LoL Fan Fiction: Diaspora
I find writing fun so I decided to dabble in LoL fan fictions
Smoke lulled from tenets that huddled together on a level peice of ground among jagged mountains. The smoke rose up to a sleepy canopy of gray clouds, as the clouds accepted the smoke it returned it as a light sprinkle of white that clung to the surface of their frosty tundra.
The clearing is well established and enchroached upon a stretch of evergreens. An edge of the forest had been corroded away by the settlers.
Along the shaven off bits of trees shooting ranges and store houses rested, most in disuse.
On one of the smaller shooting ranges two men stood, but only one practiced with his bow.
The one with his bow, noticeably the junior of the two by his prominent shoulders and smooth patches of skin that barely showed under the wraps of cloth and fur, drew the weapon back carefully. The motion shook off the bits of white that had tenatively clung onto him. His muscled tensed and he took a deep breath in sync with the fluid motion of his arm. He drew himself up and held his entire body rigid as he let out a single missile at the target fifty yards away.
With a CATHUNK softened by distance he barely hit the edge of the target.
The second figure, a less bundled up old man with gray hair, a shaven face and a body that still held together its old sinew, eyed him incredulously and said, “Hold your arms steadier! Do I have to tie the bow to your those lazy ass fingers or will you stop letting the arrow go so soon?!” he barked.
The young man looked over and through his concealed face his pale-blue eyes bore into the spectator with an annoyed look. “What happened to, ‘I just want to see how you’re doing’?”
“I did, and you’re horrible!” he responded
The bowman slacked his soldiers and gave another annoyed look.
A cloaked and hooded woman began to walk by, ushering away children carrying small ten and twenty pound toy bows. The child ran off to the village away from the dawdling instructor.
“Ashe! Please get this old goat off of me already!” He shouted over to her. Ashe looked over and walked towards them at a casual pace, as usually she carried with her a bow and some arrows slung on her back.
“What are you doing to Greg, Old Whitey?” She called over as she neared.
Whitey sneered, “If he doesn’t get good with a bow what use will you be to us in these times? And stop calling me Old Whitey! My name is Simon you disrespectful little twit!” he said looking at Ashe. Gregory, in response to the off-handed insult, whipped out a knife and balanced it in his hand for a few moments eyeing the target. His arm transformed into an indistinct blur as the small missile flew to the target and while not hitting the center came far closer than the arrow had.
Old Whitey threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked off.
Gregory turned to Ashe, changing the subject to more serious matters he asked, “Any sign of pursuit?”
“To the best of my knowledge? No”
“You know how those Demacians are! There’s no way they could have just given up…”
“All I know is that there is no pursuit, there’s a variable here we don’t know about that I’m particularly in favor of” She paused with a sigh and continued, “Do you think I’d ever let us cook up fires and and all this smoke if I thought we were in danger?”
Gregory let the matter drop as he settled the bow against a forlorn tree stump. They began to walk back he asked, “So do you ever miss it?”
Ashe gave him a confused look and asked, “What do you mean?”
“The league, of course, on top of everything that has happened in the last months, and how much of a gig it was! All that money and respect you got for just doing what you do best!” He sounded almost exuberant.
“In some ways, yes, in others? No. The League involved injuries that sent me into some odd state of sub-death on a regular basis. The Decamacians and Noxians still had their ****ed prejudices even then! Do you know what it was like to accept the command of them day after day? And do you know what it was like to work for some of those men! Remember what I told you about what they made Nidalee do at times?” She cut her rant short with an angry blow of air from her nose.
The bags under her eyes for seemed to droop heavy, "And don't get me started" she murmured, "on those freaks from Zuan..."
Gregory knew Aseh well enough to know to just skip over the serious note, and laughed at her misfortune “Ha! There doesn’t exist a guy here who’d dare approach you like that around here!”
“Starting to ge-?”
She cut short as a bent over old man, well decorated and hobbling by with a silver tipped cane. Ashe and Gregory began muttering nonsense under their breath, trying their best to pretend to look more appropriate.
"Well, there's one thing I miss" Ashe muttered after the man had passed. Gregory shot her a questioning look. "I miss being among people who would repeatedly forget that I'm royalty, it made life mooorrre" She spun her open hand in the air, failing to articulate as she hung on the end of the last word.
"fun?" Gregory said with the tiniest smirk growing at the corners of his mouth.
"Yeah... This is why I waste so much time around you" She said. Gregory laughed at the jibe. "Anyways, starting to get it?"
“Yes, but still, the League kept us all safe, and you make it sound like some high end brothel you had to spend the night at” he laughed some more at his own words.
“I miss the league as an institution, but my membership of it is something I can live without”
“Still bitter?” he asked trying to sound more serious past his giddy chuckles at his friend’s inconveniences.
