunted him. He was in pain, but not from his physical injuries. His pride had been mortally wounded and it stung within his soul.
They then drug him in front of a tent and forced him onto his knees. He looked up only to see the man he hated most gloating over him. "Swain." His voice is filled with the utmost disgust. "I didn't see you on the field today, too much of a coward to fight by your own men?" He then collects the contents of his mouth and spits blood at Swain's feet.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 10, 2013 6:04:10 GMT -5
A look of utter disgust darkened the colonel's features as the prince drew nigh. Even as his men leered and jeered at the captured royal, he remained perfectly still, hands folded over his cane, his green robes pristine but for the trim that trailed in the mud behind him. Jarvan's disrespect came in the form of bloody spittle just at his feet--but this show served only to broaden The Master Tactician's insidious smirk. It was a desperate grasp at dignity, for Demacia's young exemplar hung bound and chained before him from the arms of his own soldiers. When their captive let his spittle fly, they started forward as though to enforce some semblance of begrudging respect upon him with their fists.
"Stop," came their commander's order. They froze where they stood. "Quiet," Swain said. The jeers died down as he took a single crooked step forward, around the blood-specked phlegm mixing with the mud. "You did not see me with my men because I do not ride forth on a white pony, flaunting myself like flamboyant peacock on a field of battle." Crimson eyes narrowed, half in hatred, half in mirth. "You are out your league, child."
A vision flashed in his mind: a picture of the Demacian royal family far below. He stood on the balcony, shrouded against the springtime sun, a poisoned bolt loaded into his crossbow. But his hand trembled as Jarvan III stooped to hug his son. He did not fire. He watched. He listened to the boy's joyous cries as he frolicked through the orchard. The young prince was in range. Just do it. Just shoot. But the heavy footsteps of a guard patrol forced him to retreat. I could have killed him eight years ago. The flames in The Master Tactician's eyes flared. His scarred hand tightened on his cane.
But it is better this way, dear. Oh so much better~[/font][/i] A voice like tinkling bells floated into his head. He recalled his purpose.
"Bring him inside," the colonel commanded, turning on his heel and disappearing into the tent, in which there stood a chair prepared to receive his honored guest...
Post by The Headsman's Pride on Apr 10, 2013 7:10:05 GMT -5
One of the soldiers walked forward. With a large and strong right hand he clasped Jarvan's arm. Yes, sir.
The towering soldier dragged the prince across the floor and into the tent. The man turned the chair in the middle of the room around with his free hand. He then lifted Jarvan, putting both men's faces in front of one another, forcing their gazes to collide. Urgot growled as the prince and his own foreheads collided, stumbling two steps backwards before launching the prince into the chair with a powerful kick to the stomach. With the same leg, he would turn the chair around so that the colonel could face Jarvan, kicking up a small cloud of dust in the process.
Jarvan grunted as he received more abuse from the men. He was glad for his armor that shielded his body from most of the damage. His face got the worst of the beating though. His molars cut the inside of his cheek, which makes him have to spit out the excess blood every few minutes. His bottom lip is cut, making it sting every time he breathes through his mouth. The skin around both of his eyes have been bruised and are beginning to swell.
The prince thinks of his best friend Garen. As children he would play war, giving commands to the noble kids. They would pretend to beat each other with wooden swords, and their 'deaths' would be quite dramatic and even comical. When Jarvan would pick kids for his team, he always picked Garen first. He was glad Garen wasn't with him for this battle and couldn't see him like this. Brought to his knees and being slapped around by the very people they despised.
Jarvan suddenly felt a hand on his soldier and looked up to see a monster of a man tower over him. He felt helpless as he was drug by this man into the tent. As he lifted the prince up and forced them to be face to face, he was struck by a sudden onset of anger. How dare these lowly creatures disgrace him like this? In an act of defiance, he headbutts the man holding him, hoping to do some form of damage.
The prince felt the wind be knocked out of him as a kick was landed to his gut and he went flying back into a chair. He coughed and tried to regain his breath as he was suddenly flung around to face the colonel. He looked up to Swain with loathing in his gaze. "You going to have some fun before you kill me, Colonel."
Post by The Headsman's Pride on Apr 11, 2013 10:21:29 GMT -5
The soldier wiped off Jarvan's blood off his forehead with the back of his hand. With another kick he turned the chair around, forcing the prince to stare up at him. But prince - you can't have an audience with the colonel in such shape! A smile dawned on Urgot's face as he cracked his knuckles Here, let me get that blood off your face. Urgot then delivered a powerful right hook straight to Jarvan's jaw. Then, very delicately, he adjusted his crown with both of his hands, so that it stood perfectly straight on his head. Now, that's a proper prince. Laughing, the towering man grabbed hold of an iron chain and tightened it around Jarvan's torso and the back of his chair, ensuring he would stay in place. After that, he simply turned the chair around and took two steps back.
