Chapter Text
It surrounds us. Far as the open horizon, yet hidden to the naked eye. From the wooden hilt of a swinging ax. The leather hides on a shepherd's back. The banners which billow above our capitol buildings so proudly.
As its claws latch onto us, we are reminded that at any moment– if it so desired– it could snuff our light without a sliver of remorse. Pollute the conscious with mutterings. Illusions of desperation.
Under this singular flag, we lay united as slaves. The pseudo matter that pulls reality together and tears it apart…
Power.
One could argue that humanity was doomed from the beginning. Self-destruction is in their nature. I would be hard-pressed to disagree. Constituted of greedy, arrogant creatures that stop at no end to expand their pile of wealth. They are flawed. Immensely so.
But that is precisely why I must protect them.
For every cruel, heartless monster that goes unpunished– there exist more capable, compassionate souls– brimming with potential. The potential to lift us alongside them. To balance the scales.
My name is Ryze. I am the only person standing between Runeterra and complete annihilation.
If you have never heard of me– good. Keep it that way. Put this scroll back where you found it. Burn it if you have to. Make sure nobody saw you.
I pray for whoever reads this text now, they heed my ample warnings.
Our future depends on what you choose to do with this knowledge.
Scroll I : Part I
We arrived at the shore of Taratus at midday. Or at least, it should've been. Without the aid of sunlight, it was impossible to tell. Wading knees deep through an eerily still tide confirmed the rumors I had hoped to prove false; The pale mists which the Blessed Isles were famous– turned an unsightly concoction of black and blue– evoking imagery of bruised flesh.
I watched as the fishermen brave enough to ferry me to the outer island hurriedly rowed off. Couldn't blame them for being eager. Those drunken pirates at the ports of Bilgewater can never get their stories straight. What I heard likely dwarfed in comparison to the horrors their cohorts recounted.
Normally I wouldn't place much merit on the shoulders of depraved, scurvy-ridden men. But the more I listened in, the more convinced I was that these tales weren't purely a fabricated hoax meant to steer frightened sailors away from lucrative trade routes. Mentionings of a once beautiful, peaceful region… now a mere shadow of its former glory. It had world-altering artifact written all over it.
The Shadow Isles: A name fitting of the attributed themes. But a title I seeked to rewrite nonetheless. How do I aim to accomplish this?
There are people in this world, born with an aptitude for the magical arts. Myself among them. Tragically, most will never know the power that resides beneath their fingertips. Despite the many institutions that have tried to say otherwise— magic cannot be taught. That is a popular misconception.
Magic can only be harnessed.
For it to properly manifest, one must undergo intense emotional duress. More often than not, the circumstances of vulnerability will shape the range of these abilities. A reflection of their grief. That's a big reason why so many mages tend to be troubled individuals. It also explains why accessing latent magic potential, users coincidentally pull the "trigger" that amplifies the unique properties of their mana.
Definitive mastery takes time and practice. However, the force's behavior varies drastically. Texts containing runic glyphs serve a strict, disciplinary purpose. Being fluid in the language of magic doesn't make you stronger. Not necessarily.
Simply put; it trains efficient casting and expands your repertoire.
As an archmage, I was equipped to deal with almost any threat stupid enough to cross paths with me. But tedious terrain? Different subject matter. Given that it could not move nor think– it couldn't be outsmarted. The coastline had sunk below the ocean to resemble a capsized basin.
Inaccessible via traditional means, I was left with no choice other than to scale the steep cliff overlooking bleary waters. A trial of patience made ever more perilous by the lack of handholds and fragility of the stone.
Soon I would reach the top, swinging my weight over the final ledge and rolling onto solid ground.
Hastily, I slid my boots off to wring them dry. Tip for aspiring adventurers; wet clothes slow you down. Rid the weight whenever convenient. Better than expending pointless energy– energy that could determine the difference between life and death.
The mist permeated through the breathable air. Sickly and porous, it clung to my exposed skin like a veil of mucus that required intermittent peeling. Reeking of sulfur and mold. For this reason, I strayed from routes where the smoky haze condensed. Roughly an hour passed before I happened upon the first inklings of civilization.
