#inbattle

Dying rays of orange cascade through Zaun's iron architecture complimented by it's signature brand of neon green electric light. Gloaming light could even reach this deep into Zaun's backstreets but not for long. Soon only grey and green would remain. Tekun traversed the cobbled streets, his eyes ahead of him and not focused upon the industry around him.

Something new had found its way through the streets of Zaun and begun circulating into the hands of Zaun's more troubled and destitute population. A new drug, this turned people psychotic and violent. It "turned off" their tolerance to pain and the wrong kinds of people were begining to use it. They called it Hyper. Someone was producing it, someone was distributing it and Tekun thought he had a lead on where they may have been.

Supposedly, there was some sort of operation occurring in the skeletal remains of a glassworks building, down some back roads and away from where most people would want to travel. Going off the traveled road and towards the edges of the slums at this hour was asking for trouble and as it stood Tekun was begging for it. He came prepared. It was a two story building, not counting the potential for a basement. The front door was chained shut, Tekun would need to find another way in.

Their group had come to a pause later than what would have been ideal but it could have been intentional considering circumstances. A quarter of Noxus' Crooked Company had been selected to partake in what one of the higher ups called a training exercise. There had been a great emphasis on reconnaissance. Tekun was far from an ideal scout, but his superiors would do as they pleased and he would not dare protest aloud. Only a handful of them would need to depart for this "shift" as they had taken to calling it.

The sun was on the verge of dipping below the horizon, twilight had established itself but would see itself out soon. They would split off from one another to make sure that they covered as much ground as they'd like. They were always armored, much to Tekun's surprise but their commander would always get what they wanted.

They drew straws to see who would have to brave the night, at least this close to home there'd be no danger of running into Demacians. 'He cheated.'

Tekun always drew the shortest straw. It was because they still considered him a foreigner.

'Thankless work.'

Their commander demanded that they be thorough during their scouting. The last man who had been sent out had been disciplined for coming back "too early" for their liking. He was certain that during the day someone shadowed them to make sure they weren't neglecting their duty. He would have to assume the same for the night.

He come across a cavern, his expression grimaces with a little disgust. Tekun reminds himself.

'Be thorough.'

He decides at the first sign of any sort of beast, that he'll flee. He won't throw his life away because his commander demanded he'd wake a Noxian Dire Bear for this senseless task. His armor would offer protection but anything like that would tear him apart.

The Freljordian steels himself and advances in with caution. The sound of steel toed boots against rock resonate. The calm sounds of the forest are left behind, exchanged for the distant dripping of water. His torch bounces off the walls and the cavern narrows more.

He looks into the inky black ahead and his imagination dances with the torch light.

In the Freljord, there are monsters. His father warned him as much when he was alive. You feared the elements, the cold would take you just as soon as a beast or rival clansman would. But if She found you, you would have wished a troll had dragged you away kicking and screaming into the night.

He finds courage, he's been away from the north for a time. There's something he misses about the biting cold. There's a loneliness that creeps in. Like his homeland, the monsters are far away. The cavern twist and narrows further.

At the edges of his fire is something he can't make out well that's about knee height. There's movement and it creeps closer until the begining of a pallid face surfaces from the abyss. Eyes are wide and white like something blind, they're boring into him. The wall behind it is moving. Tekun scrambles for his scabbard in surprise as he extends the torch somewhat and illuminates more.

Pointed teeth and a bloody mouth. It's arms are blackened and the burns extend well past it's forearms. That isn't a wall but... wings. Twisted and they expand as it rises to his face height.

His imagination has gone more than wild. He's since stopped reaching for his scabbard. He's no longer able to keep the torch steady or find the means to shriek. Only watch.

His offering was presented. The severed foot of an avian beast, its preserved three toed talon was about the length of his forearm. The claws were a stone gray and the points of them hard and sharp enough to rival a sword with the finest edge. But more peculiar were the sand colored scales that, though tempered to make them last, glistened in the sun and felt about as hard as the stone the claws sought to emulate. The wyvern had sought to make Tekun its prey along a lonely stretch of road in the territory of Demacia, only for its hunt to have taken an ill turn when the hunter became the hunted.

In the past, several offerings had been made to the Kindred in the form of rabbits feet and small game Tekun had managed to catch in his travel, always saving one for the pair. They cared not for this but Tekun liked to think that the thought would be appreciated.

"Kindred Hunters. Stern holder of the boundary between life and death. May Lamb's arrow strike true. May Wolf's chase find their beating heart. All things do die, this realm an earthly tome. And when my time does come..."

