Hi, it's me, Vrand Giper, I mean Grind Vapor...Grand Viper. Anyhoo! KuzAnn and I have been working away feverishly at this champion concept to incorporate into our stories and our fiction, and I want to see what your guy's opinion is. If you would like to see him in our stories, your thoughts, and everything.
It is his story summary, followed by his Judgement.
Wolfrik, the Gelid Vortex
The Gelid Vortex was long rumored to have a form of sentience. This idea was born due to many reasons. One such rumor was how it was not a stationary phenomenon and seemed to travel around the northern parts of the Freljords at its own whim. Other rumors said that at any scene of battle that dared erupt within the northern parts of the Freljords, one could expect the arrival of the storm quickly enough. These rumors were given more credence by the Ursine, who communicated with the storm itself and called the eye of the storm the "Friduwulf", the Calm Wolf. These tales were quickly chalked up to being old stories, outdated myths in an attempt to explain a force of nature.
Those who did would come to regret doing so for the rest of their short lives.
Despite his enemies erasing his very being from the annals of history, long ago, Gelid Wolfrik was king. He and his allies, the Yeti, the Ursine, the barbarians and the natives of the Freljords were united under a single kingdom after they had battled and driven back titanic creatures of legend. For years, life was prosperous, tranquil, content. Despite how short lived it was, the Freljords lived in a nearly pastoral paradise.
Tragedy struck the kingdom when Gelid and his beloved queen's son died in his crib, his cold hands wrapped around his favorite toy: A doll, made by his mother, from the sticks of a broken fiddle. Driven nearly to madness, Gelid prayed and wished for something, anything to lighten their grief. Within ten months, they were graced by three daughters. Shortly after they were born, he was told by his royal seer that if these three daughters lived his kingdom would be divided and destroyed by them. The solution presented to him was to keep one daughter, and to discard the other two.
His queen, upon hearing this distressing prophecy, became hysterical. She was about to beg her king to not do such a heinous act, to not put her through such pain again, but she had no need to waste her breath. Gelid slaughtered the seer in a fit of rage he thought himself incapable of. Not wanting to ever fall prey to this anger he now knew he was capable of, he dedicated his heart and soul in his vain effort to not let this prophecy come to pass. Gelid raised his daughters as best as he could, but the seer's words came true. His heart broken, Gelid died before he could see the destruction of his hallowed kingdom.
But the king did not stay dead.
Through his love for his people, his anger at his daughters, and the sin they committed, he thwarted death. He changed, transformed, in response. Gelid did not become death, he became the personification of his anger. He was now a semblance of his namesake: a giant wolf, whose decay was forever encased in ice.
Gelid rose from the family tomb and sought to rectify his error in life. Once he had three daughters. After he found the three women on the battlefields he formerly called home, he had none. His kingdom was now frozen in a block of true ice from his rage, but he still had but one last duty to attend to before he could rest once more. Despite how foolish a choice it was, he spared his grandchildren, his final act of mercy towards the ones he once called family. With his vengeance at an end, he disappeared into the northern wastes, never to be seen again. On that day, the Gelid Vortex was born.
Though Wolfrik slept beneath the ice, his old enemies rose again: the Frozen Watchers. Eager for vengeance on the old king who had opposed and defeated them, they sought to erase his name from history. Years passed, the Frozen Watchers fell once again, but their agents remained in constant vigil over the tomb. Ever waiting...and ever dreading what might emerge should they falter for a moment.
Centuries passed. The winds howled with the screams of pain, death, crows and battle. The snow on the tundra was violated with the blood of many, the black ice of corruption eating away at the very heart of the land. The Freljords were at war. Despite the carnage, the agents of the Ancient Watchers continued their vigilance. A strange sight made them falter, unsure how to react. In the far distance, a creature made its way through the tundra, key swinging around its neck as it happily trod through the snow unabated. A thick, black cloud of crows followed in its wake, sickly green eyes shining with wicked glee.
It seemed that history was doomed to repeat itself.
"When I survived the Vortex, I was not sure if I survived because of luck or because of divine providence. Now? I'm still not sure."
In the dead of night, a miasmic cloud of crows screeched and cawed made its way towards the Institute of War. Lightning cracked, thunder boomed, and a howling storm of hail and snow obscured vision for miles on end. Despite the cacophonous sounds, the crows, the thunder, the storm, all harmonized with one another to create a discordant symphony.