Her face darkened as she said, “I still wonder whether or not if that was the plan from the beginning, but I’m never trusting either of those imperialist nations”
Gregory opened his mouth to respond when they heard a horn blow. With two second pause in between the horn blew three more times.
“Time to pack up?” Gregory asked once the horn had died down. Three horn blows signified that it is time to pack up and ready themselves for the next scouted out clearing.
Five seconds after the three blows a louder, deeper horn blew a long, ominous note. Ashe’s face turned as white as the tundra a split second before her steel snapped into place and her entire countenance seemed to freeze in unforgiving ice. Gregory’s mind froze, shock momentarily over flowing him at the sound of the call-to-arms.
All around them stragglers who had been practicing with their bows or working with wood dropped what they had been doing and began marching their way over to store rooms of weapons. The alert ones were already streaming towards the origin of the horns like ants going to protect their mound.
Ashe turned to Gregory and said, “You know your position righ-”
Gregory turned to her sharply and said, “Ashe! Don’t group me with Jacob! I’m not that stupidly hot headed” he let his muscles go lax after what felt to him to be an unintentional disparage. He took a deep breathe and said, “I’m with the escort and you’re with the rear guard I know”
Ashe remembered Jacob. Gregory's little nephew had tried to sneak out of the migrating groups to face the Demacians, he had almost succeeded.
Ashe eyed him for a moment, but said, “Glad to hear it… good luck to you”
“You too” Gregory said as he watched her disappear along with the stream of warriors going out to defend.
Gregory turned his face away with a more force of will needed than he let show. He couldn't think straight as he felt his worries spearhead all his thoughts, he felt a million sirens flair into life in his head when he finally forced his legs to turn away. He thrust the thoughts deep underneath his subconscious and bit down on his lower lip to take his attention away while he went over to help others dismantle huts.
It wasn’t long before a coppery taste stained his tongue.
A note: I've found making these stories interesting, so if you liked I'd be happy to continue on with the story if somebody revives this, but until then I have other matters to attend to :P
The Demacian force marched as a single mass of black across the fresh film of snow that had fell over the terrain the night before.
And now it marched upon Frejilord and its rulers.
Weapons dully caught the light of a sun that slowly bled itself off of the horizon, its red and orange hews painting the sky through an inconsistent sheet of clouds. The army stopped a couple hundred yards off of the open maw that invited them into a large crack in the wall of mountains where the hiding nomads had dwelt days before.
Ashe stood atop a cliff that hung over the vain that shot through the natural barrier. The Frejilord had mustered their force and had come out to the mountainous passageway to hold the attack off as long as possible.
Whitey stood beside her with an unwavering stony countenance. He noticed a sliver of worry slipping into Ashe’s blank stare.
“Attack, hold, repeat. That’s all we need to do Ashe, we can get out and be five days march gone before they are done cowering behind their shields”
Ashe hardly looked any more confident. She turned to him and said, “I know, but don’t you ever wonder why they come for us now? They seemed perfectly content as long as we stayed out of their way” Ashe said gesturing with her hand at the army, “What reason could they have to come now?” she asked rhetorically.
“The other Tribes?” He said.
“The other Tribes” She confirmed, “It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. We had pledged neutrality, and the other tribes, still bitter with at their lost sovereignty struck a deal with the Demacians”
“A deal with the Devil” Whitey murmured
The marching ended as the army unpacked itself for the night.
“It begins soon. Get some rest” Old Whitey told her. He gave her a bow that momentarily reminded her of her own nobility she so vehemently insisted be ignored as much as possible.
Old Whitey departed without another word and Ashe followed suit only moments after. On her way back to her accommodations she noticed, or rather smelled, the bands of barbarians that had quickly answered their summons.
Like water and oil they refused to mix in with the Frejilord. Despite the years of matrimony the barbarians failed to mingle wit Ashe’s people, something the Frejilord couldn’t say the regretted.
Her eye found the great Barbarian King and took a long moment staring at him. It’s not like I’ve done the best job mingling, either she thought to herself. She cut the speculation off and began trudging to her accommodations they’re our allies, that’s all I need to care about right now.
She cleared her mind as best she could, pretending bloodshed wasn’t but a few hours away.
Wind blew wickedly around the monstrous, toothy protrusions, the Frejilord Mountains. Gregory withstood the whipping waves of frost as they attacked his hunched over, but still tall, frame as his boots crunched the snow under his foot.
In fear of the coming onslaught those unable to fight had been sent across the mountains and to these icy deserts to seek the help of on of their last allies, the Yetis. Along with them they tentatively sent some of their preciously few men to escort them across the deadly frozen desert
Gregory thanked his practice in wrapping the cloth around his face as most other tribe members traveling with them fought with patches of fur to protect their faces from the ever greedy winds that stole the warmth from every bare patch of skin.
