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Kennen

A riotous domain of constant transformation, Bandle City was no place for a yordle like Kennen. Searching for harmony and balance, he ventured out from the spirit realm millennia ago. He explored the material realm with boundless curiosity, traveling great distances in a heartbeat. But he was drawn in particular to Ionia.
In the First Lands, he witnessed ancient wars that none now remember, and a land struggling to rebuild afterward. Kennen grew fascinated by a people seeking balance for themselves and their home. Over time, he returned to Bandle City less and less, choosing to remain in Ionia, where yordles were respected as creatures of the spirit realm. Though he did not age as beings of the material realm did, Kennen embraced mortals, studying them for generations. He admired how, despite their fragile lives, they were diligent protectors of the sacred balance.
Even so, there were threats to the tranquility of Ionia. Malevolent entities of the spirit realm traversed the land with ill intent. Kennen battled these disturbances alone for years, enjoying the fun each challenge brought, but in the end he understood he was doing little to address why the incursions were happening: imbalance. He discovered a fledgling order whose members actively pursued balance between the realms—who, after careful observation, would judge what needed to be done to restore it.
They called themselves the Kinkou.
Kennen was intrigued by the order, led by a distant Eye of Twilight and a vindictive Fist of Shadow. He realized that the Kinkou’s leadership required another aspect. A consensus builder, one who would prevent the warlike Fist from domineering over the introspective Eye, and likewise keep the Eye’s tireless observation from paralyzing the Fist.
As a creature of both the spirit and material realms, Kennen proposed that he was uniquely suited to be an arbiter. The order accepted Kennen’s wisdom, and he became the Kinkou’s first Heart of the Tempest. As part of the new triumvirate with the Eye of Twilight and the Fist of Shadow, Kennen passed judgment on how best to preserve balance, and his affability and diplomacy kept the Kinkou in harmony.
Moreover, Kennen noticed that a rift had grown between the order and the people around them, as judgments were carried out swiftly, mysteriously, and without chance for appeal. Again, the yordle realized he could fill a need for the Kinkou. With his fantastic speed and compassion, he was the ideal representative to communicate the judgments of the order to those affected by them. He’d seen how the Kinkou distanced themselves from the people, wearing masks over their faces, and took care to remove his to connect with those he sought to protect.
Yet there was another side to Kennen, a far more serious aspect as Heart of the Tempest. Charged with Coursing the Sun, he addressed challenges to the Kinkou’s judgments, and not always with words.
For sometimes, the cost of balance was the blood of the offender—and Kennen’s shuriken and summoned maelstroms were quite capable of silencing all dissent.
There have been many threats to the Kinkou over the centuries, but none as grave as the Noxian invasion and its aftermath. When Noxus invaded the First Lands, Kennen opposed joining the resistance, even as the war threatened to tear the Kinkou apart. In their darkest hour, after a coup led by a former acolyte named Zed, the yordle guided the order while the new Eye of Twilight, Shen, struggled to lead. Kennen urged the Fist of Shadow, Mayym, to look to her daughter Akali, whom he’d trained since childhood, and see her as a successor.
But even he couldn’t find the words to stop Akali from eventually leaving the Kinkou, frustrated at the order’s failure to act against Ionia’s enemies.
Recent events have tested Kennen, a new age of disruption and violence that has thrown Ionia into chaos. Come what may, he will protect the fractured Kinkou Order, fighting alongside Shen to defend the balance of the First Lands. Do not let Kennen’s diminutive appearance fool you—for the heart of the tempest is its calmest part, but when it turns its eye upon you, its force is never more than a moment behind.
Between Light and Shadows

Joey Yu

Kennen had not slowed since setting off from the Great Temple of Koeshin.
The colors of the land formed a swirling palette as he flitted over hills and cliffs, plains and plateaus. The yordle was like a speeding dot amid broad strokes painted on canvas.
As the Kinkou’s Heart of the Tempest, he had delivered the judgment of the order’s leadership thousands of times before. But this time it’s different, Kennen thought. This time it’s about the lives of my Kinkou brothers and sisters.
An urgent request had come from a branch of acolytes to the south. Their temple had been corrupted by an unknown evil spirit. They could find no way to repel it, and so they sought aid from the Kinkou triumvirate.
With Akali’s former role as Fist of Shadow currently unfilled, this “triumvirate” consisted of just two leaders: Shen—the Eye of Twilight—and Kennen. They had made a decision, and now, Kennen raced to distant Raishai, on the southern coast of Zhyun.
When Noxus invaded Ionia many seasons ago, the triumvirate ruled that the Kinkou would not be involved in the war. The Raishai acolytes had been among the order’s most faithful, supporting the edict without question.
And for that, I must save them.
Kennen followed a churning river and dashed across ample golden grassland. Bolting through the misty forests of the southern Shon-Xan mountains, he was like lightning zipping through clouds. He passed a series of ruins, including the village of Xuanain.
It wasn’t until he reached the harbor town of Evirny that Kennen came to a halt under the morning sun. Zhyun’s shore was across the strait, beyond shimmering blue waters.

Kennen boarded the first ferry just before it set sail. Its mast was a living tree grown out of the hull, branches arcing backward, massive leaves catching the sea breeze like membranes on the wings of a southern-isles wyvern.
There was a loose crowd on the ferry, with Kennen the only yordle. The humans tipped their heads to him.
Yordles were treated with respect among Ionians, even when the spirit creatures appeared in their true form, as Kennen did now—as he always did, for he had achieved a state of balance through his Kinkou training. Especially through the teachings of the first Great Master, Tagaciiry, the first Fist of Shadow.
When Kennen joined the Kinkou centuries ago, Tagaciiry had inquired what the yordle admired most about humans.
“Your stories. You have so many.” Kennen’s eyes were wide. “Your lives are short, but your stories preserve what you hold most dear. That’s why you’re better suited for safeguarding the realms than any of the undying.”
Under that clear sky and the blazing sun, Kennen had shared his thoughts on what role he could play for the Kinkou. The Great Master listened, and considered his words.
“Someday, all of you will die,” Kennen added cheerfully. “I’d like to bear your stories. The story of the Kinkou.”
Great Master Tagaciiry had smiled then. “That is a noble idea, and not a small responsibility.”
“I can begin now, by delivering our verdicts to the people.”
“Very well,” said the Great Master. “Your role shall be Coursing the Sun—to shine the light of our judgment, and be the force that mediates between that light and its shadows.”
Kennen stirred from his reverie as the dock came into view, under chalky white cliffs crowned by an emerald expanse of trees.
He waved a clawed hand at the passengers behind him, and they wished him fair winds and swift travel. He jumped off the ferry even before it slowed to dock, skipping over water and onto land.
A storm was beginning to brew. Kennen’s Kinkou robes and mask were soaking wet as he charged through pouring rain, and he went on without food or rest.
I hope I’m not too late.

