I figured that since so many people have written judgements for their favourite characters, I should write one for mine.
Candidate: Gragas, the Rabble Rouser
Date: A hole has burned though where the date should be, though if one were to sniff the paper, they would smell a very potent wine.
A large man plods down the hall to the Reflection Chamber. Standing about eight feet tall and six in girth, Gragas would immediately strike an imposing figure even without the massive red beard, large scars all over his body, and war paint in the shapes of lightning bolts and bars across his chest and arms.
Further examination reveals that, despite the Ministry of War's most earnest pleas, Gragas has arrived to his judgement ridiculously drunk on enough liquor to kill a normal individual. This fact is apparent due to multiple stumbling steps, even a pause to take a long draw from the massive keg he carries with him. A massive belch follows this action, and the Rabble Rouser continues walking.
As a further testament to his problems with authority, Gragas has shown up wearing no shirt, no shoes, and only a loincloth to cover his nether regions. The only semblance of neatness to his appearance is the thick braid that composes the center of his beard.
His lumbering waddle finally takes him to the massive doors of the Reflection Chamber. Walking over to one of the massive panthers that guard the portal, Gragas pats it on its stony flank, looking up to read the inscription. "The truest opponent lies within," the man reads aloud, his voice slurring only slightly. With a shake of his head, sending the rings binding his beard jingling, Gragas mutters, "I'm not nearly drunk enough for this," before taking another long swig from the keg he carried.
Reaching out with one of his massive hands, the Rabble Rouser pushes on the doors, watching as they glide open soundlessly, and stares at the inky blackness, ruminating on how it reminds him of the color of one of his stouts before walking in.
Gragas walked into the outskirts of the city-state of Noxus, pulling a chain of three wains behind him with one hand. The wains were fully loaded with meads, ales, lagers, and wines, yet he pulled them as easily as a team of horses would.
Living in proximity to the nexus had granted his liquor odd properties that, oddly enough, dissipated once they left the area. Over the years, the massive man had drunk enough of his booze that it was a wonder there was any left for him to take to Noxus in exchange for materials to make more. All that consumption had granted him the strength of twenty men, an ox's endurance, and an ornery temper.
However, he was sober today, and he deemed that necessary for purposes of trade. He didn't want any of those **** Noxian traders pulling the wool over his eyes. Even as he walked through town, minding his own business, the housewives and the soldiers and the children that walked the streets gasped at Gragas, the women pulling their kids back behind their skirts, the soldiers resting hands on their weapons in case he tried anything.
He couldn't help but feel a ping of sadness as he listened to their gasps and whispers, though it would seem out of place for the irritable man to feel emotional pain of the sort. However, he just shrugged it off and went about his business.
By the time the sun had set, he had his wains emptied of liquor and filled with hops, barley, honey, and grapes. Even fruit, rice, and potatoes found their place among the rest of the fermentables for purpose of experimentation. Everything he would need to make another batch of liquor to bring into town, sell, and pursue his life's joy anew. However, he did not like to leave the town at night, though that is what wound up happening more often than not. He just hoped he could get a bite to eat, a few drinks, and a bed to sleep in for the night. Noxian streets were not a wise place for most to sleep either.
Selling one of his finer batches of mead had yielded quite a bit of profit, and any further addition to his carts would send them overflowing, so he would drink. He entered the nearest pub he could find, a place by the name of The Horseman's Wife, and approached the bar. After paying the barkeep for a barrel of wine, he glanced at the stools at the bar and frowned. They were composed of sturdy wood, though not nearly sturdy enough to support one of his weight. All the chairs in the pub were of similar construction, to his dismay, so Gragas would be forced to stand.
The barkeep returned with the barrel, carrying it easily. He set it down for the large man to enjoy, and Gragas paid him a generous tip. Not even glancing at the coins, the barkeep scooped them up, tucking them into his apron and went about cleaning the tankards. Gragas took a long pull from the barrel, a habit he had gotten accustomed to doing due to the fact that most tankards were too small for his hands, and savored the flavor of the wine. Not nearly as good as his, but it would have to do.
