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-   -   League Judgment: Pantheon (http://forums.na.leagueoflegends.com/board/showthread.php?t=262849)

Skytorn 09-24-2010 05:44 PM

League Judgment: Pantheon
Repost, because all good artists shill their work shamelessly. This was written after a rewatch for the Nth time of 300, so see how many references you could call out.


With his massive bronze helmet, one cannot see much of Pantheon's face; though, hearing his voice, a permanent snarl is easily pictured. He seems forever eager to start a fight, possessed of that curious confidence only seen on two sorts of people: the schizophrenic crippled by insane delusions of grandeur, and the warrior who's never tasted defeat in personal combat.

Thus far, Pantheon appears to fall solidly in the latter category.

"The truest opponent lies within."

Pantheon walks slowly up to the double doors, and, after a brief moment of contemplation, rears up his right leg and gives them a hard kick. They swing open with a heavy slam.

He trots into the inky blackness without further hesitation.


Pantheon could feel the cold on his skin. He knew this cold.

There was never any fear; only a heightened sense of things. The snow against his bare skin. The weight of the makeshift spear in his hands. The hot breath of the wild beast that paces before him, savouring the meal to come.

It has been more than 30 years since the cold and the wolf--

"You know," the wolf sighed with resignation, "I could swear I saw this in a film once."

Pantheon stopped narrating. He looked down and his skin was no longer bare. His hands no longer clutched a pathetic sharpened stick, but the revered spear & shield passed down from generation to generation in his tribe, the Stanpar. He was wrapped in the crimson of Mt. Gargantuan, and could feel the comforting weight of his helm on his head.

"You sought to make me feel vulnerable. You have failed. Dispense with the shabby parlour tricks."

The wolf looked amused, but the grin of wild beasts do not soften the hearts of men. "Finely spoken, for one whose reputation lies in his arms."

"You know my reputation, then."

"How could I not? In the three days of travel between here and Mt. Gargantuan, you have managed to make enemies and fans of every major power on Runeterra. The Ministry of War can't decide between signing you on indefinitely and skinning you alive."

After leaving Mt. Gargantuan, Pantheon routed a Noxian battalion that had the misfortune of trying to cross a river he was drinking from, kicking the blood hunter Warwick into the river for "nostalgia".

The next morning, Pantheon kicked a gaping hole in a beached Demacian galley because, as the lone survivor of the resulting brawl reported, he proclaimed that sea power was the business of "philosophers and boy-lovers".

While leaping over the tall walls of the Ministry of War, the aftershock of his landing sent six yordles of the Bandle City Friendship Outreach Group to the infirmary. Right outside the doors of the judgment hall, mere hours earlier, Pantheon was heard making rude comments to Singed regarding the metaphorical significance of his shield's size.

"Why do you want to join the League, Pantheon?" The wolf began scratching, but his eyes, burning coals in the darkness of the imagined night, remained fixed in their gaze.

"To bring glory to the Stanpar, and to show you amateurs real war!"

The scene changes. Pantheon recognizes the familiar rooftops of Stanpar, the clouds around the spires of Mt. Gargantuan, and the terrified Emissary of the League standing before him.

The impractically large well in the middle of a busy intersection really was an insane addition in terms of city infrastructure improvement, but it was installed to make a point, not to provide easy access to palatable water. Periodically a small child would slip and fall; Pantheon thought of it as an extension of training and selection. If one could not avoid large bottomless pits by the age of 7, one was probably not fit to be a warrior.

"Why do you want to join the League, Pantheon?" The Emissary speaks, in a calm voice that did not match his soiled pants.

THIS IS MADNESS! The messenger had screamed. This is Stanpar, Pantheon had replied. Later, rumor mills, Journal writers, and film directors would change the story to that he yelled the slogan at the top of his lungs, thinking it more befit his character.

In moments, an infuriated Pantheon would kick the Emissary into the overly large, ridiculously positioned, and completely dry "well". The fact that the League of Legends established itself for so long without calling upon Stanpar for a champion was an insult Pantheon could not casually shrug off.

"To bring glory to the Stanpar, and to show you amateurs real war!"

The messenger flies backwards. Pantheon laughs, wondering if he would be required to pay this poor man's life insurance if he were to join the League.

"Why do you want to join the League, Pantheon?"

The wolf again. Pantheon struck swiftly, and his spear-point passed neatly through the roof of the wolf's mouth and erupted from the back of its neck. His hands were steady...his form, perfect!

"To bring glory to the Stanpar, and to show you amateurs real war!"

A flood of light washed over Pantheon; under this hue, his armor and shield glinted brightly. From a distance he appeared a man made entirely of bronze.

"How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"How does it feel, digging for a weakness and finding none?"

The voice sighed, a mix of embarrassment and resignation. "We live in a world where even a gargoyle could have an emotionally charged backstory; bounty-hunting wenches will tell heart-rending stories about love and loss at the slightest prod. What we do is simply procedure. Please do not be vexed. For your sake I hope your lack of...emotional complexity will not affect your ability to work together with your summoner."

Suddenly the lights dim once more. Pantheon finds himself transported to a place he has not seen in many years.

"Uncle Arkady's bakery," he gasped quietly.

"A fair warning, Pantheon; the league is not only founded on overt principles such as justice, damage control, and efficiency, but hidden ones as well. These are factors such as variety, balance of power, and popular summoner opinion."

The smell of delicious bread and pastries almost overwhelmed Pantheon. He remembered the dream long forgotten, before he entered the cruel life of a Stanpar Warrior--

"Power is not constant here. It seeps and creeps, like the tide. While an underperformer may wallow in obscurity, the warriors deemed exceedingly powerful will have their prowess forcefully stripped from them. You cannot be allowed to win always."

Hot cross buns, eight coppers for a dozen--

"You are a powerful warrior, Pantheon, but here, in the League, you fight by our rules, our will. Ere long you will know humility."

Lights returned. The door at the far end of the chamber is illuminated. Pantheon, shaken, slowly walks down the corridor. The last vision has given him much to think about. The Judgment had its intended effect after all.

Pantheon walks slowly up to the double doors, and, after a brief moment of contemplation, rears up his right leg. He hangs there for a few seconds, before slowly lowering it back down. Clutching his spear tightly with his left hand, he pushes the doors open gently and enters the League of Legends.

Yuchiel 09-26-2010 04:04 PM

Hahaha at first I thought it was glorifying Panth too much, but the last part takes the cake!
Very well done.

Sylph 09-26-2010 08:52 PM

+1 Nice read! :)

Added your link:

DaWugui 09-27-2010 07:01 AM

Awesome. I especially enjoyed the ending, and of course, kicking Warwick into the river for fun.

Searathus 09-28-2010 07:24 PM

Great read and fantastic ending.

r431 10-11-2010 09:05 PM

This is stanpar


noodle0117 10-12-2010 04:40 AM

I now have an irresistible urge to watch 300 again.

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