Dark clouds whirled low, pierced by lightning as the yordle leader arrived.
Kennen noted twenty acolytes sitting in front of the Raishai temple. The building appeared unremarkable, solid and intact.
“Master Kennen, you’re here.” The head of the acolytes, Hayda, stood in deference, but his limbs quaked, his knees buckling under him. “You need to help us fight the baleful spirit that plagues our temple…”
The rest of the acolytes slowly rose, their eyes glassy.
Kennen was hoping that he and Shen had been wrong, but now their worst fear was confirmed. He felt a pang of sadness. They’ve been so loyal.
“There is nothing to be fought,” Kennen told Hayda, his voice soft with grief. “The temple isn’t corrupted. It’s you. All of you.”
A riot of noise broke out. Several acolytes tilted their heads, glaring.
“Corrupted?” Hayda’s eyes bored into Kennen. “We have always obeyed… Long ago, when you told us not to fight the Noxian invaders, we stood by while our people were slaughtered!” His face contorted unnaturally, as if it had melted. “And then, when our fellow Ionians in Tuula, Kashuri, and Huroi called for aid, you bade us not to heed them, and again, we obeyed! We’ve forsaken the opportunity to bring justice to Noxus!”
“You’re filled with anguish,” Kennen said, “and malevolent entities of the spirit realm are feeding on it. They’re feeding on you.”
Kennen could see what the humans could not: dark smoke emanated from them, like tentacles bursting from their bodies. They were surrounded by inky tendrils that sought to devour, creatures clawing out of the spirit realm with greater force as their prey grew more agitated—eventually, they would consume these Kinkou and wreak havoc in Raishai.
“The world is changing,” he said. “Zhyun has descended into turmoil, and you’re torn between what the Kinkou demands of you and what your hearts desire.” He paused, then said what he came to say. “I’m releasing you from the order.”
“You’re banishing us?” said an acolyte in the back row.
“You can’t preserve the balance between realms in this state.” Kennen looked at each acolyte in turn. I need to get through to them. “Leave the Kinkou now. This is the only way you can heal. Do what you will, so your dark emotions won’t destroy you.”
“You want to get rid of us now that we’re no longer useful to you. This is dishonor!” Hayda flashed his blade. The acolytes howled in unison, unaware that shadowy talons were grasping at them with voracious intent.
Kennen could feel their pain, the kind born out of the rift between two worlds of belief. The kind Akali had felt before she left. Yet, he let lightning crackle between his hands. “Don’t think to test me.”
Snarling, Hayda and several acolytes charged forward.
The small yordle waltzed between the clumsy humans, easily evading all attacks. He clicked his clawed fingers, and arcs of electricity rippled out, dropping his attackers in one ferocious burst.
They moaned as they twitched on the muddy ground. The rest stopped, uncertain about what to do. Grief, guilt, shame—the acolytes’ faces were masks of agony, the rain washing over the ichor oozing from their eyes.
Kennen flipped away, out of range, and sighed. Then he remembered something he had learned from humans.
Sometimes, to tell a story is to lie.
“Let your story be mine to tell.” He pulled down his mask. “Go now, in peace. The sinister influence will remain in Zhyun, but the Kinkou will hear you fought hard against it before you left the order, with honor.”
To fabricate truth. To preserve what you hold most dear.
The acolytes’ eyes cleared for a moment, and the dark vapor began to dissipate. No one spoke, but some nodded their understanding to the yordle. Eventually, those who could gathered their wounded.
It was always tough to watch old comrades go, but Kennen knew it was for the best. They had devoted themselves to the Kinkou, and now they were free to find a new purpose. Their mental state could regain balance, and the malevolent entities would have nothing to feed on.
The yordle watched as the former acolytes stumbled away into the gloom. The rain did not abate. The drenched humans looked small and vulnerable.
Someday, all of you will die, Kennen thought, sorrow gripping his heart.
But I will bear your story.
Kha'Zix

A vicious Void predator, Kha'Zix infiltrated Valoran to devour the land's most promising creatures. With each kill he absorbs his prey's strength, evolving to grow more powerful. Kha'Zix hungers most to conquer and consume Rengar, the one beast he considers his equal.

When Kha'Zix crossed over into this world, he was fragile and ravenous. The animals he first encountered were too small to fuel the rapid evolution he craved. Kha'Zix focused his hunger on the most dangerous creatures he could find, risking his life to satisfy his need. With each kill he feasted and changed, becoming a stronger, faster predator. Kha'Zix soon chased his prey with unrestrained aggression, believing he was unstoppable. One day, while savoring a fresh kill, the predator became the prey. From cover a creature pounced in a blur of fangs and steel, tackling him to the ground. It roared in his face slashing and clawing, and Kha'Zix felt his blood spill for the first time. Screeching in fury, he sliced at the brute's eye driving it back. They fought from sunset to sunrise. Finally, near death, they reluctantly separated. As his wounds closed, Kha'Zix burned with anticipation at the idea of devouring one who could match the Void's strength. He resumed his search for powerful prey with renewed vigor. Someday, Kha'Zix will feast on Rengar.
Adaptation

Ian St. Martin

To be exiled is to be erased.
You are not forgotten. You never existed at all. Each beat of your heart is judged unworthy of counting. Even a slave wears chains, proving their value. Even the dead are mourned.
I am nothing to the Kiilash who birthed me. The name Rengar no longer recalls the face of their kin, son of Chieftain Ponjaf. I am outcast from their hearts as much as their hearths.
There is no return from such a fate.
Or so I was told. Years and blood can change such things.
My heart still beats, and so I went to them with trophies gathered on the hunter’s path. Wordlessly I was brought before my father’s gaze. He offered me a return to the tribe, where my name would be spoken and face remembered, where my heart’s beating would be counted again.
And he named the cost for such a thing.
I must track a shadow. Bladed shard of moonless night. Abomination.
Return from the jungle with its head, and I shall be exiled no more.

I melt between the trees. I hear, smell, feel. I parse the spoor of a thousand creatures, big and small. This comes from instinct, sharpened by the cold teachings of the human who found an outcast, and set him down the path of the hunt. I still bear the knife Markon gave me.
I search for the wrong-thing that dwells here, unable to belong.
The trophies that hang and rattle from my coat are gone, left behind at my camp. There is only the blade, a layer of grease to slicken my fur, and the slow, measured beat of a hunter’s heart in my chest.
There is nothing, amid the teeming life of the rainforest… until there is something. It is faint, but stark, slithering over my senses. The sickly sweet unfamiliarity of it halts me for a moment as I take it in. It is wrong in every way. Repulsive. An enemy to life in ways I cannot describe. It defies everything around it.
The true hunt begins. I follow the trail.
I snake around it, never touching. I endure the wrong-thing’s scent, until the sounds of bloodletting reward me.
Something is dying. Through the trees ahead. It is not dying well.
A pack of jungle raptors. Far from the apex, raptors are still capable predators, and rarely ever prey. Their attacker is either desperate with hunger, or unconcerned by their lethality.
I bare my teeth in a grin. It may be a challenge after all.
The reek of the wrong-thing is overpowering. It clings to the clumps of bright, bloody plumage strewn about the forest floor. I surge up a thick, rugged tree trunk, my claws carrying me silently into the canopy. I crouch there in the leafy shadows, tasting the humidity of the air, narrowing my eyes, seeking my quarry.
It has speed. That is a weapon it has honed to a fine edge. I catch only glimpses as it darts back and forth, finishing its kills and preparing to feast.
The promise of trophies does not spur it to hunt. I sense a greater hunger in its movements, something beyond the primal urge to survive.
When the last raptor dies, the wrong-thing slows. Even so, it is never still. It leaps and slides across the ground like smoke. I can see it more clearly now. It makes my brain itch.
It is like an insect, but not completely. Its parts do not make sense. Limbs and flesh and shell and claws that cannot belong to the same single creature—all inside a glistening outer skeleton, blackish-purple like rotten fruit. The air and light writhe around it. They do not want to touch it either.
That gives me the understanding I seek. The wrong-thing bears the mark of an exile, too. I am ready to send it back to whatever foulness spawned it.
With Markon’s knife light in my grip, I drop from the branches.
There is no sound when I land behind the creature. It pays my approach no heed. I know how to move unseen, unheard, until those sweet, adrenaline-filled moments after a killing blow is struck. I have risen to become an apex predator by adaptation, by instinct… and in this moment my instinct screams that something is not right.
Hesitation saves my lifeblood from joining that of the raptors. I barely see the claw as it slices the air I would have occupied. It knew I was coming. Had I not stopped short, it would have ended me then.
Everything has been too clean. Too easy. I should have recognized this sooner. Ponjaf’s promise has blinded me, confidence soured to hubris, leaving me exposed.
A slick chittering comes from the monster’s throat. Ichor flecks its jaws. There is movement on its back, straining against the carapace. It hisses, a noise I cannot tell is of pain or pleasure, as a pair of new limbs erupt and unfurl into hideous, dripping wings. It has seen the threat I pose, and so it changes. It is unwilling to submit as prey.
I lunge.
Too slow. The creature’s riposte sends Markon’s knife spinning from my grip. Foolishly, sentimentally, my eyes follow it for an instant. The error opens the way for the wrong-thing to strike.
Another bladed claw flicks out. Hot, stinging pain. A roaring between my ears.
I fall back. Blood slicks my face.
I scramble to gain distance, trying to blink the red from my vision. The right eye is a blur. The left remains dark. The roaring will not fade.
I reach for my cheek. I realize what the beast has taken.
Beating the last of the vile slime from its wings, the wrong-thing rises to hover over me. It bares its fangs, either in further challenge or a cruel grin, and holds my left eye up for me to see. Slowly it lowers the blood-slick orb over its fangs, and drops it down its gullet.
My gorge rises. I clench my fists, rubbing at my remaining eye.
The defilement of it. The symbolic shift as this foul creature snatches the role of hunter away from me. I no longer feel any pain. Only rage.
I hurl myself at it. I need no knife. I have the claws I was born with, and the triumphal roar I learned for myself. I will not be defeated.
We collide.
The red dance of violence seems unending. We each give chase in turn. The abomination is cold darkness. I am the core of a vengeful sun. We cut away at each other, over and over, and the rest of the world no longer matters.