A barren, rural town nestled at the heart of a small valley. Ghostly. Falling perfectly in line with what the rest of this place had to offer. The desertion of people didn't come as a shock. The shortage of encounters thus far made it exceedingly clear that I wasn't a welcomed guest. But the absence of critters and abundance of fields consisting of plowed, trampled dirt? That was unsettling.
It meant the land was infertile– unable to sustain life forms of any kind– plant or animal. A spell of decay must have been cast across these islands some time ago, leaving them in a state of perpetual post mortem. Judging by the stages of erosion, this was around 2, possibly 5 centuries prior to my landing here.
At the town's center, I found evidence that contradicted my initial assessment. Ripped tarps were strewn about the forum. Clotheslines dangled between dilapidated support columns. Arranged in a circle, uncarved stones formed a fire pit, ashes yet to settle. Essentials such as food, medicines, cartographical equipment and spilt gold– Noxian currency– were strangely… left bare.
An entire clan of people had vanished from the area. Alongside their weapons. Between the accumulation of hoof prints stamped through the mud, combined with the ironed must of bloodshed— the more likely of these scenarios was that they were purged. Intuition suggested I lay low here for a while. Stragglers could return to the encampment in search of provisions.
I stopped once beside a depleted thumb of mortar. Propped my weight on it some, intending to gather rest– miniscule as it was. My plan was promptly thwarted. The ruins dissolved into the mist, submerging me under a blanket of darkness. As quickly as it occurred, the surrounding world reconstructed itself.
No longer did I stand alone within the clutches of a macabre boundary.
My skin drank the sunshine gluttonously. Puffy cumulus clouds patched across a grand blue sky like an atmospheric quilt. A gentle breeze stroked the fringes of my beard, followed by the sweet aroma of saltwater taffy.
Cabins of chiseled limestone had cropped up on either side of me. Compact, alternating roofs ensured they were well equipped for a tumultuous rainy season. The architecture was simple and interwoven with spindly vines of blooming ivy. A distant tolling sang from a bell tower.
The slope of the valley was composed of rolling grass. Green as basil, dotted with every shade of flower you could imagine. Proud, healthy trees gathered in small cliques. As if the roots understood the inert beauty of the meadows were not to be trifled with.
My hand hadn't moved from the spot on the water well which had suddenly restored itself to perfect condition. Children ran amok throughout the busy street, playing and screeching excitedly. To help gain my bearings, I waved down a vendor– A woman dressed in pelt rags with tangled hair and a squeamish glass eye.
"This may sound odd… where am I? Exactly?"
"That'll be six silver serpents, baldy."
I scoffed, "Baldy?"
She kept on wrapping a fish as though she hadn't heard me. Depositing the freshly gutted meat into the grimy mitts of a grinning, middle-aged man who was missing several teeth. Scalp hairless.
"Alright, alright, who's next!?"
"You can't see me, can you…?" I trailed off, observing the familiar building layout. "None of you can."
The source of the younglings' enthusiasm rolled down the road on wooden spokes, tugged along by a pair of healthy, brown stallions with manes fluffy as cotton. As the elegantly decorated carriage slowed to a gradual stop, a yordle, garnished with silken garbs, rushed to unlatch the door— fending off anyone who got too close.
Stepping out under the sun was a man robust in stature. A lavish robe was mounted to his shoulders, accentuating his royal pedigree. The crown affixed to his temples was sculpted from precious metals, embezzled with crystals. He had a full beard, perfectly groomed. I grew envious just staring at it.
Onlookers continued to flock for better angles. Their curiosity couldn't be understated. They had likely never sniffed such wealth before. Two guards clad in bronze armor took their positions on either side of the king.
The guard to his left, a substantially shorter woman, stood straight as a needle— highly alert. The plumage of her helmet was frayed and singed at the ends, hinting that she'd fought in many battles. In the grip of her fidgeting hand was a gleaming spatha.
The guard to his right was a man built like a phalanx. And if the pavise he hefted wasn't deterring enough, he must've measured well above two meters. Strapped to his back was a claymore. I had no doubts he could wield both munitions to great effect.