Jarvan almost fell out of the chair with the force of the fist against his cheek. He grunts and spits out fresh blood, the inside of his mouth is all tore up now. He runs his tongue over his teeth to count if they are all still there. Now bound he begins to panic. His mind reels as he thinks of what will happen to him.
The Noxians won't just simply execute the prince quickly and painlessly. They are going to draw it out for as long as they can. Torture him until his sanity snaps. Cut into him over and over until his body shuts down and stops healing. Only when they had him begging for death would they allow its release. He did not fear dying, there are things worse than death. Every time you step on to the battle field you have to be ready to die. But, he did not want to disgrace Demacia and his Father by groveling or begging. The Lightshields are a proud family and they do not beg.
Jarvan forces composure upon his features, he would not let the enemy know of his fear. ""Beating the defenseless, a true Noxian I see." Sweat begins to drip uncomfortably down his brow.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 13, 2013 7:52:34 GMT -5
"Be quiet," the colonel snapped, commanding the attention of all present. The fires in his crimson eyes roared with hatred as he took a few uneven steps nearer the prince. A tic twitched in his cheek. His piercing gaze bored into Jarvan IV, the picture of a pampered life, an inherited title, a name that meant everything. Behind his shroud, his lip drew up in an expression of disgust.
"Let's talk about your name--and how unworthy you are of the crown that comes with it. I've crushed you in battle, exemplar, and by the laws of my country, your esteemed position is rightfully mine." A sinister smirk crept over the colonel's grim features. He paced before his captive, cane, step, step, the bird at his shoulder craning her neck each time he turned to keep her crimson gaze locked upon the prince.
"So, to answer your question, yes, if fun is what you want to call it. I am going to take what I've earned. And you?" He paused in his stride, turned to face the bound and bloodied boy, crimson eyes alight. "By the time I am finished, you won't even be able to comprehend what's happened."
Jarvan attempted to laugh when Swain spoke of deserving his title. It resulted in him chuckling once, then coughing and sputtering up more blood. He takes a few moment to catch his breath before speaking. "Oh? You are sadly mistaken Colonel." He emphasizes the word colonel. "You did not defeat me, your men did. You just sat in your tent and let others do the work for you. I may have inherited my title by birth, but I am willing to fight for it." He breathes in heavily, it hurts to speak but he fights through it.
The prince scowls when Swain speaks of breaking him. "Try as you might, but I will not disgrace my home. I will die before that happens. You Noxians are disgusting and subhuman. My father will not let you get away with this, there will be justice." He then smiles defiantly, daring Swain to give him his worst.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 13, 2013 22:41:37 GMT -5
A sinister smile crept over Swain's features as Jarvan spoke. He had been on the battlefield, commanding from the ranks, but his presence had hardly been necessary after his men were given their orders. They were well-trained--by his own hand--and once they had easily dispersed the Demacian forces, their commander had returned to camp during the round-up. To prepare for this very moment.
The smile became a sneer of sadistic excitement. His blazing gaze lingered on the prince for a moment before he turned to Urgot and the other attending troops, issuing his firm command. "Leave us."
Post by The Headsman's Pride on Apr 15, 2013 16:26:59 GMT -5
Urgot brought his right fist into his chest. His gauntlet and armor collided with a resounding "clang" that loudly echoed across the room, only second to Urgot's own voice. Forever strong.
The man quickly turned over his heels and proceeded to bark at the men. You heard the colonel! Scram! After every soldier had left the tent, Urgot followed suit.
Post by The Deceiver on Apr 20, 2013 20:17:25 GMT -5
The moment the two were alone, Jarvan would feel something...writhe within his armor. This slick, cold, disgusting feeling, around the base of his stomach. Quite literally, actually. He could feel it worm his way upwards, slowly through his esophagus, and then push out past his teeth and out of his mouth. The small head of a metal chain would look at him, slithering to and fro similar to a curious cobra.
"My dear, darling prince," a feminine voice hissed from the chain. "What is disgusting and subhuman is to think that you think yourself worthy of your title, of your strength. You are a brute. You see a wall and you try beating it down rather than circumventing about it. Does that yell intelligence? Is that the price of honor, the death of your countrymen? Tut tut, do not think so highly of yourself. They are pawns. Call them what you want, but they live by your word, they die by it. They are nothing but pawns. You are no better than us sub-humans, mon cheri."
The chain would violently whip out and start to wrap itself around Jarvan's neck, the sensation from his stomach, all the way up his esophagus, and now wrapping around his neck still very palpable. After three wraps, the chain would shoot upwards and burrow into the wall, pulling the Prince just to the tip of his feet.
If he relaxed, then the chain would start to choke him, if he stood on the tip of his toes he would be able to breathe just a little easier.