Finally, as night falls, my enemy flees.
Or… is that just as I wish to see it? Maybe it learned all it can from me, and instinct guides it on to greater things. Exhaustion takes hold. I collapse, left with bloody wounds and a new, terrible sense of connection to this monster. It is a bond forged in the moment it ate of my flesh.
The Kiilash know the wrong-thing as Kha’Zix.
In the old mortal tongue, it means, “You Face Yourself”.
True enough, it changed as we fought, growing and twisting. It went forward, always forward to find its edge, where I looked back into myself, back into the past and the tribe of my birth, to summon my exile’s fury.
This was not enough. As it has adapted, now so must I.
For I will have my kill.
Kindred

Separate, but never parted, Kindred represents the twin essences of death. Lamb’s bow offers a swift release from the mortal realm for those who accept their fate. Wolf hunts down those who run from their end, delivering violent finality within his crushing jaws. Though interpretations of Kindred’s nature vary across Runeterra, every mortal must choose the true face of their death.
Kindred is the white embrace of nothingness and the gnashing of teeth in the dark. Shepherd and the butcher, poet and the primitive, they are one and both. When caught on the edge of life, louder than any trumpeting horn, it is the hammering pulse at one’s throat that calls Kindred to their hunt. Stand and greet Lamb’s silvered bow and her arrows will lay you down swiftly. If you refuse her, Wolf will join you for his merry hunt, where every chase runs to its brutal end.
For as long as its people have known death, Kindred has stalked Valoran. When the final moment comes, it is said a true Demacian will turn to Lamb, taking the arrow, while through the shadowed streets of Noxus, Wolf leads the hunt. In the snows of the Freljord, before going off to fight, some warbands “kiss the Wolf,” vowing to honor his chase with the blood of their enemies. After each Harrowing, the town of Bilgewater gathers to celebrate its survivors and honor those granted a true death by Lamb and Wolf.
Denying Kindred is to deny the natural order of things. There are but a wretched few who have eluded these hunters. This perverse escape is no sanctuary, for it only holds a waking nightmare. Kindred waits for those locked in the undeath of the Shadow Isles, for they know all will eventually fall to Lamb’s bow or Wolf’s teeth.
The earliest dated appearance of the eternal hunters is from a pair of ancient masks, carved by unknown hands into the gravesites of people long-forgotten. But to this day, Lamb and Wolf remain together, and they are always Kindred.
Forest for the Trees

The battle spilled over like a feast before them. Such delicious life—so many to end, so many to hunt! Wolf paced in the snow while Lamb danced lithely from sword edge to spear tip, the red-blooded butchery never staining her pale coat.
“There is courage and pain here, Wolf. Many will gladly meet their end.” She drew up her bow and let loose an arc of swift finality.
The last breath of a soldier came with a ragged consent as his shield gave way to a heavy axe. Stuck in his heart was a single white arrow, shimmering with ethereal brilliance.
“Courage bores me,” the great black wolf grumbled as he tracked through the snow. “I am hungry and eager to chase.”
“Patience,” she murmured in his shaggy ear. As soon as the words left her, Wolf’s shoulders tensed and his body dropped low to the ground.
“I smell fear,” he said, trembling with excitement.
Across the muddied field of snow, a squire—too young for battle, but with blade in hand, nonetheless—saw that Kindred had marked all in the valley.
“I want the tender-thing. Does it see us, Lamb?”
“Yes, but it must choose. Feed the Wolf, or embrace me.”
The battle turned its steel toward the squire. He now stared at the roiling tide of bravery and desperation coming for him. This would be his last dawn. In that instant, the boy made his choice. He would not go willingly. Until his last breath, he would run.
Wolf snapped in the air and rolled his face in the snow like a new pup.
“Yes, dear Wolf.” Lamb’s voice echoed like a string of pearly bells. “Begin your hunt.”
With that, Wolf bounded across the field after the youth, a howl thundering through the valley. His shadowed body swept over the remains of the newly dead and their useless, shattered weapons.
The squire turned and ran for the woods until thick black trunks passed in a blur. He pressed on, the frozen air burning his lungs. He looked once more for his hunter, but could see nothing but the darkening trees. The shadows closed tightly around him and he suddenly realized there was no escape. It was the black body of Wolf that was everywhere at once. The chase was at its end. Wolf buried his sharp teeth in the squire’s neck, tearing out ribbons of vibrant life.
Wolf reveled in the boy’s scream and crunching bones. Lamb, who had trailed behind, laughed to see such sport. Wolf turned and asked, in a voice more growl than speech, “Is this music, Lamb?”
“It is to you,” she answered.
“Again,” Wolf licked the last drop of the youth’s life from his canine jaws. “I want to chase again, little Lamb.”
“There are always more,” she whispered. “Until the day there is only Kindred.”
“And then will you run from me?”
Lamb turned back to the battle. “I would never run from you, dear Wolf.”
A Good Death

Matt Dunn

Magga was about to die for the fourteenth time. She had bitten into a rotten apple–yet again. Its putrid flesh had, as always, infected her with carrionshade. The actress went through the motions of stumbling to her death while shouting her final words for all to hear.

“Oh, but how wondrous a dream is life? Only now—too late!—do I wake to see its myriad of splendors,” she bemoaned.

With a puff of smoke and glittering powder, Kindred made a grand entrance upon the stage. As per tradition, they were played by one actor, his head covered by two opposing masks. He approached Magga, the white mask of the Lamb facing her.

“Hark! Do I hear a plea for my keenest arrow? Come, child, let the warmth of your heart fade into the cold embrace of oblivion.”

Magga refused, as she had thirteen times before. Any nuance in her performance was buried beneath the ear-splitting delivery of her scream. On cue, Lamb spun around, revealing the second mask–that of the Wolf.

“There is naught ye can do to stave off thine end,” growled Wolf.

“I am but a poor young maiden! Please, let my piteous cry fall on all four of thine ears.”

The audience seemed enraptured by the unfolding dramatics of the Orphellum Mechanicals. With the twin threats of plague and war on the tongues of those in neighboring protectorates, death dramas were all the rage.

Denji, the actor portraying both Lamb and Wolf, descended upon the young actress, awkwardly baring wooden fangs. Magga offered her neck. At the threat of Wolf’s bite, she triggered the device sewn into her blouse’s collar. Ribbons of red fabric unspooled to the delighted pips and yelps of the audience. They’d gotten what they paid for.
By the time the Mechanicals had staggered back to their wagon and set off in the direction of Needlebrook, there were no stars to be seen. Instead, a veil of clouds stretched across the night sky.

Needlebrook always delivered a good audience, Illusian, the company’s owner and sole dramaturg, explained once more. He staggered around, drunk on his own accolades—as well as the wine Parr had grifted from the locals.

The night wore on, and the troupe had descended into bickering. Tria and Denji lambasted their playwright over the quality of his plots, which fell into a predictable structure: tragedy strikes maiden, death finds maiden, death takes maiden. Illusian argued that complicated plots detracted from a good death scene.

Magga, the youngest of the bunch, agreed with Tria and Denji’s diagnosis, but kept her mouth shut. Had she not stowed away in the wandering troupe’s wagon, she would certainly be somewhere far more miserable. Luckily for her, the Mechanicals had recently lost several actors due to Illusian’s insistence on complete artistic control. Because of his attitude—and obvious mediocrity—they were facing a drought of fresh faces. And so, the Orphellum Mechanicals agreed to contract Magga to die in all their dramatics for the foreseeable future. For which she had been grateful.

