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League Judgement - Pantheon, the Artisan of War

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I accidentally posted this in the "Lore" forum, so I'm putting it where it belongs. Please note that this is not my best work, as I wrote it over the course of twenty minutes.

League Judgement: Pantheon, the Artisan of War


The Rakkor warrior marches down the hall, his step measured for formation, a long, heavy spear in one hand, a heavier shield strapped on the other. His face is covered by a helmet, the metal headgear obscuring any vision we would have of his face, save for a cold, red glare from time to time.

Pantheon is obviously dangerous, and he carries himself so. He wears little else, save for boiled leather shorts and a leather harness to strap his shield onto, heavens forbid he find himself not needing it. His dress alone seems to indicate that he is more concerned about how much damage he could dish out over how much he could take, and he carries himself warily.

Soon, the man comes to the two great doors of the Reflection Chamber, looking up to read the inscription:

The truest opponent lies within.

A chuckle fills the hallway before turning into full-blown laughter from the Rakkor warrior. When he finally calms down, he plants a foot on the massive portals and kicks, waiting until the doors are fully open before he dives into the blackness, weapon and shield at the ready.


As Pantheon ran, he felt things around him changing. His armor, stripped away, his equipment growing heavier. So heavy… he dropped the spear first. When his helmet began to obscure his vision with its weight, he cast that off too. It was only until he held just that shield, that heavy iron shield that was one of his clan’s sacred Relic Weapons, that he realized just how much things had changed.

He was a child all over again, and the shield burned to hold.

Gingerly, he set the item down, letting it sink into the sand slightly… Sand? Since when had there been sand?

Looking up, he saw the exit, the cool grains between his toes telling him to go out to the light. As he stepped out into the sunlight, he saw the people. A crowd had gathered for his Rite of Kor, where he and another young Rakkor were to fight to the death in order to determine which was more worthy of carrying one of their clan’s Relic Weapons onto the battlefield.

Pantheon cracked his neck, suddenly realizing he wore a new helmet on his head –one much lighter to fit his child’s frame- and carried spear and shield once more. Banging the wooden spear shaft on his bullhide shield, he marched out to face the enemy. It was a young man, like himself, though possibly a year older, holding twin swords in a confident stance, ready for Pantheon’s attack.

You do not think of the battle, his father’s teachings resounded in his mind, You know the battle, as it knows you. Here, in the household, there is happiness, true, but out there, where blood paints the sand and your weapon can find human flesh… that is true joy.

Pantheon would know joy if it killed him.

The other youth charged, the blades spinning through patterns that Pantheon had seen a dozen times before, and he blocked them all easily, his shield knocking away sword strikes until his spear found an opening and dived in. He was quick, this other youth, and easily dodged out of the way,

A slash came for Pantheon, one that would have decapitated him, yet this was not his day to die. Ducking, he brought his shield about so the edge of it smacked into the other youth’s face, cartilage and bone crunching as Pantheon broke his nose.

As the other Rakkor shouted out in pain, Pantheon turned to face him, throwing a series of lightning-fast spear strikes at him, most of which his enemy managed to avoid. However, three shots caught him, one in the shoulder, causing him to drop his left-hand sword, another in the stomach that didn’t drive in too deep, and the final punching through his right knee, hamstringing him from the other side.

Naturally, when your leg has been injured in such a way, you would drop down to your knee. When the other Rakkor did, Pantheon drove his spear through his enemy’s throat, causing him to drown on his own blood.

The people of his warrior clan cheered as his enemy’s blood oozed into the sand, and he knew true joy, especially when a man stepped forth carrying a massive iron shield, almost as big as he was, with a chevron on the front. He handed it to the teenager, and Pantheon felt its weight before strapping it on his arm. Standing proudly before the people of the Rakkor clan, he knew he would be the best that they had ever seen.

“Why do you want to join the League of Legends?” the man who handed him the shield asked. He was now wearing long purple robes with a cowl pulled back to reveal a man that looked oddly like his father.

“So I can perfect my art.” Pantheon said, banging his spear on that relic weapon he now carried.

The man in the robes grinned, and the whole scene faded away, allowing Pantheon to return to his former strength.

“How does it feel, exposing your mind?” the man in the robes asked.

Pantheon thought for a moment, “Like this is what I was born to do.”

The doors on the other end of the reflection chamber swung open, allowing the Artisan to go forth and show Valoran the true meaning of War.