Would it ever? This existence was dragged out, this prey had eluded them for a long while. Not because he fought but because the current had swept him away. Tekun found himself bitter that the hunters had never come to claim him. He prayed because he would die one day, it was an inevitability. All things died, he was no exception. The offerings were always made to remind them that though he remained he knew well of their role and dreaded the wolf after a tired existence.  

"...I beg for the arrow and your hunt fulfilled."

He caught sight of something, a lithe short figure that stood upon the shrine. A bipedal animal, pristine wool covered their form and a ghostly pale blue light lingered upon their ears and through the holes of a mask that mimicked a wolf. They held a bow, and their counter part lingered in the back. A terrible beast that looked upon him all too hungrily. He too wore a mask, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

It took him a second to register that this was no illusion but they had apparently manifested. Silence and recognition lingered in the air, Tekun uttered the first words.

“...Did I keep you waiting?”

Her voice broke through the ambient sounds of the pristine streets along the merchant quarter of the city. Her voice, thick with accent was unmistakable for another. The warrior’s posture straightens and his posture turns towards her with curiosity in his eyes. The wares he’s looking at can wait, there’s someone far more worth his time to talk to.

“I’m surprised you remembered me. Did I leave that much of an impression?” His voice holds warmth, he addresses her as he would have addressed a friend.

“…It’s been a year almost hasn’t it?”

Their initial meeting had been under strained circumstances. The death of another had been less than a pleasing sight, and from it confrontation and then debate.

The tip of the sword caught and split the face of the first of the brutes. The scream that broke from his lips was interrupted by a merciful loss of consciousness. The warrior had fallen forward, abandoning the great axe they had, moments ago, eagerly wielded and broken into a frantic roll before their spasms came to a halt. Hands that clutched at their disfiguring injury went limp and soon their blood colored the snow.

Tekun’s sword tore out towards the side, his left elbow connected against the face of another. Their nose dislodged as the force broke it and the second of his aggressor’s stumbled past, staggered unable to follow up with their charge properly. Their swing had missed, catching part of his furs rather than his initial target.

The third however caught Tekun in the abdominal, the blow cut through chain mail hidden beneath his furs. The long sword liberated lifeblood from the Immortal Soldier. It was Tekun’s turn to stumble; he pulled back as the Winter Claw warrior planted their feet. The retaliation came swift, the warrior whipped his blade back around. The true ice edge of his blade caught the neck and sliced clean through. The survivor was shocked, more so when the momentum was directed towards him. Tekun sliced through his armor, cutting through his midsection and eviscerating him. He died with a howl.

The warrior was a sight to see as he did away with the three most eager out of the dozen that he was in contention with. His blood had become one with theirs among the snow, staining his clothing and the chilled steel of his armor. His face and neck gave off a heavy illumination, the scars upon his neck matched aurora of the winter sky.

His travel had brought him alone through the northern lands. Freljord was unforgiving and rarely did anyone travel alone. Braver men than he had died due to exposure. He remembered the lessons he learned in his youth and the ones that he learned upon his second visit. Nothing would be left to chance as he embarked. Another group, he hailed them and they welcomed a hardy warrior among them though wary. For a time they traveled together and even fought together against one of the many beasts that dwelled within the northern lands. It was only when Tekun realized who they were affiliated with did he begin to second guess the company he kept.

They did not allow him to depart easily and were determined to see him join the ranks of their tribe. When Tekun’s insistence of going separate ways became obvious they decided that he may as well have declared war upon them. The three most disappointed and perhaps furious of them were the quickest to take initiative. These were men Tekun had enjoyed the company of and shared drink and tales with over the warmth of a fire. It had been for a few days but the comradery had been as welcomed as that fire. The tribesmen had assumed three would have been more than enough for him and allowed their reckless advance. They saw the connection, the stab wound should have been enough to undo him and yet…

“He’s an abomination of the North!” One of them bellowed. “Disgusting monster!” Another spat. “No wonder he turned us away! He’s a freak!” “One of the Ice Witch’s! Purge it with fire!” More determined than ever they drew bows, igniting their arrows while the braver and strongest of them now launched themselves into a righteous and furious melee with him. 

Magic was uncommon but more acceptable in the mainland. In the north, it was far more uncommon. Anything tied to the arcane often found itself at odds with what most knew and the more superstitious did not hesitate to associate it with darker forces. Now that these men thought him in league with something as vile as the Ice Witch there was less room for negotiation, with three dead at his hand there was already a slim margin. Five of them had bows and the area upon which they fought was flat, there would be no cover to hide behind. The other four converged upon them, sincerely regretting they had lost three so senselessly to a “monster”.