"Hail to the majesty or you shall be found guilty of treason!" The yordle chirped, "King Sohmner! Ruler of the East!"
Preferring not to be caught disobeying the crown, the people fell to their knees. Bowed and uttered prayers of fortune.
"My squire makes me out to be some tyrant! Please, rise!" The king's voice was naturally loud, but strangely inviting.
Like all his subjects were good friends, he boomed with laughter. It worked. The aura of uncertainty had been defused, his magnetic charisma putting the people at ease. Paying his guards no mind, King Sohmner set about mingling with the common folk.
For a short while, I listened to their list of grievances. First, he would ask them what they felt could fix or mediate the issue. Then, upon receiving feedback from multiple different sources, he offered solutions that were within his power. While I didn't believe in monarchies, I approved of his methods. Sohmner behaved as the king should— a benefactor of the populace.
While the townspeople were distracted, the royal carriage jostled with short, erratic movements. The coachmen slumped, grimacing. About a minute later, a sheepish woman dressed in a loose corset and runny makeup scampered out from behind the transport vessel. Apparently this was nothing new.
Following her, a youthful man donning high-class attire strolled across the boulevard, expressing a pompous grin. His skin was fair, clean shaven. Wavy, shoulder-length hair framed the sides of his sharp jawline. And eyes— cerulean blue— startlingly so. I would've preferred to keep pace with King Sohmner, but there was something about this one that I knew I had to keep tabs on.
His first of many stops was at a fruit stand. He greedily selected a few apples which caught his fancy, inspecting them with no lack of critique.
"You ought to keep better care of your harvest, mm!" He said while biting down.
"Yes, your grace!"
The young lord dug into his satchel. Rather than slide the coin over without affair— he skillfully rolled the gold piece between his fingers. Pausing for dramatic effect once it was no longer visible, and still chewing, "For your troubles."
Winking, he flicked the coin into their floundering palms.
His spending spree concluded at a blacksmith's shop. He made ridiculous faces in the reflections of the blades. Amused by the warped expressions. I was beginning to think I was observing a child trapped in a man's body.
"Anything got yer attention, m'lord? I would be happy to show you around." The lead blacksmith introduced himself— a functional, burly man with biceps larger than his own head.
"I fail to comprehend why a man of your talents isn't busy hammering away down at the forges down by the estate? Your artistry rivals that of my late father's personal war masons."
"I appreciate the praise m'lord. My family loves the freedom of the countryside. Our business market isn't lucrative, but it's honest. Genuine. Wouldn't trade it for anything."
"Tell you what… em, what is your name?" The royal man asked condescendingly.
"Balmuer, m'lord."
"Balmuer… that is a brilliant, strong name. Ditch this hogwash villa and come serve my brother, and your family can own all the countryside you could dream of."
Anger flickered across the blacksmith's face at the insinuation his way of life was anything less than fulfilling.
"You are too kind. I shall discuss the offer with my wife and kids first, as is necessary."
"Necessary? You could be a rich man today. You're children, they're children… they would never need to know of struggle as I assume you have. Within my cohorts, your lineage shall be safe and..." He picked up a slim dagger with a curved blade and notched grip.
"…Well accounted for."
Balmuer watched as he traced the blade's edge, prattling on, "I do not extend these invitations to anyone. Nor am I always in such a philanthropic mood…" Swinging the weapon about languidly— it was obvious he never had to use one.
"I hear you, m'lord, but there are some things you can't buy."
The king's brother couldn't have cared less. His fixation had shifted towards the commoner crouched at the water well. Incidentally, pointed out to him by the dagger's tip. A lady, dressed in a simple gown– typical peasant attire– appeared nothing special. Protests were pushed aside as the blacksmith received a bag of coins in exchange for silence.
Hesitating, the young lord approached, holstering his weapon. Straightened his clothes. Checked his breath. Parted his hair. If he couldn't get more insufferable, his primary move of introduction was to stamp his arm on the supportive beam right above the unsuspecting person.
"Never thought I would live to see the day I cross paths with an angel," Then, anticipating she'd be too stunned to speak, the young lord persisted. "Why is she performing such demanding labor? What is her name, I wonder?"