Fiddlesticks led the way, his flock expanding out behind him into a living cloak that matched the night sky. A happy skip in its step, a unnerving smile on its face, it stopped in front of the front gates of the Institute. It lifted its scythe and fired it forward, the blade striking the thin, narrow slit twixt the two closed doors. With minimal effort, the Harbinger shattered whatever magical and physical locks that were placed upon it, and with a gnarled hand pushed the doors open. Its wooden feet scraped across the marble floor, still leading the way for the storm that trailed behind it. Its flock quickly converged into one another then into Fiddlesticks. It was only now that someone could see the dead crows that littered the ground, icicles hanging off their feathers, their beaks and their eyes as though they were flash frozen.
The blizzard that followed the Harbinger became a dull roar. A pair of glowing, pupil-less white eyes shone out from the center of the storm. The dull thud of a paw striking the marble floor silenced the storm completely. No more peals of thunder, no more bolts of lightning. The hail rained to the floor while the snow softly drifted downwards, settling itself on the tiles and onto the mottled fur of a large dire wolf.
The large canine head looked to the left, then to the right. It was more instinct than caution, to survey the surroundings of an unfamiliar place. His jaw moved, the lower half of his face exposed, bleached bone. No muscle, fur or skin covered it or his ferocious teeth. The crystalline fangs clicked against one another when he closed his mouth. A puff of frost seemingly exhaled from his teeth, followed by a liquid that dribbled down from the remnants of his decayed lips. The moment it touched the stone floor, it instantly crystallized and froze into a puddle. The wolf took another step into the halls, whatever light source was within illuminated the rest of his body. The sound of ice and stone cracking echoed in the still halls as the rest of the his majestic figure came into view.
Wolfrik's chest bore no flesh, and his ribcage was missing most of his sternum. Various sections of his ribs were missing as well, the lengths and sizes of the missing bone varied in a random pattern. A few ribs were completely missing while others were only slightly chipped, cracked, barely gripping onto the last remnants of his sternum. It looked like his chest had exploded from an excessive force. Instead of organs, flesh, anything one might expect to see within a torso, a large block of blueish white ice nestled itself. A dull glint could be seen in the center of the block of ice, but it seemed almost like a mirage to catch sight of it. One moment it was there, the next moment it was gone. The grey fur was interspersed with tufts of blackened fur, frost bitten flesh, and icicles of the deepest, bluest color. The joints on his legs were exposed bone and tendons, black and gnarled from age and cold. His overall height and length was larger than a thoroughbred horse. His paws were as big as the face of a person, his jaws seemed able to swallow a man whole. This was all accommodating the fact that large chunks of muscle was missing from his frame.
The wolf took slow, measured steps, carrying with him an ancient majesty not seen in centuries towards Fiddlesticks. The scenery shifted, changed. Around him, snow blew once more, but he was not the cause of this storm. Gelid made no response, emotional or physical, when he saw a young man laughing and goading him to have a spar. He had a thick mane of onyx hair and the start of prepubescent facial hair. It was an old friend, one he had not seen in quite some time. Despite the snow, the cold, he was running around shirtless and laughing. Those were happier times.
A few more steps and a beautiful woman with a bow in hand was seen. She notched an arrow into it and fired at the sky. The arrow whistled through the air, the size of it becoming apparent when it neared its target. The boar she was hunting was taken off his feet and impaled onto the nearest tree. Wolfrik's eyes fell upon the bow for a moment, recognizing it of his beloved. Her family's bow, passed down from generation to generation, the 'Last Whisper'. Once he was in view of her, the woman brushed her platinum blonde hair away from her face, and gave him a beatific smile. Her laughter that followed, oh that laughter, it sounded like the softest of bells ringing in his ears. Despite this, Wolfrik did not pause his stride, but the sight elicited a soft, longing whine to escape his throat. He shook his head and looked in front of him once more.
The scene changed, the snow covered with blood, men, women, Yeti and Ursine corpses as far as the eye could see. He saw a young woman scrabbling away from him, her hands clawing in the snow despite the slow pace he walked with. She resembled the previous woman, but he knew she was different. This woman wielded magic, unlike her sisters, and she had a tendency to keep her hair bundled up in an odd bun. She felt this was a style more befitting a princess. This woman before him was completely horrified at the sight of him.
Her hands shot up in front of her, magic humming from her fingertips as she created a wall of ice in a vain attempt to stop his advance. Gelid did not slow his pace, and met no resistance as he walked through the icy wall. She yelped in pain and tripped, blood streaming down her leg. One of the ice shards from her own wall had impaled her thigh. The young woman flipped herself. She screamed at his sight, "Father, no! No! I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to!"
She sobbed and held her hands up, shrieking as Gelid moved forward, his lower jaw unhinging itself and aimed to swallow her whole. "Fath-!"