Gregory’s instincts gave him a mental shock and his nose stuck into the air. A moment later a wolf howled in the distance, magnifying the bottle up anxiety inside him.
The noise brought back the memory of the disappearances to Gregory. It wasn’t unheard of to hear of somebody hunting in these parts and never coming back. A nip of cold slithered past his heavy clothes and it gave Gregory a sudden surge of adrenaline, but gave him a toothy smile.
Few would suspect it about such a quiet man as himself, but just when the cold and pain reached that barely unbearable level his blood simply boiled in defiance.
For the past few days and before they had left they had been signaling the yetis with information about their departure, but ever since the storm any form of their response had been lost to the travelers.
A cacophony of bloodlust rose for a moment in the distance, obviously carried in the wind and off of rocky walls that was cut off by the greatest howl Gregory had ever heard.
Indistinct images of white and gray blurs showed through the curtains of snow. At the front charged a wolf that seemed to be more gorilla than wolf.
It was odd to see such a large pack of wolves exposing themselves to a group of men of this size, but Gregory could not take his eyes of what appeared to be the alpha male of the pack. It seemed to him that it had arms.
His mouth had gone slack.
ARMS!? Gregory thought. Gregory waited for another chance at seeing the monster, for a moment the air cleared of blowing snow and he saw a dull glint from the shoulders, armor, chipped and weathered by time, but still armor. A werewolf? Gregory pondered. His eyes widened Didn’t Ashe tell us stories of some werewolf, what was is name? War-. The thought was silenced instantly as the werewolf flung itself upon the first victim its great claws came in great swipe, ripping chunks of flesh from the man’s bones. Crimson colored the white winds as the prey died, seemingly more bone than flesh now as his body refused to implode for but a moment more. He stood, still amazed by the demon, forgetting exactly what such a beast is famous for.
Its head turned toward directly, and it gave out another howl.
It turned its gaze on Gregory. His body shook with slight convulsion at seeing its maw open into a wicked deformation of a grin. Bits of flesh fell from its teeth. Cold bloomed from his spine and infected the rest of his body. His ego returned for a moment with a single, seemingly exasperated message, “So much for that boiling blood, eh?” for some reason the self deprecation sent another kick of hot blood through his veins.
The werewolf was turning on another victim as the migrations struggled to escape the onslaught, but were met on most sides by more wolves popping in and out of the cover of blowing snow.
Gregory quickly kneeled down and packed together a snowball. He squinted his eyes in concentration on the beast, stood up slowly and carefully drew his arm back. He snapped his arm forward and threw it right onto the werewolf’s nose. It instantly turned its murderous visage upon Gregory.
The werewolf vicariously charged at him on all fours. Gregory fought back mental equilibrium. He stared directly at the beast lunging and thrusting around rocks and through brush. Gregory expelled the air in his lungs.
At the last few yards it made another great lunge, its arms once again spread out wide to accept another victim. Gregory ducked under the flying body, his sword drawn back with the tip pointed up to attack stab his enemy in the stomach.
The werewolf twisted its body as much as it could in mid flight, the stab came seeking flesh, but the werewolf swiped it away with armored claws. The force of the swipe had changed his orientation and it landed a little ways off, skidding through the snow on all fours.
Gregory brought himself up into a crouch, sword raised before him. The werewolf licked its lips. Gregory was once again amazed by the beast as he stared at its primal, sadistic teeth.
The fraction of a second of distraction was all that the werewolf had needed, and it came at Gregory with a shocking amount of speed. He tried to take a swipe at the werewolf, but it pushed its arms against the ground hard at an angle, sidestepping the swing and came at him from the side.
It sprang up onto two legs and gripped Gregory in a vice. Gregory’s back flared with pain as claws dug in. It opened its mouth and twisted to the side to maim Gregory’s throat in one, great bite.
Gregory fought within the iron grip of the beast to defend himself. He twisted around enough that his left arm came free. He brought it up and pressed it against the beast’s throat and planted his elbow into its chest for leverage. He could have sworn he felt a piece of timber instead of its torso.
Panic exploded from every gash and cut he received from fighting the cage of bloodthirsty claws and teeth. He knew he was going to lose. He had even accepted it to a degree, it was his price for being so stupid, but he couldn’t help thinking:
What the hell is something like that doing up here, anyways? It was a rhetorical question, of course. Clever b******s Gregory thought
In one last jerk Gregory put his body at an angle away from the wolf, standing too steeply to stay up without the grip that held him. His legs snaked around the wolf’s ankle and he gave his body a hard torque, using the arm he had been restricting the deadly maw he gave the werewolf’s head a strong elbow to the ear. He forced its left ankle up with his left leg.
It began to teeter.