She leaned back to face this stranger, revealing irises purple as plum. An unusual color of eye– though quite rare. Determined, dark coppery bangs spilled out from the linen wimple enveloping her head.
"Isolde?" She answered, confused by their close proximity.
"Isolde." He repeated, sounding wistful. "A gorgeous branding. Fitting of the heavens from which she came."
I rolled my eyes.
"You flatter me." She continued leading the rope.
"On the contrary. I have never been more sincere."
Her brows creased inquisitively, "And you are supposed to be…? Apologies, I see that you're royalty, but um…?"
Trying to act like his pride wasn't wounded, he laughed. "I am Viego. Second son of the East."
Isolde got a weird look as he whisked her hand, kissing it with measured tenderness. Viego failed to notice the appendage was smeared in mud from running the well. When he pulled away, gunk clung to the dimple of his chin. I fought the urge to suffocate myself in a basket of oranges.
"You're very, um… kind, Lord Viego. Now," She peeled his fingers off the rope and finished reeling the bucket in. "I got mouths to feed."
He panicked. "You're- you are betrothed?"
"What? Oh! I got sisters! Little uns!" She supplied, hugging the pale of sloshing water.
"It was nice to meetcha." She bowed best she could.
Not as eager to part ways, Viego ran ahead of her and gestured for the bucket, "Allow me."
"Oh, you are a gentleman!"
"Only for you, my love." His confident smirk dropped when she offered him a handkerchief instead.
"So, where ever does the angel reside? Can't be far."
Isolde shrugged, gazing towards the hill at the edge of town.
"Come on! It's not far!" She teased upon seeing his crestfallen expression.
Though it was obvious the grumpiness he displayed about these turn of events was a front. I could recognize that lovestruck countenance anywhere. Viego dared not squander an opportunity to get to know Isolde better.
At least now I was certain. Whatever I was experiencing was an eidetic vision of some kind. It was the only plausible explanation. Someone wanted me to see these events play out.
Only before I could follow them, the scenery smeared and swirled apart like a messy water painting. As the vibrant colors dulled and the gloom of the present returned I found myself pondering one thing: What importance did Lord Viego and Isolde hold in regards to the modern Shadow Isles? My gaze lingered on the beaten path the aforementioned pair had last taken.
Call it a hunch, but I think the vision had been ushering me in that direction.
The view from atop the hill embittered me further. Miles of desecrated valley stretched in every direction. Mud cracks speckled the once flourishing meadows, suggesting the black mist had borrowed moisture from the earth and neglected to return it.
Upon entering a hollow ring of crumbled mortar, I discovered that, much like the town below, it was completely stripped of provisions. Had I not seen the image so vividly, I likely never would have made the connection that this was a windmill. But this all waned in comparison to the harrowing sight encapsulating it: a grand cemetery.
Sloping acres of tombstones showed telltale signs of age. Tumultuous weather had faded the engravings such one would have to trace the carvings to deem legibility. There wasn't anything unusual that required it be compartmentalized. Until I caught the faintest sound of peddling gravel muffled by an invasive grove.
Staying low, I rounded the gangly thicket, coming across a lone figure. Based on the stockiness, they were male. Whispering throughout, he dug with rigor and patience. Beyond the immediate foreground, close to a hundred bodies splay along the soulless soil. Even hunched over, the bulk attached to his frame offered no mystery as to what he did for a living.
The spade busy plundering the dirt was taller than its wielder and had an eye insignia etched on the surface– obviously symbolic of something.
He wore a battered trench coat. Chapped, black leather boots that would scream for release if they could. Around his neck dangled a vial filled with a peculiar, glowing substance. The man's skin was tinted a similar shade of ethereal blue. An indigo garb draped across his head acted to shroud additional facial features. Contrasting my own, his ruffled beard was short and delicately trimmed.
Flattening the mound, he embedded his spade at the foot of the grave and positioned his arms atop the pommel.
Preferring I not startle anyone, I raised my hands and shuffled out into the open, hovering at a respectable distance. The grave digger barely acknowledged my presence. Just kept murmuring senseless things I couldn't decipher. Apologizing to people who could no longer hear him.