Illusian was still smarting from Denji and Tria’s words when he motioned to Parr, their wagoner, to stop and make camp. The inebriated auteur set out his bedroll in pride of place next to the wagon. He then threw the rest of the bedding into the long grass nearby.

“Ungrateful players can sleep in the wilds,” Illusian spat, “where they shall hopefully find their manners.”

The rest of the troupe built a fire and swapped stories. Denji and Tria had fallen asleep in each other’s arms while whispering potential names for their unborn child into each other’s ears. They had nattered on about the day the traveling company would stop in Jandelle, a town so perfect and peaceful they would set aside their vagabond ways to raise their child.

Magga moved closer to the crackling fire so its pops and whistles would drown out the irksome affections of her traveling companions.

But sleep never came. Instead, Magga tossed and turned, thinking about the looks on the audience’s faces as the coiled spurts of blood unfurled from her neckline. A pretty maiden struck dead by her own naïveté was all the theatrical pomp Illusian could muster, but the crowd lusted after the gruesome façade.

Eventually, she left her bedroll and set out into the woods to soothe her unsettled mind.
In the dead of night, Magga came upon a low grassy mound with slabs of standing stone at its base. Although she could not read the inscriptions, her fingers traced the familiar etching of Kindred’s twin masks. This was a place of the dead, a burial site built long ago.

She felt a chill on the back of her neck that compelled her to look up. She was not alone. Magga immediately understood what she saw, for she’d encountered a crude impersonation of them night after night. But poor Denji couldn’t begin to instill the dread washing over Magga. Before her, perched on a weathered barrow-archway, was Lamb herself, flanked by her ever-faithful counterpart, Wolf.

“I hear a beating heart!” said Wolf, his black eyes twinkling with delight. “May I have it?”

“Perhaps,” replied Lamb. “I sense she is afraid. Speak, beautiful one. Tell us your name.”

“I-I would have yours first,” stammered Magga, stepping backward. Her slow escape was halted by the speedy Wolf, who materialized unsettlingly close behind her.

He spoke directly in her ear. “We have many names.”

“In the West, I am Ina to his Ani,” said Lamb. “In the East, Farya to his Wolyo. But we are Kindred everywhere. I am always Lamb to Wolf, and he is always Wolf to Lamb.”

Wolf reared up and sniffed at the air.

“She is playing a boring game,” said Wolf. “Let us play a new game, one of chasing and running and biting.”

“She is not playing, dear Wolf,” said the Lamb. “She is frightened and has lost her own name. It hides behind her lips, afraid to come out. Worry not, dear child, I have found your name. We know it as you know us, Magga.”
“P-please,” Magga stammered. “Tonight is not a very good night for—”

Wolf’s great pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, and he proceeded to cackle.

“All nights are good nights for pouncing,” said Wolf, laughing.

“All days are, too,” Lamb said. “With light comes a clear shot.”

“There is no moon tonight!” cried Magga. She used what Illusian had taught her—to gesture grand, so those in the back could see her movements. “It is hidden by a blanket of clouds, tucked away from my eyes and yours. Without the moon, what would be the last thing I would see?”

“We see the moon,” replied Lamb, as she caressed her fabled bow. “It is always there.”

“There are no stars!” said Magga, trying again, this time gesturing smaller and speaking quieter. “No menagerie of twinkling diamonds, glittering in the midnight hue. What more beautiful view could one hope for whence one meets Lamb and Wolf?”

“This Magga-thing is playing a new game,” growled Wolf. “It is called ‘stalling.’”

Wolf stopped moving and cocked his head to the side. He turned his sideways snout toward Magga before speaking. “Can we play ‘Chasing the Magga-Thing and Bite Her to Bits?’?” Wolf clacked his fangs together loudly for effect.

“Let us ask her,” said Lamb. “Magga! Do you prefer Wolf’s chase, or my arrow?”

Magga was trembling now. Her eyes raced to take in every last detail of the world around her. It wasn’t such a bad place to depart. There was grass. There were trees. There was the ancient archway. There was stillness to the air.

“I would prefer Lamb’s arrow,” she said, looking at the rough crusts of bark on the trees. “I’ll imagine myself climbing to the highest boughs, like when I was a child. Only this time, I will never stop climbing. Is that what it is like to go with you?”

“No,” said Lamb, “though it is a nice thought. Fear not, little maiden, we are just having our fun. You have come to us tonight; we have not come for you.”

“I cannot chase Magga-thing,” said Wolf, with a hint of disappointment in his voice. “But there are other things nearby. Other things ripe for the chasing and the biting. Hurry, Lamb. I am hungry.”

“For now, know that your theatrics have pleased us, and we will watch them until the day we meet again.”

Wolf passed over Magga and disappeared into the woods. The shadowy beast snaked away through fields of tall grass. Magga looked back toward the weathered barrow. Lamb was gone.

The actress fled.
When Magga returned to the encampment, she found it in utter ruin. The wagon she had only just begun to call home had been ransacked and reduced to a smoldering husk. Bits of clothing and ruined props lay strewn across the campsite.

She found Denji’s body near where he’d slept. He had died protecting Tria, whose corpse lay behind him. Judging from the trails of blood, their deaths had not been slow. They had dragged themselves toward each other, their fingers entwined in one last caress before death.

Magga noticed that Illusian had managed to kill two of the bandits before being burnt to a crisp along with Parr in the wagon.

The only thing that remained untouched were Denji’s Lamb and Wolf masks. Magga picked them up and held them in her hands. She placed the Lamb mask over her own eyes and heard the voice of Wolf.

“Chase the Magga-thing.”

The maiden ran the distance to Needlebrook, never once looking back.
The Golden Round was filled to the brim with a sea of twinkling eyes, all glittering in excitement at the velvet curtain. The king sat in the theater with the queen and their advisers, all eagerly awaiting the onset of the dramatics. Everyone hushed as the black curtain lifted to reveal the actors.

Magga sat in a quiet dressing room under the stage. She heard the crowd fall silent as she studied herself in the mirror. The luster of youth had faded from her eyes years ago, and left her with a long shock of silver running through her hair.

“Madame!” said the stagehand. “You’re not in costume yet.”

“No, child,” Magga said, “I only dress at the last moment.”

“It is the last moment,” said the young stagehand, holding the two final pieces of Magga’s costume: the same Lamb and Wolf masks from her days with the Orphellum Mechanicals.

“May your performance be blessed tonight,” the stagehand said.

Magga prepared to leave for the stage. She slipped the masks over her head. The old chill from the dark barrow crept down her spine. She welcomed it—as always.

She enthralled the audience as she glided onto the stage, embodying Lamb’s graceful movements. She thrilled the crowd with her rendition of Wolf’s playful savagery. She, as the twin deaths personified, eased the suffering of her fellow actors, or ripped it from their throats, until the crowd stood on its feet and erupted in thunderous applause.

It was true. All audiences loved a good death, and they loved Magga’s more than any other.

Even the king and queen were on their feet in praise of her work.

But Magga heard no applause and saw no ovations. She didn’t feel the stage beneath her feet, nor the hands of her fellow mummers in hers as they bowed low. All she felt was a sharp pain in her chest.