Gregory pressured down on his right foot for as much traction as he could while the other forced one of the heavy werewolf’s ankle up higher. He kept his head tucked and allowed the claws and his leg to carry him forward. He pushed the beast’s mouth up once again for a moment with his left arm. Tucking his chin he struck its collar bone with his temple.
The leg holding up on of the werewolves ankles twisted itself around the leg in a tighter vice, the boot’s toe stuck into the snow and he pushed hard against the one legged beast. He put his sword arm, stuck under the werewolves grip still, around its lower torso and used the full force of his body to topple it over. Instinctively it released its grip to try and break its fall.
Gregory brought up his sword.
They fell with a crash onto the snow and Gregory stabbed, aiming at the beasts open maw. It twisted its head as fast as it could and caught the sword within its bite. It clamped as hard as it could, but the sword didn’t break.
It didn’t matter to it as it brought its claws up to slash at Gregory’s face. Gregory drew back, but the claws still raked away the cloth covering his head, cloth and skin ripped apart as it drew blood in five horizontal scratches across the lower half of his face.
A pale, young face typical of the northerners looked down at the beast. The face had a sharp look to it, slightly long with a hawk’s nose and thin lips. From the right side of his face as high as the top of ear down to the left side of his chin a jagged scare deformed everything in its path, barely missing the nose and eye. A fresh rage at the wounds flared inside his pale-blue eyes.
Gregory took hold of his swords hilt and drew a knife and stabbed down. Immediately the beast let its go of the sword as it placed a clawed hand on his shoulder and pushed him off. Gregory took his sword with him.
They both scrambled up away from each other, bloodied and beaten. They began warily circling, neither comfortable stagnant. Gregory shivered as the winds effortlessly stole the warmth from his face. Warwick rumbled out a deep, threatening growl.
It barked out a frustrated roar a rushed onwards toward him. Gregory would have almost laughed at the foolishness of such a headstrong charge if he had been fighting anybody, or anything, else.
He brought his sword up and stabbed down. In a drastic mid-charge twist the werewolf checked its forward momentum and swerved to Gregory’s right. Inspiration struck Gregory in the form of an instinct induced jolt to his entire body.
Suddenly, he found himself sprawling his feet out from under himself with the toes of his boots just barely skimming the snow. As his upper body dropped his left hand found the dagger on his belt, raising it above his head in a single movement. His face soon came on level with the beasts just as its maw opened and its claws bent wickedly in expectation of the kill. The dagger crashed like hammer onto its neck as he bent his elbow in, putting all of the downward momentum and weight his body had to offer. He extended his arm out as he drove the dagger home, pushing himself as far away from the beast as he could in those few moments.
The beast yelped as its neck seemed to bend in on itself, but just as it touched the ground all of its limbs stretched out automatically to accept and repel the fall. Gregory also was ready for the fall. He pulled his knees under him and dug the toes of his boots as deep into the packed in snow as he could. With his entire body except his left arm coiled like a spring he exploded out straight towards the werewolf, both of them barely off of the ground.
Gregory had been moments too slow, or rather the beast had been a moment too fast, for him to complete a perfect kill. It shifted to the side barely so instead of stabbing into the front of its collar bone, it struck too wide and met the cold, decrepit metal on its shoulder instead of flesh.
Instantly he pushed himself away from the beast and abandoned his knife. Once again they both struggled back up. The werewolf could barely stand as it coughed up clots of bloody through its nearly ruined neck. Gregory saw a chance and almost took it, but from behind the beast another man came charging with his sword raised high. The man swiped down on the beast as hard as he could, but the moment he committed to the blow it whipped around with speed that defied its earlier behavior. In what looked like a single movement it tore the dagger out of the base of its neck, jammed it between the ribs of the man and sunk its teeth into him.
Gregory could see the deep gash begin to seal as it feasted on the still dying man. He could not hear any screams over the wind as the man’s throat had already been maimed and ripped out.
Red tinged Gregory’s vision and pain blanketed Gregory’s mind as he brought up his crutch for one more skirmish with the beast. Just as he was coming and the werewolf was turning itself around to meet him they both paused in baffled shock as the wind suddenly bristled with centrifugal force. Ice fought to claim Gregory’s boots and fuse his legs with the icy terrain. The werewolf began desperately fighting against the storm and began struggling away. It began running faster than Gregory thought possible once it broke from the winds.
The winds increased in intensity as it became harder and harder for Gregory to keep himself free from the ice that attempted to claim him like ivy over a dead tree. Suddenly Gregory was hit by what felt like a giant block of ice, launching him off of his feet and onto the ground.
Battered, bruised and bloody he hit the ground and found himself facing an endlessly monochrome sky. Consciousness gave way to unconsciousness as great patches of black claimed his vision.
The clouds began to clear as his vision blotched out.
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