"Couldn't protect you… my fault. It's all my fault…"
When every second is precious, I won't bother making proper introductions– wastes time that could be spent hunting down the runes.
"What caused this?"
Without saying another word, he hefted the spade over his shoulder and trudged towards the next body in line. I sped up to cut him off.
"OK. That was a multilayered question," I hoped bargaining might get him to crack. "You point me in the direction of whatever or whoever did this? I'll leave you alone."
"...Alone?" The grave digger muttered as if I hadn't been clear enough.
"Right." I confirmed.
For a moment, the despondent man appeared to register my promise. He slowed to a grinding halt, the glowing vial hanging around his neck highlighting his conflicted expressions. Finally, in a deep voice that crackled with sadness, he managed, "Always alone," and brushed past me. Not once did he make eye contact.
I sighed, "Fantastic."
Trauma wasn't anything new to me. I've known many afflicted people. Squeezing them for details proved difficult at times, although usually there was a third-party to play equal substitution. My current predicament offered no such luxuries. The grave digger was the first living being I encountered since I landed here and chances were he's the only one.
Either it was him, or I wander the Isles aimlessly for weeks. That left me with no other choice. I had to gain his trust. But how?
The spare shovel leaning against a wheelbarrow provided me with a suitable answer. If reason couldn't be achieved through speech, then I'd appeal to his nature. Quickly, I grabbed the shovel and tested the handle's tensile strength over my knee. Satisfied it wouldn't snap under stress, I positioned myself at the boundary of an imaginary rectangle. Began scooping and dumping the charcoal scented earth in a pile beside the burgeoning grave.
"Not alone!" I grunted, wondering if the man was even listening.
We dug and filled holes nonstop for hours. I took the opportunity during this time to examine what exactly these poor souls were subjected to. Some consisted of fatal stabbings. Others had been brutally dismembered. The downward curvature of the slash marks corresponded with my theory that these murders were carried out on horseback.
After every burial he completed, the grave digger muttered a soft prayer. It initially struck me as cumbersome– that he laid the corpses in orderly lines rather than a pile to hasten the process. But upon observing the respectful manner he treated them, I shifted my attitude.
The tenderness in which he rested each individual below the ground. Flat on their backs, closing their eyelids. Hands crossed over their hearts. Only someone utterly devoted to faith could undertake such a grueling task.
Once he gave his last sermon, our job was done. The cemetery had expanded past the warped iron fence. We stood juxtaposed and sullen of face. Unwilling to break the melancholic silence. My arms vibrated from soreness and my spine ached with muscle spasms. Hey, when you live long enough to see a thousand years pass on by, you're bound to have some wear and tear.
"Yorick Mori."
I glanced over my shoulder towards the grave digger, but his own gaze was still trained on the ground. Given this was the most progress I've made with him, I decided not to test my luck.
I pat my chest, "Ryze."
Yorick hummed to show he heard me.
"These people hid in the town over the hill? They were under your protection?"
"Aye."
"…I'm sorry. Who did this?"
"'Tis not a matter of who, but what."
"Could we skip the cryptic lexicon? If you know what caused everything, it's best you explain away now."
"You have my gratitude, Ryze, so I'll lend you the same advice I offered to them: Leave the Isles."
"And if I don't?"
"Look around you."
"I doubt the Noxians came here voluntarily. My guess is, they were sailing for Ionia, got caught in a nasty storm that threw them off course. Before they could make heads or tails— they shipwrecked somewhere along the coast here on Taratus. Likely lost a dozen before they stumbled upon the valley, in which they encountered you?"
Yorick's lack of conjecture confirmed my suspicions.
He shook his head sadly, "What must you hope to gain– staying put?"
"The harrowing," I backtracked a little upon seeing his miffed expression, "that is what they call it– over in Bilgewater. People who were slain or lost at sea, crawling back ashore, reanimated as spirits hellbent on drowning the living? I've heard of many legends in my day, but even this, while plausible… never struck me as credible."
I sighed, "Until I decided to stick around. Saw the black mist billow past the oceanic horizon. Experienced firsthand the horror that the Shadows Isles had become."
Yorick's gripping of the spade hilt grew tense.