When Magga looked out over the audience, every single face was either a lamb or a wolf.
Kled

Legends of the popular folk hero Kled can be traced back to the founding of Noxus, and perhaps even further still. He is an icon revered by the common soldiery, which is increasingly a cause of concern to their commanders—for there are some among the warhosts who claim to have literally served beside him.
Tall tales such as “The Great Hussar’s Victory”, “The Return of the High General Marshal-Sergeant”, and “The Mountain Admiral” abound, which strongly imply Kled has fought in every campaign ever waged, acquired every military title, and never once backed down from a fight. Though the details are often outlandish and contradictory, the essence of the tale remains: charging into battle on his un-trusty steed, Skaarl, Kled fights to protect what’s his… and takes whatever else he can get.
In truth, the Cantankerous Cavalier hails from another land entirely—Bandle City. As a yordle, he made his home among the proud Noxii tribes in the wake of the Rune Wars, and has never looked back.
The earliest mention of Kled in historical records was at the First Battle of Drugne. In the dusty hills of those badlands, the warhost of General Zaavan was on the run from barbarian foes. Having lost the previous two engagements, morale was low. The supply train had been abandoned in the rout, and they were a week’s march from the nearest outpost. Zaavan, in his spotless armor, seemed more concerned with how this would appear back home than the welfare of his soldiers, and ordered a defensive circle formation to buy himself time to think.
Then, as the morning sun rose, the lone figure of Kled appeared on the hilltop, mounted upon a desert drakalops. This warrior’s weapon was rusted, his armor worn, his clothes tattered—but contempt and anger burned in his one good eye.
He bellowed an ultimatum to the barbarian horde, demanding that they leave his lands or be destroyed. However, he did not wait for any response, spurring his steed and screaming the charge. Desperate, starving, and furious with their general, the Noxian warhost’s anger ignited at the sight of this act of bravado. They rushed after Kled as he tore into the enemy.
What followed was one of the bloodiest melees ever fought on the northern steppes. The initial momentum of the counterattack was crushed beneath a hail of barbarian arrows from higher ground, but Kled fought on even after he was thrown from his saddle and his drakalops fled. He always seemed to be at the heart of the battle, chopping down foes, kicking out teeth, and biting faces. The bodies piled up around him, and his clothes were soaked with blood. He screamed louder challenges and cruder insults. Clearly, this great warrior was willing to die before ever backing down.
Cowardice can be infectious, but so too can courage. Where the Noxians might have given up and fled for their lives, instead they were inspired to make one last stand.
Even Kled’s drakalops returned, and crashed into the barbarians’ rearguard, snarling and clawing as it dived in to free its master. With his mount again beneath him, Kled became a veritable whirlwind of death, and it was the barbarians who broke and ran.
Though too few of the Noxian soldiers survived that day for it to be considered a victory, Drugne was contested long enough that word reached the Immortal Bastion, and reinforcements were sent. The war ground on for at least another decade, until the barbarian leaders sued for peace—their strength was added to Noxus, and Drugne became a foothold for continued campaigns across Dalamor and the north for many centuries to come.
The body of General Zaavan—and his fine armor—was never found.
In time, countless other warhosts of the empire acquired similar stories of Kled. It has long been said that he rides wherever Noxians march, claiming the spoils of war for himself. Indeed, in their wake, good-humored signs can often be found proclaiming each new territory “Property of Kled”.
Where the Drakalops Roam

The Northern Steppes ain’t the place for fancy undies and golden piss pots. It’s tough land. Ain’t nothing go here but barbarian raiders, poison grass, and harsh winds. To survive, you gotta eat rocks and crap lava. And I’m the toughest, meanest, killingest bastard in these parts. So I figure that makes these plains mine.
“But how did I end up here? And why am I alone with yer dumb yella hide?” I say out loud, starting it off again.
Skaarl snorts her response from the rock she’s sunning herself on. Her scales is dark metal with hints of gold. Ain’t nothing can break that drakalops’s skin. I’ve seen a steel sword shatter against her leg.
Don’t make her farts smell any better though.
“I’m callin’ you a damn coward. You got somethin’ to say about that?”
“Greefrglarg,” it says as it looks up and yawns.
“It was a hooked grouse! No bigger than my hand. And you run… Darn dumb, stupid animal!”
“Greef…rglarg?” Skaarl asks as it swats the flies away from its half-opened eyes.
“Oh, good retort! Yeah, real funny, right? Ha ha ha! I’m damn tired of yer heretical pontifications. I should leave ya here to die. That’s what I should do. You’d die o’ loneliness. Hell, you wouldn’t last a day without me.”
Skaarl lays its head back down on the rock.
There ain’t no use communicating with her. I should forgive her—but then, and no doubt to mock me, her sphincter splutters rhythmically as she breaks wind. The smell hits me like a frying pan.
“That’s it, you bastard!” I throw my stinking hat onto the ground and march away from the campsite, swearing I’ll never set eyes on that foul-mouthed drakalops again. ’Course, it was my good hat, so I have to trot back and snatch it off the ground.
“Yeah, keep sleeping, ya lazy flaprat,” I say as I walk away. “I’ll do the patrol!”
Being ten moons from any farmstead don’t preclude doing the patrol. It’s my land. And I aim to keep it that way. With or without that treason-ish lizard’s help.
The sun’s dragging its way down to the horizon by the time I reach the hills. This time of day, the light plays tricks on you. I meet a snake who wants to discuss pie crusts. Except it ain’t a snake, it’s the shadow of a rock.
Damn shame. I have some durn specific notions about pie crusts. At least when I remember what they are again. I ain’t had a proper conversation about the subject in years.
I’m about to take a swig of my mushroom juice and explain my views to the snake, when I hear them.
Drake hounds howling and braying. It’s the sounds those beasts make when they is herding elmarks. And if there’s elmarks, then there is humans. And those humans is trespassers.
I scramble up a nearby boulder and check north first.
The rolling hills of my grasslands is empty, save for the iron buttes scattered across the horizon. The braying sounds might be the mushroom juice playing tricks on my head… But then I turn south.
They is about a half day’s walk from this hill. Three hundred elmarks grazing. Grazing on my land.
The drake hounds circle around the herd, but there’s no horses. A few humans walk around them on foot. Humans don’t like walking. So it don’t take a genius to figure they must be part of some larger convoy then. ’Course, I am a genius. So that was easy to figure.
My blood begins to boil. That means more damn trespassers, disturbing my peace. Here, when I was about to have a lovely conversation about pie crusts with that snake.
I take another sip of mush-juice and head back to the campsite.
“Get up, lizard!” I say as I grab my saddle.
It raises its head, grunts a response, and returns to lying in the cool grass.
“Get up! Get up! GIT UP!” I yell. “There’s trespassers, invading the peaceful serenity of our environs.”
It looks at me blankly. I forget sometimes she don’t understand me when I’m speaking.
I buckle the saddle onto its back. “There’s humans on our land!”
It stands, and its ears perk up nervously. Humans. That word it knows. I jump into the saddle.
“Let’s get those humans!” I roar, indicating our southward destination. But the damn beast immediately starts going north.
“No, No, NO! They’s that way! That way!” I say, using my reins to pull the cowardly beast back in the right direction.
“Greefrglaaarg!” the drakolops cries as it kicks off. In an instant, she’s running. The insane speed of it makes my eyes close. Scrub grass whips painfully against my legs. A cloud of dust billows behind us. What’d take me half a day of walking is past before I can get my hat tied down.
“Greefrglorg!” the drakolops screeches.
“Now, don’t be like that! Weren’t you saying you wanted company last night?”
The sun is just starting to dip below the horizon when we reach the herd. I slow Skaarl to a trot as we approach the humans’ campsite. They’d already started a fire and have a stew going.
“Hold, stranger. Show your hands before you approach,” a human in a red hat says. Their leader, I figure.
I slowly take my hands off the reins. But instead of putting them up, I pull my long axe from its saddle loop.
“I don’t think you understand me, old timer,” the human in the red hat says again. His fellows ready weapons: swords, lassos, and a dozen repeater crossbows.
“Greefrglooorg,” Skaarl growls, ready to leave already.
“I got it under control,” I tell my lizard, before turning my attention back to the humans. “I ain’t impressed with your fancy, city-folk weapons. Now I’m giving you one warning. Get off my land. Or else.”
“Or else what?” a younger human asks.
“You boys best know who you’re dealing with,” I say. “This is Skaarl. She’s a drakalops. And I’m Kled, Lord Major Admiral of the Second Legion’s forward artillery—cavalry multiplication.”
Several of the humans start snickering. I’ll learn them soon enough—once I’m done talking.
“And what makes you think this is your land?” asks the human in the red hat, smirking.
“It’s mine. I took it from them barbarians.”
“It’s property of Lord Vakhul. He was granted it by the High Command. It’s his by rightful dispensation.”
“Well, High Command! Why didn’t you say so?!” I say before spitting on the ground. “The only law a true Noxian respects is strength. He can have it. If he can take it from me.”
“You and your pony best be moving on, while you still can.”
I forget sometimes humans don’t see us like we see them. It’s the last straw though.
“CHARGE!!!!” I scream, and snap the reins. The drakolops kicks off, and we rush them. I meant to make a clever retort first, but I got ahead of myself.
The humans let loose their first volley, but Skaarl raises her ears. Like giant bronze fans, they shield us as the crossbow bolts ricochet off her impenetrable flesh.
She roars happily as we dive through their camp at the leader in the red hat. Swords clang against Skaarl’s hide, while my axe swings. I turn two of them humans into confetti. The bastard in the red hat’s quick. He ducks under my blade as we pass by. Another volley of crossbow bolts hits us.
Skaarl screams in fear. Damn thing’s unkillable and immortal, but easily spooked. Problem with magical beasties, they don’t make no sense.
I yank the reins, and we ride back into the middle of the humans. I easily kill the rest of his men, but the red-hat bastard’s a tough one. My blade slams into him—but the blow clangs dully against his heavy breast plate. That should give him something to think about, anyway.
That’s when the ballista fires. The bolt is longer than a wagon. It smashes into the drakolops, knocking my long axe from my hand, and sends us rolling to the ground. Skaarl ain’t hurt. But she shakes me off the saddle and runs for the hills.
“You ungrateful bastard! We had the frassa-gimps in the razabutts!” I mean to scream more insults, but my words start tripping over themselves.
I roll to my feet. Dust and grass cover my face. I throw my hat toward the cowardly lizard’s path, then turn back to kill the man in the red hat.
But behind him, on the hill line, is another hundred of them humans. Iron warriors, bloodrunners, and a wagon-mounted ballista. Red-hatted blurf-herder brought most of a legion with him.
“You ain’t nothing but a durn sneaky-sneak!” I scream.
“You don’t look like much,” he says, “but I guess you’re the one who’s been giving Lord Vakhul’s ranchers so much trouble.”
“Vakhul ain’t no real Noxian. Your lordship can kiss my lizard’s puckered mudflap!”
“Maybe I’ll let you end your days in Lord Vakhul’s fighting pits. If you can learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m gonna rip your lips off and use them to wipe my butt!” I roar.
I guess he don’t like that, ’cause him and his hundred friends start running at me, weapons drawn. I could run. But I don’t. They’ll pay dearly to kill me.
Red Hat’s fast. He’s nearly on me before I can recover my weapon from the ground. His blade is high. He’s got the killing stroke. But I’ve got my hidden scattergun.
The blast sends him to the ground. It knocks me back, too. I tumble end over end. The single shot buys me some time. But not much.
The bloodrunners are closing fast. Their hooked blades is ready. I’m gonna die in this turd-stain. Well, if it’s my last stand, might as well make it a good one.
I dust myself off as the first line of bloodrunners attacks. I’m carving those dark magical bastards apart, but they’re cutting me to ribbons. I’m beginning to tire from the effort and loss of blood.
Then the iron warriors scream their battle cries, as they charge in their thick black armor. They’ve split into two groups, doing one of those “pinching” maneuvers. Plan on using those two walls of metal to crush me flatter than a Noxian coin.
Damn it.
Any hope I got of surviving this, it’s gone…
And that’s when I see her. The most loyal, trustworthy, honorable friend an undeserving bastard like me could ever have.
Skaarl.
Riding like hell toward me. Faster than I’ve ever seen her run. A rooster tail of dust is shooting up behind her. The damn lizard even picks up my hat on her way to me. I run to her just as those black-clad warriors are about to crush me.
I leap into the saddle, and we circle around the iron warriors. There’ll be time to kill them after we get rid of that ballista.
“It’s been a while since we took on a whole army together,” I say.
“Greefrglarg,” Skaarl screeches happily.
“Back at you, buddy,” I say with a smile wider than a croxagor’s.
’Cause there ain’t nothing I love more than this dang lizard.
Frozen Hearts

