#muse idea

He's a summoner that ended up getting displaced due to a certain group of champions attempting to seize the world rune located within the Institute of War. (I'll give you a hint: Noxians). During the ensuing battle the world rune was broken, resulting in a magical nuke that reset the time line into the current state of LoL. However, due to his attempts to contain the blast the summoner was also transported to this new timeline with his memories and knowledge intact. Now he wanders the familiar yet unfamiliar world of Runeterra trying to find a way to fix things, or fail that find a new home.

His name is based on my old account, Ravs the Drifter. He possesses some items and artifacts that don't give him any advantages but are still hard to come by, including: a broken copy of a world rune that still contains great power, a charm that negates Amumu's curse due to Ravs having a close friendship with the mummy boy (Amumu was one of my mains), a gatekey thing that will let him enter bandle city due to partnering up with Tristana and Poppy on several occasions, a bracer that let's him summon up to 3-4 of the minion types totalling in a dozen summoned cap, and one or two blades and a staff. He still has his summoners robes but doesn't wear them often.

Ryze is aware of the broken world rune Ravs has, as he possesses its intact twin.

(I’ve been watching Ultraman Z, and I had a thought about a Pretty Cure that calls upon the power of her predecessors to transform.

She’d be Cure Trinity and one idea I had was her using a necklace as her transformation device, and she scans rings over the necklace to transform, in this style:

“Pretty Cure, Trinity Burst!

*scans ring on her index finger* Mint-senpai!

*scans ring on her middle finger* Sunshine-senpai!

*scans ring on her ring finger* Rosetta-senpai!

This has been a long process; man has always sought to be more than they are. They delve into powers they should not have, delve into methods that strip from them what they were. Yet there is always one thread that unites all of them; there was a moment where they chose not to turn from the path they walked.

His true name is erased from the records of Piltover’s academia, as is his research. What is known is only what people who have met him have gotten from his own lips, and the story never seems to stay the same. Yet there are threads there too, that can be understood. 

He was a moderate physician and a brilliant surgeon, who gained favor with Piltover’s notoriously fickle clans by being able to perform procedures that would have been impossible for less capable hands. Though he took pride in this, his true passion was not in helping the sick or wounded, but improving the human condition. 

Piltover, after all, is the center of The Church of the Glorious Evolved, a religious cult that believes the flesh to be weak, and that only through machines can mankind prosper. Viktor’s own Glorious Evolution advocates the complete replacement of flesh with steel and iron, for the flesh is inferior to it. 

But this man disagreed. Flesh was not weak, for it possessed something the static forms of metal and iron did not; the ability to evolve. It could change, adapt, develop; all things metal could not. Machines could only do what they were built to do. They could not progress beyond what they were. Therefore, there was no glory there, no perfection, and the very idea of perfection ate at this man, for it seemed entirely counter to the notion of a man of science. 

However, he was not in a position to do very much about it as a mere surgeon and medical researcher. That is, until one of his patrons sent him a captured void creature for dissection. Of course, voidborn creatures decay rapidly after death, so dissection would require a very capable hand. He’d need to keep it alive, so he could study its inner workings. 

What he found was amazing to him. The voidborn are adaptive creatures; they possess no static form, not really. Their physiology changes depending on what they encounter. They exist in a state of rapid development, ensuring that no two were entirely alike, and that only the strongest or perhaps most effective would survive. 

He also found another curious development. They were infused with magic. Indeed, flesh and magic were so intertwined, that it was hard to say that they were separate. There had been theories of this of course; but there was little practical application to back it up. Here, he had his opportunity. 

He began leaning on his benefactors to bring him more captured void creatures, so that he might continue his research, all the while beginning to formulate a rather heretical belief in secret. The flesh was not weak, the will was weak. The flesh merely required a will that could shape it, and the power to do so. The Church of the Glorious Evolved was the ultimate expression of human weakness and fear, for it put trust in static, unchanging reality in an ever shifting world. The void were strong, not because of any dark magic or because of some divine blessing, but because they cast aside foolish notions of form, and focused entirely on function. Evolution was not a pathway with a beginning and an end. It was a constant process, one with no true end point, and to give in to fear and embrace static reality was to give into weakness. 

Transforming oneself into a machine to avoid disease and weakness was no virtue, and embracing the flesh was no vice. 

He began augmenting his own form with magic, infusing himself with magic on a more subtle level. Others used enchantments and spells and the like; this was pointless. He would not use magic, he would become magic, or at least, make his flesh the catalyst for his own work. Flesh and bone was as good a medium as any potion. 