"The mist spreads further and further with each harrowing as if it were some plague. And it's only gotten stronger— more potent. You know this to be true."
"Common folk are ill-equipped to combat such a threat."
"Precisely… and like dominoes they'll fall. One by one, hundreds by the hundreds."
"You still haven't answered me. Why are you here?"
"Well, isn't it obvious?"
Far faster than I expected he could reasonably move, the edge of the gravedigger's spade gravitated an inch separate from my throat, even shaving a couple unruly hairs off my beard.
"Show me your hands, mage!"
I complied. "You have a twisted sense of humor."
"Before I put my trust in someone else again… swear on it."
"I can't make any promises. I'll do what I must–"
"I will accept nothing of the sort! Unless I hear you say the words!" Yorick's gruff, desperate inflection caused a startling revelation on my behalf.
He was just like ME.
"You have my personal guarantee," I emphasized slowly. "That I won't stop until the Isles are cured."
He failed to prevent the tragedy which desecrated his people. Embraced the responsibility that came with correcting the misdeeds of an evil few. No matter the toll.
"Then from here on out, we rely on each other's strength to pull us through these dark times." Feeling he made his point, he retracted the excavation tool from my neck.
"Amen."
Parting ways with the mass burial site, we tandem fell in stride. I was especially eager to get moving. While not entirely conventional, in Yorick, it seemed, I had found a guide willing to go the distance.
"So," The grave digger eventually sighed. "What is it you wish to understand?"
"Perhaps I've misread you. You didn't strike me as the talkative sort? That accurate?"
"And you struck me as the sort who never stops talking, that is, until he gets all the answers. Would this be accurate?"
Half-grinning, I respond, "An explanation about how this ruination came about? That would be much appreciated. I prefer to have the full picture."
He hiked the spade over his broad shoulder.
"I never bore witness to the inception of the curse myself. Only felt it. However, word travels… quickly through the mist. Whispers of a forgotten king… driven mad by grief… on the brink of insanity, he dared to breach the doors of the eternal realm…"
"...King?" I inquired, thinking he may have been alluding to Sohmner from my vision.
"Aye."
"Care to be specific?"
"I am forbidden to speak his name."
Yorick didn't need to elaborate. Spells that make certain vocabulary taboo are an omen of the most wicked kind. Mages use it as a power move. A way to demonstrate the chokehold they have over the helpless.
"If your lungs swoon for air and your stomach yearns to feast… you are not safe here, Ryze."
"Yeah, I gathered that bit already."
"Lest we stay on the move, they will find you."
I squinted at him, urging him to clarify.
"The undeath."
"And we were in a cemetery?"
Yorick jostled his head negatively. "Those people deserved a proper service."
Right as he may have been, the knowledge we stood amidst a minefield did little to ease my nerves.
"Did the mist mention anyone else important?"
"The king has many disciples… but there are a few who garner more prestige than others. Those closest to him when it happened…"
His exposition stalled at the base of a withered orchard.
"Why are we stopping?"
I considered the possibility he was having second thoughts about our mutual partnership. Yorick quickly dispelled this notion as he growled under his breath, "They have arrived." And his senses proved more acute than mine, because when I turned south my jaw dropped.
A colossal wall of black mist was billowing the direction we came at breakneck speeds. Generating the deafening rumble of a thousand hooves pounding the marred earth, an army of centaur-bodied specters would emerge from the fogbank, sculpted by the mist's malign properties. But rather than trample us outright, the cavalry line rode past us.
What minuscule light remained on the island vanished entirely as we were trapped within a storming vortex. Yorick gripped his spade with both hands. Our backs involuntarily pressed together.
"What do we have here? A survivor? And… a deserter?" A demonic voice droned.
"I wouldn't suppose you're this king I've heard so much about!?" I shouted, unsure where to project.
Dissonant, hyena-like cackles echoed from every angle of the shifting vortex.
"Humoring my men won't spare your lives."
"We aren't here to jest! Direct us to your king and nobody else will have to die!"
"Careful… that almost made me laugh."