David Slagle

“Mom… can I ask you a question?”
“What’s wrong, Nunu? There’s something crinkling your nose, and I don’t think the elkyr can be blamed… well, this time. No offense, Kona!”
“Haha, elkyr smell like doocicles! But… we always make ‘em pull our carts anyway. I don’t wanna leave, mom. I like that village. I found a warhorn in the mud!”
“Then come close, my little grimaceling, and I will remind you. There is a reason the Notai must leave as the snows settle. An adventure that winter’s mother has entrusted to us.”
“You mean Anivia?”
“Mhmm. They say she is a phoenix, with icicles instead of feathers—her wings borne on frigid wind, brrrrrr! But we Notai know, it is hope that carries Anivia, and that she is not a guardian of our realm, as the Avarosans say. She is freedom. She is the spirit that fills you as you follow your passion, no matter how mean the world is. Do you know what passion is, Nunu?”
“Is it when the barbarian kisses the warmother?”
“Hmm, sometimes, and sometimes the warmother kisses the barbarian. But if I had to name it, I would call passion… the feeling of one last celebration as winter hits, the warmth inside even better because the first snows are falling. The dancing, the singing, a lyre in my hands, shivering even as I burn with this—this thing I try to name! This is what Anivia has tasked us with carrying across the Freljord. This is what gives her wind on her migration! Some villages see us as untrustworthy traders, others fear us for the ice that announces our arrival, the winter that can mean life or death. But to them all, we bring song, we bring togetherness, we link each village with our spirit. Can you imagine what a gift this is, Nunu? To know what we know because caravan carts have rattled it into our bones. Life is an endless string of opportunity for songs...”
“Like these?”
“Yes, like my song strands. Each string is a song, each knot in the string a note, and each note a place we’ve been while following Anivia. Like this one. This is the droning murmur of pilgrims, gathered beneath the statue of Avarosa at Rakelstake—a frozen lake that glitters like a jewel too massive for anyone to own. But the Avarosans have built a monument beside it, and say they own it anyway. They live their lives as if they are statues. Warmothers, Iceborn, they do not move, they fear the world that exists outside of Avarosa’s shadow. But to others, they have already moved too much…”
“The Winter’s Claw. They hate Avarosinians.”
“Avarosans. But the song binds them together, like this. This is the sound of the chains tying wolfships to Glaserport, and the Winter’s Claw to the past. The old ways. Blood in the snow. They live their lives on shattered ice. They think it is their might that cracks a path to sea, the wolfships prowling through… but it is not strong to cling to chains, and to demand that others carry them as well.”
“I ‘member the wolfships, mom. They were made out of wood. Not wolves! The Winter’s Claw don’t know how to name things.”
“Some things, Nunu, should not be named. Like the Frostguard Citadel, above the Howling Abyss. All those secrets… secrets of my own, of the warmth I have found… They preach there the words of the Three Sisters, but I think secrets are their true faith. How can you rescue someone from something they don’t know? That only this howled dirge remembers, rising from the Abyss. What the Frostguard guard against.”
“Are they heroes, like in the songs? I want to be a hero, too!”
“Listen to these notes, Nunu. They are the fortress at Frosthorn Peak and the crypts beneath. They are quiet. Empty. Whatever the Iceborn fought against has been forgotten. And now, with nothing else to fight, they use their power to rule. Avarosans, Winter’s Claw, Frostguard, they are the same. They use statues, chains, secrets, to push men down onto their knees. But you… When I look out onto the road, I see your future, Nunu. The joy you will bring to so many, as you have brought me. As winter’s mother wills it, and as she sends her winds to carry you, I will send love. You are my heart-song, Nunu. What notes should we add next? Where should love take us?”
“We’re probably going to another village. But this one won’t have warhorns...”
“No, Nunu. There is always more out there, you only need to imagine it! We could travel to a bridge that once spanned the sky! Only it collapsed in a forgotten age, and most of it lies hidden behind the clouds. But, can you hear that? Someone is step, step, stepping along its edge. We could pass into the tombs of creatures who ruled the Freljord before humans, find the mist that freezes in mid-air, giving ancient dreams shape. What is that in front of you, Nunu? Can you catch a dream on your tongue? Or find glacial tunnels that branch, as if tracing the shape of a world-tree that our ancestors destroyed, and buried in ice. All these things you can find, if only you look. You can go anywhere you can imagine.”
“Could we go to the top of the whole wide world, so I could play my warhorn? I bet then even Avarosa would hear it, and she’d come back!”
“We can go there right now, Nunu, if you tell me all about it. What would you see? What is the story in your heart?”
“I know how it starts! Once upon a time, there was a boy named Nunu, and Layka, his mom… and she was beautiful, and they lived in a caravan, and… they were trying to think of where to go next.”
“And what did they decide, Nunu?”
“They decided they could go anywhere together! And so their caravan flew off into the sky when Kona grew wings out of her butt, and flapped harder than Anivia! And the two of them were warm, and safe, even though snow was falling. What’s that feeling, mom? Like a hug, only…”
“It’s home. It’s home, my little hero. And that is where we will always be, no matter where we go. It is how we know, though the cold comes with us, though it can be hard and demand hope… it will never be winter, Nunu, if you love the person beside you.”
Galio

