Tryndamere is my favorite character and this is my first time writing fan fiction, I enjoyed the short LORE and what I’m trying to do is explain in more depth Tryndamere story while staying true to the LORE, I hope you all enjoy.
Tryndamere’s Lore extended:
A great man once said “The next true power will come from the far north, and it will involve Tryndamere – one way or another”
-Graccus Mightstone, League Senior and Political Scholar
There are men who say that the tale of the great barbarian King, Tryndamere is a mere story told around the camp fires of Northern Valron on a cold wintery night when the wind is low and the frost can be heard icing grassland into freezing tundra. I have traveled along the Serpentine River in search of these tales; I have spent long icy nights tucked around a small whimpering fire with nothing but my grey stitched blanket and my pipe to smoke from, I have documented many tales from travelers and tribes of the barbarian King, I have dug through many ’a books and scrolls buried far within the great library of Demacia depicting the story of this king and have decided to assemble everything I know into an epic, some fact and some I believe to be speculation you can decided.
In the past the thriving city of Demacia was bursting with souls, so many that more land was sort desperately, more precisely the land to the north. Fertile and lush land was known to be abundant along the Serpentine River, grassland and a source of fresh water along with supply of venison which grazed somewhat peacefully along the river side. The only problem known to the colonization of northern Valron was the 6 great barbaric tribes, which had been known to be nomadic and to annually follow the Venison along the Serpentine River.
The mountains of Ironspike and frel Jord had to begin to set with snow and hoarfrost; this was the first indication that winter was coming, which would start the annual migration of venison down the mountainsides and along the Serpentine River during this migration the 6 largest barbaric tribes of the North would gather and migrate along the serpentine river through the Howling Marsh and back to the Ironspike Mountains. From what I can gather this was a very typical migration for the barbaric tribes and on the final bend of the Serpentine River the attack from Demacia begun.
The sun rose along the river, the sun pushing the darkness back with every inch it gained in height, a cool breeze flowed down the twists and turns of the river, a reminder that winter had set on the mountains, blocks of ice could be seen being carried downstream the thick glacier that froze the river of a night was melted. A lone brown buck stepped away from the herd and silently crept onto the bank of the river, it stood frozen and swayed it’s head side to side to check for danger, a peep from anything would startle it. As it began drinking the fresh icy water, smoke began to spill out from its nose and spread slowly over the river, like fog coming down a mountainside.
With every gulp of water a ripple was made, within the ripples reflection could be seen a lone barbarian wielding a short wooden bow and arrow with carvings of twists and turns, crouched behind a light shrub coated with frost. The barbarian narrowed his sight, the buck was locked in, he slowed his breathing, it would make him more accurate, as he rose from behind the shrub he pulled the arrow and the string as far back with as much power, just as he was about to release a shriek echoed down the river side, suddenly the buck was spooked and raised its head, both buck and man stood eye to eye for a split second, hearts pounding smoke both pouring out from their mouths, he released and the buck jolted, the arrowed had landed but only in the belly of the buck, a quick dash and the buck was gone.
The barbarian quickly ran up and bank, he had to make his way up the hill to view the valley below, he knew that shriek it was his brides, his heart pounding faster and faster, as he slammed his foot to the ground it dug deep into the bank his fists clenched, every muscle on his body tight, nothing could stop him, with raw power he made his way to the top. The view was clear only the camp fires and tents of the clans lay in the valley, a large gathering of men and women could be seen in the center of the encampment, with a great and powerful voice yelled these words
His name echoed over the hill and down the river, some say that his named was even heard in the Ironspike mountains on this day. As Gundahar sprinted down the hill side and into the camp he pushed his way through the gathered crowed
“What is it, what is wrong” gasped Gundahar
“Your wife she is in labor, she will soon give birth” calmly explained the clans witchdoctor
Many screams and many hours later, Gundahar bride Fethia gave out one last scream, as the baby opened its eyes for the first time he gazed upon its father for the first time.
“Is the baby ok?” mumbled Fethia as she gasped for air
The baby was bright pink, and gave its first cry, Gundahar mumbled
“yes, it’s fine” from what accounts say he was gob smacked, this was his first son and nothing could prepare him for fatherhood, he grasped the child’s hand and contemplated that his actions would shape what this child would become.