Behind Swain, a beautiful woman twirled into view. Her thick lips, her short, neatly cut dark hair, the mascara perfectly applied around her eyes, and all of her gold, violet and black silken clothing. She flashed him a small grin. "Do you know who I am, princeling? No no, that is a bad question. Allow me to rephrase it..." LeBlanc's long strides showed the entire length of her perfect thighs with each and every step she made towards Jarvan, her hips swaying in slow motion. "Do you yet understand your current predicament, darling?"
Jarvan watched as the Noxian soldiers left the tent, including the giant of a man. He had to hold back a sigh of relief, he was not fond of getting beaten. Urgot seemed to quite enjoy beating him though.
The prince felt the most disgusting chill run down his spin as he felt the chain work its way up through his body. "What sorcery is this?" He managed to choke that out before the chain emerged from his mouth. He gagged and fought against his bindings, trying to get it away from his face but unable to lift his arms. He gagged while it lectured him, if his face wasn't forced up he would of lost the contents of his stomach.
Jarvan cried out in surprise as the chain suddenly flew out of his body and began to wrap around his neck. A raspy complaint managed to escape his lips as he was pulled back in the chair and his weight was shifted onto his throat. He desperately pushed his feet down to try and relieve the strain put onto his windpipe. His toes were just able to touch the ground and it gave him the leverage he needed to continue to breath.
The bleeding in his mouth had slowed and began to drip down his throat. He coughed uncomfortably in his restraints, now not being able to move. His eyes widened as he saw the form of a beautiful, but barely dressed, woman appear next to Swain. He flinched back as she began to walk towards him. "Stay away from me, temptress!" He spoke the best he could with the damned chain wrapped against his throat.
He looked at this woman with the same loathing gaze he gave Swain. He scoffed as she asked him questions. "I should be asking you the same question." He mocked her with the utmost venom in his voice. "You are going to torture then kill me, but what does that say of your situation? I am the crown prince and the second most important person of your enemy nation. The most important person is going to hunt you down and make you regret ever looking at me wrong."
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 21, 2013 12:46:17 GMT -5
A laugh erupted from behind the colonel's shroud: wheezing, cruel. He splayed his hand flat over his chest as the sounds of his bitter mirth filled the tent. Hatred rang in his every harsh exhalation, and for several moments he cackled, the bird at his shoulder puffing out her feathers in echo of her master's amusement. "Daddy's going to come for me?" The colonel inquired, his luminous eyes flashing sadistically over his half-strangled prisoner.
"What a twit I am," he smirked, his tone ringing with sarcasm, "I hadn't factored daddy in. Perhaps we should abandon this endeavor." He took a few steps forward, drawing even with the scantily clad form of his accomplice. His hate-filled gaze locked onto the bound Prince's face and suddenly all traces of humor drained from his visage. "I dare him to try."
Hands folded over his cane, he turned to face LeBlanc. "It's obvious he does not yet understand." His eyes narrowed. "Whenever you are ready, matron, let us enlighten him."
Post by The Deceiver on Apr 21, 2013 17:31:26 GMT -5
The Deceiver burst out into a fit of laughter, the sound of glass raining continued to fill the room. She gave Jarvan a quick curtsey, her voice cooed at him. "Me? Tempt you? Oh dear, oh darling, you have truly discovered my game! Yes, we shall boil your eyeballs, then rip out your tongue, then we shall feast on the floppily doppilies of your eyes while we suck on your bone marrow." She issued a short bout of condescending laughter that sounded like glass scratching across granite. "Really prince, you're just being daft now."
She stretched her hand out, a staff appearing in her grip. Three violet crystals were suspended at her weapon's head by seemingly nothing, simply floating one over the other in constant, slow, fluid motions. "I know the exact scenario I am. I am in whatever place, whatever time, whatever form, I am whoever and whatever I need to be and I do whatever I need to do, darling." She spun the staff in hand, slapped it to her exposed midriff and gave a much more formal bow to Jarvan.
"I am Matron Emilia LeBlanc, a modest leader of a small group of esteemed associates, a humble gardener and a practitioner of the art one calls life. You are Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV, royal heir to the throne of Demacia, you are childhood friends with Luxanna Crownguard and Garen Crownguard, your caretaker was the Seneschal Xin Zhao. You have a mole just above your groin, you are ticklish on your left pectoral, your preferred wine is 3 CLE from the Demacian Royal reserves, rosé, and you have a scar on your left butt cheek due to an incident where you dared Lady Crownguard that she could not beat you in a fight and she stabbed you with a pointed stick."
LeBlanc rolled her head over to Swain, her lips parting to a wide, toothy smile. "Colonel Swain, may I have permission to act as I choose to? I think the princeling needs a lesson in manners. I have not tempted him, yet he dares think of me as a lustful figure. Surely you cannot disagree that his sullying of my good name should go...unpunished."
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