Snap. His jaws crunched into flesh, a second crunch pierced the rest of her organs and shattered her bones. With a casual flick of his head, tossed her body to the side. He would let the crows feast on such refuse. The last of his three daughters, his work was done, or so he thought. Wolfrik let out long, bored sigh. "Enough," he growled in a low tone. His voice was a majestic, deep tone, his command boomed throughout the illusionary mountains.
The scene tore itself apart, the mountains peeling away, the snow melting into nothing, and he stood once more in the marble halls. In front of him were Fiddlesticks and an ornate door, inlaid with precious gems, engraved with beautiful flowing depictions of flowers, and precious metals were carefully gilded onto its surface. A plaque rested five and a half feet up from the ground, so most could read its words without trouble. Wolfrik lowered his head and read the inscription aloud. "The truest enemy lies within." He let out a low mutter shortly afterwards. "How true..."
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
Wolfrik raised his head. Thunder pealed, hail whipped out in a frenzy about him. "I will not give my name to a faceless coward. My purpose is to correct what is wrong."
"I am High Councilor Vessaria Kolminye," a woman's voice replied. She appeared behind Wolfrik, hands folded in front of her and bowing towards him. "I apologize for the ruden-"
"Where is Lissandra?" he growled. The wolf did not look at who he was conversing with yet.
The High Summoner took a few moments to choose her words carefully. "She is within our halls, under our protection."
Wolfrik's head slowly moved, his shining, soulless eyes boring themselves into Kolminye. "Why?"
"She wishes to be a League champion."
"This...League," he snorted. "This is how you solve disputes, yes? That is what Chief Volibear had told me..."
"Yes, it is. You are in the Institute of War, where we organize League matches to settle matters, from political to personal issues."
Wolfrik nodded, then took a two steps towards Kolminye. "What are your plans?"
A look of confusion swept across her face. "Plans? What are you infer-"
A scythe firmly embedded itself at the feet of the High Summoner. Wolfrik continued staring at her, his growl resembling the low rumbles of thunder. "I can sense the imbalance. Life where death should be, wrongs not righted, the corruption of life's meaning. Resurrections have taken place, undead other than I taint the air, and you stink of vileness. Lying to me will not bode well for you. Watch your tongue, lest you lose it."
Kolminye's eyes narrowed. Her tone took a sharper turn. "I am only one of many Summoners in these hallowed halls, wolf who defied death. You will watch your tone with me."
"That is all you and your Summoners are, while I am Gelid Wolfrik," the wolf stated, dribbles of saliva falling from his jaw and crisping on the floor in a puff of ice dust. "This place...it is meant to prevent wars? That is what I was told."
"Yes, it is."
"Then I shall join." Gelid slowly turned back around and faced the ornate door. Fiddlesticks looked up at him, quaking. It was most certainly not fear, Kolminye could only assume the Harbinger was expressing its excitement.
"You will not be allowed to kill Lyssandra, Gelid. We will not let you," the High Summoner said in a commanding tone.
A hollow laugh echoed throughout the halls. A crack of lightning and the boom of thunder followed suit. Kolminye started to shiver uncontrollably. She nearly lost her balance from the sudden cold that afflicted her. Her eyes darted downwards, seeing ice start creeping towards her from his paws. His presence alone was enough to cause this cold that afflicted her and the hall. What was truly unsettling, was the fact that she had prepared herself with an enchantment to warm herself. Despite this, she felt nearly hypothermic.
"You will refer to me as Wolfrik, High Councilor Vessaria Kolminye. To say my first name would imply that you and I are equals, which I assure you, we are not," Gelid growled. His eyes flicked over to the Harbinger. " I do not need to kill her now. I can wait." Fiddlesticks wrung its hands, nodding happily.
"It does not matter if you wait," she replied, doing her best to keep her dignity intact instead of rubbing her arms with ferocity to warm herself. "What makes you think that you can overpower the League at any point? Why do you think we would accept you?"
Wolfrik rolled his shoulders, the sound of the popping of bone ringing out which was accompanied by ice flaking out in tiny shards as though it had been grinded against a rough surface. He looked at Kolminye once more, his glowing eyes fixating themselves on her. "Life and death. A beginning, then a conclusion. I once thought myself timeless, that my legacy would live on forever, just as you no doubt think of your precious League." Wolfrik raised one of his paws and pressed it against the ornate door. Ice spread out from his paw, and with a light push, it shattered and crumbled into a pile of beautiful debris. "I know better now. You will accept me into your ranks, because just as there is a beginning..."
He took a step through the hole that was once a beautifully carved, carefully inlaid with precious metals and gems, door, laying broken and twisted at his paws, ice encasing even the smallest splinters. "I am its conclusion. When my work is done, I will rest once more. I have defied death only to see to it that others who try opposing nature meet their natural end. In life, there is death. In death, life begins anew. Nothing is exempt from this simple law, not even those who dare call themselves 'immortal'. That, High Councilor Vessaria, is the nature of existence. Remember my words."