The witchdoctor announced that it was a boy, and the crowd gave a light cheer, a celebration was now in the works. The witch doctor also announced the child’s name “Tryndamere”, after the union of the two households of
Gundahar Tyrntartay and Fethia Mereaioth
Tryndamere was now in his mother arms resting, the chieftain of the clan gifted the child a small fur coat made from the cub of a Snow Lynx which hunted close to the peaks of the Ironspike Mountains. The coat was told to be so warm that the barbarians that who did not make the journey down the mountain side, survived the horrific winter alone with Lynx fur. The fur itself was as soft as silk to touch but tough as stone, as Tryndamere pulled the coat the change of colour could be observed in the fur, it camouflaged with the snow.
For a second the camp was quite as baby Tryndamere slept in his mother’s arms a war cry could be heard in the distance, it sounded like
As the encampment turned around the whistle of arrows could be heard in the sky showering down like a heavy rain, arrows landed all around Fethia and Tryndamere, Gundahar observed in a slow like motion the men and women around him fall from arrow punctures, screams and cries could be heard in the background, then suddenly everything seemed to fast forward. Fethia screamed “help!” without even a thought Gundahar throw himself over his bride and child, listening to the arrows landing around him, two arrows stuck him a second apart, with each hit Gundahar screwed his face and tensed his muscles, every hit he felt all his power drained and then sucked back into him.
The arrows had stopped, Gundahar had felt both arrows go through his left calf, as he viewed the aftermath he was right, both arrows went straight through, the wound was tight and not much blood was flowing through it, as Gundahar collapsed he told Fethia to talk the small knife from his belt and to hide in the tent with the child. Gundahar stood but could not move, he was prepared to defend the tent with his life.
Closer and closer the yells of the Demacia infantry could be, an advance was being made. The barbarians inside the encampment regroup, great long swords drawn prepared for anything thing that would run through the camp. The infantry charged through the encampment, loud thuds could be heard as swords met shields, Gundahar stood his ground, he pulled his sword from a close log of wood, he was quickly surrounded by 5 Demacia footmen, as he swung his right arm tensed the first blow landed straight through the throat of the man in front of him, the blood splattered over him and the tent behind him. He was now surrounded by 4, he heart beat faster and faster, his breathing could not stop, one of the men lunged at him and landed a blow into his stomach, as he was struck he pulled the sword deeper and deeper into his stomach looking the footman right in the eyes, he then grabbed the footman and fought him to the ground, forcing his fingers into his eyes, pushing harder and deeper, the rest of the men started to slash at his back. The adrenaline kicked in he focused everything on this one man, his eyes popped from their sockets the man was dead, but so was Gundahar, 20 deep wounds were inflicted on his back, blood flowing from his back, he closed his eyes, they would never reopen.
The other 2 men disbursed to help with the rest of the attack, the one footman entered the tent, and gazed upon Tryndamere and Fethia, she gripped Tryndamere and the dagger tight. He slowly approached closer and closer, the his thick chainmail boots sunk slightly into the mud, he holstered his sword, as he pounced on Fethia she dove the dagger through his side, his eyes grew wide realizing he had been wounded, he started chocking her, harder and harder, she drove the dagger in deeper and deeper with all her might, the blood from the footman flowed out his side, covering Tryndamere in thick warm red texture. Fethia struggled but finally let her grip go of the dagger, she grasped her last throat of breath, then nothing, the footman rolled over and laid still.
Some say at this moment Tryndamere gained his bloodlust, a child witness to battle, covered in blood. The attack continued the encampment was overrun, fire was set and soon an inferno would engulf the entire encampment, smoke was pouring into Tryndamere’s tent, the encampment had been looted and the footmen long gone, a smaller clan who chose not to travel with the other clans discovered the inferno, gutted the barbarians stood there, all could be heard was the collapsing of wood and tents and the cry of an infant, Tryndamere.
Volrath the leader of this clan ran into the inferno in search of Tryndamere, he threw himself through the tent and push Fethia’s body, underneath her was baby Tryndamere clinging onto his mother, Volrath snatched the baby and tried to navigate his way through the Smokey inferno, suddenly something grabbed onto his foot and yelled “Forward” with all his might he dragged this unknown man through the fire, clinging to his foot. He made it out of the camp and collapsed from exhausted, Tryndamere lay on his stomach. The witchdoctor had clung to Volrath’s foot, his is final breath he said these words
Tryndamere did not know this, but this would be the last time the clans would ever migrate along the Serpentine River. The small clan abandoned the river and made their way back to the mountains of Ironspike, the deep mountains…….
END PART 1
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