His work progressed, and during that time he began experimenting on others in the name of ‘fixing’ them. People would come to him for surgical help, and he would provide it, but in secret he would experiment on their internal organs, altering them, testing to see what effects might occur. This worked well, until one day one of his patients was in an completely unrelated accident, and the surgeon opened the man up to find his internal physiology to be utterly alien. Organs that had no human equivalent functioned in nearly alien ways, and it did not take long for people to investigate the other patients he had worked with. 

His research discredited, his arrest called for, police raided his lab to bring him to trial, only to find him dead from a self inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It was, perhaps, fitting, and neither the police or academics wished to delve too deeply into whatever madness he was looking into. Corrupted by the void creatures he studied, they said. 

But this was a ruse. He had taken someone, and he had fleshcrafted their body to look as his did. Face, dental records, finger and toe prints... this person was him, at least in appearance. The manipulation of the nerves to cause him to shoot himself was all that was needed to complete the illusion. 

He took a name for himself: Tzimisce. And he named his new discipline Vicissitude, meaning “the quality or state of being changeable.” Simply put, his belief was not in static machines or magical incantations, or even in limits or the oppression of form itself. His virtue was adaptability, change, mutation. 

Tzimisce’s craft was, and is, like no other. To him, to his touch, flesh and bone are like clay. He can craft and sculpt flesh with ease, with all the deftness that he once used to wield a scalpel. Only now, he puts his talents towards endless evolution of the self. 

Skin that is tougher than steel. Bones harder than titanium. Fireproof. Internal poison generation that can be excreted through the skin. Rapid healing and acidic blood. His body is equal parts canvass and scientific experiment; his endless search is for something stronger than him so that he might overcome it. 

Indeed, his journey has brought him from the pits of Zaun to the Freljord, from the jungles in the deep south to the gates of Noxus. He carries no political or ethical creed; such things are pointless and limiting. The virtue is in development, not in stagnation and stasis. To hold any ideal other than this virtue is to give in to human weakness; to be stuck rather than moving.

His greatest enemies, in his eyes, are those like Viktor and Camille, those who cling to machines and stasis as some sort of virtue when they are merely trapped in their own prisons. He considers Vladmir to be a rival, given his mastery of hemomancy, though he finds Vladmir’s foolish clinging to a static form to be bizarre. He lacks vision, clearly. He finds Swain to be interesting, if foolish, the same way he looks upon the magical sort in Noxus. Though they freely throw away morals, which is good, they stupidly look for power in dark pacts and other things. Being chained to some fell creature is hardly freedom or power, should one of them decide to reassert power over the leash. 

Most find Tzimisce to be utterly bizarre, regardless of his appearance, which is hardly ever the same twice. He seems to take no real interest in anything other than conflict, though he professes to only be interested in developing himself. Challenges are to be found and overcome. He expresses disdain for most magical and technological projects; they are unneeded when one’s flesh is the tool. Though he has some admiration for creations like Sion or Urgot, he thinks them incomplete. And most tend to find him... dangerous at the very least. A being who has no attachment to anyone or anything for long is only useful so long as you can keep the beast occupied after all. Though many hope his often remarked desire to face down one of the darkin will kill him and rid them of him. This of course, is unlikely; anything hoping to kill him only has one shot before he seeks to counter it. 

Perhaps the only reason anyone keeps him around is because he does great work. Tzimisce’s handiwork is legendary; he can cure just about any disease, replace any organ, transplant even the brain from one body to another. He can improve the human form to peak condition, create bodyguards or golems that are beyond the realm of any magical or machine creation. Limitations of the flesh do not exist, save fr the willingness of the creator. Granted, very few are entirely comfortable with a being that considers everyone he meets to be building materials. 

Name: Chad Lewin

Age: 27

Species: Magician [scentomancer]

Biography: Chad owns a small, upscale perfumery on the upper-east side of NYC. A popular destination for custom scents, it provides Chad with a generous income stream and a place to practise his craft; scentomancy. As a scentomancer, Chad is able to manipulate and control the scent of any object hw chooses which allows him to perfectly match his customers with their perfect scent.

Name: Romulus  ‘the weird’

Age: ???

Species: Witch

Biography: One third of the infamous ‘weird brothers’, Romulus is a talented and powerful witch schooled in archaic and ancient magicks. Like his brothers, he has a fascination for rare and enchanted objects, all of which are kept in a large country house that Romulus shares with his brothers.

The shyest of the three, Romulus is known for collecting dolls. He is rarely seen without a doll in his arms and has been known to whisper and talk with them. Rumor has it, Romulus keeps the soul of his lover in his various dolls, thereby ensuring that they could never leave him.