Wolfrik looked one last time at Vessaria, his voice somehow sending more chills running through her in addition to the tremors she was already experiencing. "I will see my Harbinger and myself in, Lady Vessaria. When you have warmed yourself, you may ask me whatever questions you wish, so long as you keep a civil tongue. No doubt curiosity has now sprung in your mind, and you will not hinder me any further, yes?"
Vessaria did not reply. With a grunt and a slow motion of his head, beckoning Fiddlesticks to take the lead, Gelid Wolfrik, the embodiment of one of the fiercest storms in all of Runeterra, strode into the League.
Q: Why did I make him?
A: It started out as a conversation between Kuzann and me, about the Shadow Isles and the idea of the Horsemen, and who could be death. Karthus, seems to fulfill that role now, but I do prefer old Karthus, so we brainstormed. This was before all the Freljord updates, so it seemed much cooler back then. We were wondering how can we develop the Freljords more? What can we do to talk about the background of the Freljords, and how they came to be? Then, something occurred to me, the Gelid Vortex. It did not kill Ashe, and Volibear could communicate with it. How was this possible? Then we went on the choo choo train of plot.
What caused the 3 sisters to divide? What was it that segregated all of these people? How did they all come to be in one territory? What if the unification of the Freljords was done before? And with Lissandra's lore, though I'm a bit miffed at a few things about her, it really helped correlate a lot of lore factors and helped solidify his story. He can interact with any of the Freljordian champions, he strengthens all their ties, he brings in a lot of background lore and I believe he helps further propel the story potential. He also gives a very legitimate reason for Lissandra to join the League.
Before anyone points out she's the Ice Witch in the League, they know LeBlanc is Evaine and Emilia, I'm sure the League would know she's Lissandra at the snap of their fingers. And would not a single League champion realize her duality while there? Not one? Nasus, Ryze, Xerath, Nocturne, Caitlyn, so forth? Lissandra joining the League to me looks like a last resort, she has to join or else her plans fail completely.
Also, if anyone wants to know, how did Lissandra live? Body jumping. She jumped to her daughter, who Gelid spared.
I will also not say what the sin is, unless it's in a PM.
As an added note, I'd imagine his frozen kingdom to now be the Avarosa Iceflow.
Q: Why Fiddlesticks?
A:I wasn't trying to follow the trend of sticking every champ we don't know what to do into the Freljords, this was before that. I still think Trundle should be Trundle, and this new troll be a new troll. Getting catty, sorry.
Fiddlesticks is the Harbinger, of what? He's supposed to be ludicrously powerful to the point that Summoners don't screw with him, he's terrifying, and he summons crows. He also only kind of looks like a scarecrow, he moves like a doll to me. Jerky movements, hopping about, and his quotes talk about him doing his master's bidding. Crows are often at scenes of battle due to the amount of corpses, but most importantly?
He has a key around his neck. This is often overlooked. He's waiting to unleash something. What better to unleash than something that is going to kill a lot, a lot of things?
He's also a constant sign of sadness, sorrow for Wolfrik. Fiddlesticks is Wolfrik's fear made physical, a parent's fear of the death of their child. That is very powerful, and a very real fear, of their baby just dying for no explicable reason. It's a very real, very horrific fear, and Fiddlesticks embodies that. The Harbinger has now heralded the return of the original Freljordian ruler.
Note: He is not the Ruined King. I was contemplating on whether making him this or not, but the Shadow Isles have a whole slew of lore possibilities available to them, and I'd rather develop them.
Q: Will I be using him in a story?
I would very much like to! I would like to make an entire Freljordian story, intermixing the past and present with all of our Freljordian champions. But! I want to hear your opinions first! If there are other questions, anything else you wish to ask about him, please ask! Any criticisms? Say so!
And a big thanks to KuzAnn for her constant support, editing and her ability to suffer our discussions! Without her, not much of this could be done, if any of it!
If you like this idea, can I ask any and all readers to do me a favor? Can you pop over to this link, take a look at his proposed skills/abilities (Which can and will be adjusted as need be from criticism and reviews). You'll also get to see his initial concept art by KuzAnn (It's only a WIP so do forgive the roughness) that sent this galloping!
And in regards to my other stories, this guy was taking up a lot of my time, constructing his story. This means that with this project written and done for now, I can focus on my other stories once more!
You know, Permafrost Diplomacy is going to have Karma traveling to Freljord and me playing with the new lore. Would you like to have Wolfrik involved with that? I could see where he would fit in just after reading this.
I'm not sure whether it should be collaborative writing of his chapters or something else, but it could be fun!
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