As the he enjoyed his drink, a drunken man stumbled over to Gragas and said, his words filled with hiccups and giggles, "Hey there, big boy, how about you share some of that with the rest of us? My friends and I are mighty thirsty, see..." He trailed off to laughter.
"Sorry, mate," Gragas responded, "I don't really care to share my drinks." He tried to keep his composure, yet he knew that the same thing as always would happen.
"C'mon," the drunken Noxian said, a soldier from his build, "How about helping out a friend?" He rested a hand on Gragas' massive shoulder, leaning on him in an attempt to keep his balance.
"I told you no, and I'm not your friend." Gragas reached out and removed the man's hand from his shoulder, gently pushing him away with one massive hand.
Stumbling backwards at Gragas' push, the soldier fell on his rump. One of his more sober friends came by and helped him up and the drunk man pointed an accusing finger at the big brewer. "You're going to regret that," he said, "I don't like being pushed around."
Gragas took another drink and responded, "And I told you when you came over, I don't like sharing." He placed the remaining pouch of coins on the bar, and watched the bartender sneak it into a pocket as if nothing happened.
"And I told YOU I don't like being pushed around," the drunk man said once again, "Now are you going to give me some of that **** wine or not?" he began walking towards Gragas in a drunken, angry manner.
Gragas sighed, muttering to himself, "Not again," before the Noxian soldier threw a punch at him.
The fist bounced harmlessly off of Gragas, and the brewer set his keg down on the bar, looking at the soldier. "Don't do that again."
"Or what?" the drunk man responded before throwing another punch at the massive man.
Gragas caught the soldier's fist, the blow hitting the center of Gragas' palm before sausage-sized fingers wrapped around the appendage. "I warned you," the brewer said before squeezing and crushing the man's forearm and most of the bones in his hand.
The man screamed, even when Gragas let go, looking down at his hand, which had turned into a bloody pulp with bits of bone poking through. His friends rose from their seats, the familiar scrape of steel on leather accompanying them.
For about ten minutes, Gragas wrought havoc on the soldiers, tossing them clear across the bar, breaking bones, even going so far as to kill one of them, until the constables showed up. They came in a clank of armor, their shields at the ready, their weapons in hand. They asked him to surrender.
Gragas didn't know the meaning of the word.
Bull-rushing the line of soldiers, Gragas plowed through the constables, sending them into the mud outside the pub, grabbing one by the head and casually tossing him aside. His only thoughts were of his brews, and he ran to where he had left his wains. Fortunately, nothing had been stolen, and he ran, dragging the three carts behind him as easily as if he were dragging a piece of string.
The soldiers pursued, and more joined their ranks, though Gragas easily plowed through those that would step forth to oppose him, punching and running until he escaped the city, even going so far as to toss a keg of water behind him to explode and was away a couple of soldiers in its wake.
Despite all the liquor that Gragas had consumed, though, he still thought clearly, and his step did not waver until exhaustion overtook him about three miles outside of Noxus. He stopped and huched over, the stars shining down on him, the moon appearing to laugh at the brewer's misfortune.
"Why do you wish to join the League of Legends, Gragas?"
The brewer's head perked up and he saw the bartender. The only one that had not gawked at him as he walked through town. The only one that had shown some semblance of kindness.
"I like fighting." He responded simply, his meaty hands balling into fists.
"If you like fighting so much, then why didn't you stay and fight all those constables? Why do you wish to join the League of Legends?"
Gragas would not show weakness to this man, yet he couldn't help but feel tears well up in his eyes, "I want to brew. That's all. I want to brew and have people see me as the best brewer that ever there was. I don't care about the rest."
The bartender smiled, "How does it feel, exposing your mind?"
Gragas shook his head, "I think I need a drink."
With that statement, the blackness returned, the wains, the road, all but the blacksmith fading to black. Two great doors at the end of the chamber that Gragas had initially entered opened up, shining white light pouring through to wash over the massive man. He picked up the keg that he could not remember dropping, took a massive swig, and joined the League of Legends.
Hope you all enjoyed it!
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