Galio’s legend begins in the aftermath of the Rune Wars, when countless refugees fled from the destructive power of magic. In the west of Valoran, a band of these displaced people were hounded by a vicious band of dark mages—exhausted from days without rest, the refugees hid among the shadows of an ancient, petrified forest, and their pursuers suddenly found their magic to be ineffective.
It seemed the fossilized trees were a natural magic-dampener, and any sorcery used within them would simply fail. No longer helpless, the refugees turned their swords on the dark mages and drove them from the land.
Some decided that this sanctuary from magic was a gift from the gods, others saw it as a fair reward for their terrible journey, but all agreed this should be their new home.
As years passed, the settlers crafted items of protection from the enchanted wood. Eventually, they found it could be mixed with ash and lime to make petricite—a material with a powerful resistance to magic. It would be the foundation for their new civilization, forming the walls of the new kingdom of Demacia.
For years, these petricite barriers were all the Demacians needed to feel secure from the threat of magic within the borders of their homeland. In the rare event that they needed to settle a conflict abroad, their military proved fierce and formidable… but when their enemies employed sorcery, Demacia’s roaming army had little recourse. Somehow, they needed to take the security of their magic-dampening walls into battle.
The sculptor Durand was commissioned to fashion some manner of petricite shield for the military, and two years later the artist unveiled his masterpiece. While it was not what many were expecting, the winged statue Galio would become vital to the defense of the nation, and serve as a symbol of Demacia across Valoran.
Using a system of pulleys, steel sledges, and countless oxen, they would pull the great stone figure to the battlefield. Many would-be invaders simply froze at the sight of the awe-inspiring silhouette looming before them—the titan who “ate magic” inspired a kingdom, and terrified those who opposed it.
However, no one thought to consider what exposing the statue to such unpredictable energies might do…
Demacia had been mired in battle with enemy forces in the Greenfang Mountains. A skilled order of warmages, known as the Arcane Fist, bombarded the Demacians with crackling bolts of raw, mystical power for thirteen days. Those who had survived this long felt their morale dwindling, and huddled close to Galio. Just when their spirits could be brought no lower, a slow, deafening rumble shook the vale, as if two mountains were grinding against each other. As a great shadow grew above them, the Demacian soldiers steeled themselves for death.
A deep voice bellowed from above. To the Demacians’ astonishment, the sound came from the colossus at their backs—Galio was moving, and speaking, entirely on his own. Somehow, the accumulation of absorbed magic had given him life. He threw himself in front of the Demacians, shielding them from attack after attack, absorbing each fresh bolt into his massive, stone frame.
Then Galio turned, bounded up the mountainside, and crushed every last one of the Arcane Fist into the craggy soil.
The Demacians cheered. They were eager to thank the petricite sentinel that had saved them… but as quickly as he’d come to life, their fearsome protector had ceased moving, returning to his pedestal, just as before. Back in the Great City, this bizarre tale was told in hushed tones by the few who had survived the Battle of the Greenfangs, and was usually received with silent incredulity. That day passed into legend—perhaps a mere allegory of ancient days to help people through hard times.
Certainly, no one would have believed that the colossus continued to see all that transpired around him. Even while immobile, Galio retained consciousness, longing to experience the sensations of battle once again.
He watched mortals pass beneath him, paying him tribute year after year. It puzzled him to see them disappear one by one as time rolled on. Galio wondered where they went when they vanished. Perhaps they were sent away to be mended, as he often was when he returned from war?
As the years slipped by, Galio began to realize the sorrowful answer to his question—unlike himself, the people of Demacia could not be repainted, or have their damage easily repaired. Mortals were frail, ephemeral creatures, and he now understood just how badly they needed his protection. Fighting had been his passion, but the people were now his purpose.
Even so, Galio has been called to battle only a handful of times in all the centuries since. Demacia has begun to look inward, with magic becoming rarer in his world than it once was, and so the petricite colossus remains dormant, observing the world through the murk of his waking dreams. The statue’s greatest hope is to be blessed by a magic so powerful that he will never be forced to sleep again.
Only then will Galio be able to truly serve his purpose: to stand and fight as Demacia’s protector, forevermore.
A Hero Wakes