A volley of arrows reached him and several found their mark, fire ignited the fabric of his furs as one arrow caught him in the breast and another near the hip. Three others struck cold earth and extinguished. He began to move, barely avoiding the first swing as he dove and rolled. The arrows snapped at the half way point of the shaft, the pain from his newly acquired injuries elicited a sharp exhale. He felt a second strike clip against his armor but not penetrate but the blunt force from it went unwelcome. He exited into a crouch with enough time to raise his blade to catch a third, only for him to catch an unexpected stomp aimed for his abdominal. Tekun fell back. Their forth moved in for the kill, only to catch a strike to the neck that severed several vital things.

As his body fell forward, Tekun would use it as a shield. Combat deescalated, they broke from him when one of those upon him fell with barely a sound made. A single arrow protruded from the back of their head, at the base of their neck; an almost instantaneous death.  

“Archers!” One cried, raising a shield trying to find the source. Already this band had lost five men. Their numbers thinned to half over a single “man”. The battle became just as much a matter of pride as it was for survival. If they returned to Sejuani like this they may as well have been good as dead.  Tekun however was only thankful that some bold interloper had taken it upon themselves to even the odds.

Combat was often unpredictable and as hardy and experienced as Tekun was, he knew that he too would one day fall upon some lonely field somewhere, forgotten.

Today was not that day however.

“Was in the height? My sword? Or my ethnicity?” The Freljordian remarks, his gaze falling curiously towards the ginger. A sharp gaze falls towards her freckled face and then the mechanical arm.

“I might be missing something. In what way are you standing out?”

A tattered linen cloak, a wolf skin cape, and wool tunic did enough to keep the cold at bay. Tekun felt the leather harness and what protection he wore aided to his warmth but his father had insisted that the cloak was the secret to keeping death’s icy grip from creeping across your throat. He boasted in happier times that a warrior twice his might from long ago had weaved it and imbued it with ever burning flame. It had seen better days and where it had come apart was obvious but it proved to be a fond friend. The young man put stock in the tall tale for hope belief would bring the illusion of greater warmth to him.

He trudged on. His wounds ached. His face had been marred; an axe had near embedded itself into his face but found himself fortunate that the swing had been glancing. He never lingered on the thought of how close he had been to losing his eye and nose. There was no one left to help him, so he did his best to treat himself with what little he knew. Torn cloth improvised for bandaging.    

Mighty evergreens stood clustered together as though they too sought a reprieve from the northern air. Each one towered above and obscured any hope for a scenic view; instead it only reinforced the loneliness and weariness he felt. The path he traveled was a wide, unattended dirt road or at least it was in warmer months not that he’d know. The packed snow below showed few signs of travel, but nothing that seemed recent. Around this time of year few dared to venture into the Ironspike and the frozen hell that awaited there. There was little worth looking for and the weather was said to change as quickly as a Noxian is to anger. That had been the evil he knew but he also knew that to endure in his desperation he would need to dare travel south or find himself at the mercy of others.

He wanted control and choose the option that best accommodated that. Other tribes were superstitious of outsiders and others more barbaric. He would just as soon find himself killed for sport than enslaved or all together ignored. He would depend upon himself as he braved the tundra for more hospitable lands, praying to the four winds that a terrible beast would not claim him and that those who resorted to banditry would not find him to take what little left he had. Four days into his travels, he felt that perhaps what powers that be had taken pity upon him.  

The lands to the south never mattered and were never worth talking of.  He barely knew their name and knew not their tongue. But there were people there and it could not be colder than where he hailed.

“Oh. You’re the guy for sure.” It reeked of trouble. His eyes fell to the source of it. A group of about five were baring the way, dressed in street fashion. Once his eyes were settled on them, the one on the farther right spoke up. It was the same one as before. “You’re fucking with our bread and butter.”

Someone lunged upon him from behind. His assailant struck him along the arm and then with a knife with muted ‘thunks’ and to his dismay the pocketknife glanced off his flesh and scraped along, leaving an unimpressively shallow mark upon his neck and only a shallow wound upon his neck and shoulder. Three strikes before his attacker was violently thrown from his shoulder and awkwardly upon the concrete. The Freljordian starred without a hint of amusement and with every intention to pay back their transgressions against him three fold.

“Every bit the freak…” He had reached for something in his jacket, but something had stopped him.