Viridian embers took on the shape of eyes amidst the darkened veil. One iridescent silhouette in particular would gallop forth, exposing a centaur twice the size of their peers. An intimidating spiked helm was fused into their skull. Skeletal frame– lacquered with stygian steel.
Excited chatter found our ears, "Hecarim! Our glorious leader!"
Ironic– these abominations were equally stricken in his presence.
"Even if I was dimwitted enough to babble…" His metallic jaw unhinged and cracked as he annunciated. "You would never get to him before I catch you."
"Why stop halfway!? We're surrounded! No opening for escape… killing us immediately would save you and your men a lot of trouble!"
Couldn't be considered cutting off the head of the snake– he was an undead general after all– but to follow the chain of command meant taking us to the king. First, I needed to prod Hecarim for clues.
"The others we've felled… they begged for their lives. Crumbled to their knees. Wept for mercy... but I know there is no such thing. Mercy is but a concept devised by the frail. However… you? You are battle-hardened. Not without plan."
"Perceptive! And I take it you're the kind of tyrant who derives great pleasure from watching their victims squirm prior to executing them!"
"Good… evil… in war, they are one in the same."
"I'm inclined to disagree."
"Cling to your mortal falsehoods as long as you desire! When my army marches across the sea, we shall lay waste to every village, town and city! Slaughter every man, woman and child! Until ALL of Runeterra bows to the Ruined King!" He finished his vituperative declaration by beating his chest plate with his fist.
Subjugated riders echoed their devotion with thunderous battle cries. The vortex currents hastened. Hecarim raised his lance: a weapon forged from cursed metal, intertwined with the vertebrae of an unlucky creature, and outfitted with a wicked crescent blade.
Yorick kneeled, grabbing a fistful of dirt, "Perhaps now be the time for strategy?"
"Consider this a litmus test!" I retorted, triggering my rune magic.
"IRON ORDER… CHARGE!" The undead general roared and led the devastating attack, outpacing the very essence of the mist itself.
I made a sealing motion– manifesting a mana structure to enclose around him. Though effectively trapped inside the cylindrical rune prison, Hecarim's onslaught of shadows carried on– the frontlines would crash against us any minute. Acting quickly, I hurtled an azure sphere far enough so as to not be standing in the blast zone and waited for the cavalry to arrive.
Once they stampeded over the calculable distance, I slung a secondary divisive beam of mana– sparking a massive explosion. The spell ripped their flanks to shreds. But it was a short-lived victory. For every soldier that crumbled, two more skeletal steeds rose to replace the fallen.
To my left, Yorick extracted a congregation of mindless ghouls from the ground. Pale, gray skin— barely a meter in height— they lacked distinguishing features; eyes, nose and ears. The circumference of their heads was taken up by wide jaws filled with rows of serrated teeth. They ravenously pursued any riders that got too close, overwhelming them in sheer numbers.
Given everything I've seen, I shouldn't have been surprised that the grave digger was a necromancer.
An obsidian-tipped arrow grazed my side. I splintered the archer responsible with a mana bolt. Screaming a slew of expletives, my subsequent spell hardly required as much precision. The burst of fluxing energy disintegrated all enemies on its trajectory.
Yorick parried a jabbing spear and cleaved a rider's forelegs. He finished them off by driving the spade into their ribcage— expunging the soul from their withered carcass. The accompanying wails signified their return to the collective mist.
Hecarim broke free. Fueled by rage, he trampled his own men, forcing the lines to divide under his warpath. Extending a rigid finger directly at me, roaring hellishly, "LEAVE! NO! SURVIVORS!"
"We must retreat!" Yorick called over the howling winds.
He was right. It wouldn't matter how many we struck down if they kept on coming. Interlinking my digits, I prepared a teleportation ritual. Runic letters sizzled in the air that surrounded us– dimensions distorting.
Yorick stumbled into me, perplexed by what he was seeing, "What is this sorcery!?"
"A way out!" I shut my eyes for improved concentration.
"PREPARE YOURSELF FOR ETERNITY!"
Just as the channel was about to conclude, I opened my eyes to see Hecarim reared. Lance perpetuating the slanted killing blow inflicted upon those stranded Noxians. But his efforts had been wasted. We were already gone.