John O’Bryan

War was coming, and Galio could do nothing but watch as the Demacian soldiers prepared for it. He couldn’t say how long it had been since he last tasted magic. He’d been carried from the plinth many times before, only to return without getting a chance at life. But even when his body was still, his mind was always stirring.
And it longed to fight.
Galio could just make out the bristling rows of northern barbarians in the distance. Even with his senses dulled in this dreamlike state, he could tell their ranks were sloppy and undisciplined, pacing to and fro in eager anticipation of their Demacian foes. Galio had overheard talk of these wildmen many times, given their recent conquests. The fearful people of the city whispered that the Freljordians left none alive, and mounted the heads of their foes on enormous tusks from strange beasts...
But the barbarians were of no interest to the colossus. His eyes found a bigger prize – a titanic shape, seeming almost as tall as the hills behind it. It moved ominously, heaving like the waves of a troubled sea, waiting to be unleashed.
What is that? thought Galio, hopefully. I hope it fights.
Beneath him, his Demacian comrades marched in precise synchronization, reciting a cadence, chanting away all thoughts but battle. To each other, they sounded confident in their victory, but to Galio, who had heard this song so many times before, their rhythms were less certain, more hesitant.
They are not excited to battle this great beast. I will do it for them!
Galio was filled with the urge to scoop up every one of these men in his arms and tell them it would be fine, that he would spring forth and chase the entire invading army back to its borders. But he couldn’t. His arms, legs, and claws were as cold and inert as the stone he was hewn from. He needed a catalyst, a powerful magical presence of some kind, to awaken from his living dream.
I hope there’s a mage this time, he thought, gazing toward the horizon. Usually there isn’t. I hate it when there isn’t.
His worry grew as he heard the snorts of exhaustion from the oxen pulling him. They numbered several dozen, and still had to be swapped out with fresh replacements every mile. For a brief moment, Galio thought they might all collapse, leaving him in the outer Demacian brambles while the humans had their fun.
Then, at last, his cart came to a stop at the edge of the battlefield. He knew there would be no parley, no chance that the savage enemy would surrender. Galio could hear the clatter of his tiny human comrades locking shields, forming a solid wall of steel. But he knew that whatever the barbarians’ enormous beast was, it would surely cut right through the fine Demacian armaments.
The two sides flew at one another, colliding in a flash of limbs and blades. Galio heard swords clashing, and axes meeting shields. Men from both armies were falling to their deaths in the mud. Brave voices that Galio knew well cried like children for their mothers.
The soft heart of the stone giant began to quiver. Yet still he could not break his paralysis.
Suddenly a shock of blinding purple seared through the fray, causing scores of Demacians to drop to their knees. Galio felt it then – that familiar sensation in his fingertips, like the noon sun warming cool alabaster. He could almost wiggle them...
The flash came again, sapping the life from more heroic Demacian soldiers. Galio’s senses came to life with startling acuity, revealing the conflict in gruesome detail. The bodies of men in broken armor were strewn about the field in grotesque contortions. Many barbarians lay slain in pools of their own blood.
And in the distance, behind their lines, their cowardly sorcerer was summoning a crackling orb between his hands, readying his next attack.
There he is. He is the reason I wake, Galio realized, first in gratitude, then in rage. I will squash him first!
But his attention was once again drawn to the monstrous shape in the farthest reaches of the battlefield. Finally, it was coming into focus: A towering behemoth of a creature – covered in thick, matted fur. It struggled against the steel chains that restrained it. Its head thrashed about viciously in an attempt to free itself from the giant blinding cowl that covered its eyes.
Galio smiled. Now that is a foe worthy of my fists.
The barbarians pulled off the behemoth’s covering, revealing a snarling, mangled snout beneath a beady pair of jet-black eyes. Free from its blinders, the creature erupted in a fearsome roar, as if declaring itself ready to ravage everything in sight. The monster’s handlers released a mechanism that let loose the chains, and the behemoth threw itself into the opposing infantry, instantly slaying a dozen Demacians with just one swipe of a saber-like claw.
Galio was horrified. These were men he had guarded since they were children. He wanted to weep for them, as he had seen humans do in mourning. But he was not built for that. He focused on his purpose and the thrill of the fight that awaited. This was a huge, terrible beast, and he couldn’t wait to put his hands on it. He could feel the vitality of life returning to him.
Yes! At last!
The sensation shot through his arms, his head, and all the way to his legs. For the first time in a century, he could move. Across the valley a sound echoed, something not heard in living memory.
It was the sound of a stone giant’s laughter.
Galio leapt into the fray, knocking aside the barbarians’ crudely built siege engines. Friend and foe alike stopped to gape at the stone titan who was now smashing his way through the front lines. Like a living monument, he burst from the press of soldiers and threw himself into the path of the rampaging behemoth. “Hello, great beast,” he rumbled. “Shall I smash you?”
The creature threw its mighty head back and howled, as if in acknowledgment of the challenge. Both titans ran toward one another with earth-shaking force. The behemoth slammed into Galio’s mid-section with its shoulder, and let out a groan of intense pain as it crumpled to the ground clutching its collarbone. Galio stood above it, reluctant to smash a prostrate opponent.
“Come now, no need to feel bad,” said Galio, eagerly motioning with his hand. “That was a good try. Now hit me again.”
The monster slowly pulled itself to its feet and regained the angry glint in its eye. It struck Galio with all its might, its claws raking away a piece of his head.
“You broke my crown,” said the colossus, pleasantly surprised, encouraged by the hope of a competitive fight. He struck at the beast with the bottom of his hand, swinging it down like a club with every ounce of his stone frame. The petricite fist collided with the behemoth’s flesh, and the surrounding field rang out with the cracking of gigantic bones.
The monster staggered, screaming and swinging blindly, but connecting with nothing.
Galio grabbed the giant beast around the waist in his monolithic arms and wrenched its torso, trying to break its spine. But the behemoth twisted out of his grip, and began to circle him warily before backing away.
“Wait! Our battle must be resolved!” bellowed the colossus. He started to lumber after the beast, hoping it would reconsider its decision to flee.
But the faint cries of his Demacian brethren carried to him on the wind. Without realizing, Galio had followed the monster for hundreds of feet, straying from the heart of the battle. He wanted to fight the creature, but his human comrades needed him.
As the abomination limped away into the distance, Galio gave it one last wistful gaze. “Farewell, great beast.”
He turned and thundered back to his comrades. More than half of them were lying on the ground in agony, tortured by unseen coils of power. He knew at once it was the same magic that kept him living.
The stone titan saw the terror in the soldiers’ faces, before turning to the malevolent sorcerer once more. Galio knew what he must do, and what the consequences would be.
He leapt high in the air and then came crashing down onto the mage, interrupting his vile incantation, and squashing the barbarian into the loam. The remaining invaders were routed, dropping their arms in terror and fleeing in all directions.
As the sorcerer’s magic faded, Galio felt conflicted. The animating force was draining from his body. He’d saved countless lives, but he was being dragged back to slumber.
He didn’t understand why he had no magic of his own, like all living things must have. Why had he been made this way? Had that even been his creator’s intention? As he felt the cold embrace of his dormancy returning, he took comfort that life itself was magical, and if Galio only experienced it briefly, it was worth it.
Until the final day. Until he would come to break the world’s last mage in his unyielding fists, and the stone sentinel of Demacia would awaken no more.
Gangplank

As unpredictable as he is brutal, the dethroned reaver king known as Gangplank is feared far and wide. Where he goes, death and ruin follow, and such is his infamy and reputation that the merest sight of his black sails on the horizon causes panic among even the hardiest crew.
Having grown rich preying upon the trade routes of the Twelve Seas, Gangplank has made himself many powerful enemies. In Ionia, he incurred the wrath of the deadly Order of Shadow after ransacking the Temple of the Jagged Knife, and it is said that the Grand General of Noxus himself has sworn to see Gangplank torn asunder after the pirate stole the Leviathan, Swain’s personal warship and the pride of the Noxian fleet.
While Gangplank has incurred the wrath of many, none have yet been able to bring him to justice, despite assassins, bounty hunters, and entire armadas being sent after him. He takes grim pleasure in the ever-increasing rewards posted for his head, and makes sure to nail them to the Bounty Board in Bilgewater for all to see whenever he returns to port, his ships heavy with loot.
In recent times, Gangplank has been brought down by the machinations of the bounty hunter Miss Fortune. His ship was destroyed with all of Bilgewater watching, killing his crew and shattering his aura of invincibility. Now that they have seen he is vulnerable, the gangs of Bilgewater have risen up, fighting amongst themselves to claim dominion over the port city.
Despite receiving horrific injuries in the explosion, Gangplank survived. Sporting a multitude of fresh scars, and with a newly crafted metal arm to replace his amputated limb, he is now determined to rebuild his strength, reclaim what he sees as rightfully his – and to ruthlessly punish all those who turned against him.
Blood in the Water

The massive Noxian war captain shuddered and dropped his axe as Gangplank rammed his cutlass deep into the man’s gut. Blood bubbled from the warrior’s tattooed lips as he mouthed an unheard curse.
Gangplank pulled his blade free with a sneer and shoved the dying man to the deck. He collapsed in a clatter of heavy armor, his blood mingling with the seawater sloshing across the war galley’s foredeck. The black-painted hull of Gangplank’s ship loomed above, the two vessels locked together with boarding grapples and lines.
Gangplank’s black and gold teeth gritted in suppressed pain – the Noxian had almost bested him. Nevertheless, he refused to let his crew see his weakness, forcing his lips into a wicked smile.
Wind and rain whipping at him, he turned to survey the rest of the Noxians. He’d issued a blood-challenge to the enemy captain, and now that he’d won, their will to fight evaporated.
“This ship is now mine,” Gangplank roared, loud enough to be heard over the driving gale. “Does anyone else have anything to say on the matter?”
One of the Noxians, a huge warrior with blood-cult tattoos upon his face and garbed in spiked armor glared at Gangplank.
“We are sons of Noxus,” he bellowed. “We would all gladly die before we let our ship be taken by the likes of you!”
Gangplank frowned, then shrugged.
“Fair enough,” he said, and turned away.
Gangplank favored his crew with a vicious smile.
“Kill them all,” he roared. “And burn their ship to the waterline!”
Garen

Born into the noble Crownguard family, along with his younger sister Lux, Garen knew from an early age that he would be expected to defend the throne of Demacia with his life. His father, Pieter, was a decorated military officer, while his aunt Tianna was Sword-Captain of the elite Dauntless Vanguard—and both were recognized and greatly respected by King Jarvan III. It was assumed that Garen would eventually come to serve the king’s son in the same manner.
The kingdom of Demacia had risen from the ashes of the Rune Wars, and the centuries afterward were plagued with further conflict and strife. One of Garen’s uncles, a ranger-knight in the Demacian military, told young Garen and Lux his tales of venturing outside the kingdom’s walls to protect its people from the dangers of the world beyond.
He warned them that, one day, something would undoubtedly end this time of relative peace—whether it be rogue mages, creatures of the abyss, or some other unimaginable horror yet to come.
As if to confirm those fears, their uncle was killed in the line of duty by a mage, before Garen turned eleven. Garen saw the pain this brought to his family, and the fear in his young sister’s eyes. He knew then, for certain, that magic was the first and greatest peril that Demacia faced, and he vowed never to let it within their walls. Only by following their founding ideals, and by displaying their unshakeable pride, could the kingdom be kept safe.
At the age of twelve, Garen left the Crownguard home in High Silvermere to join the military. As a squire, his days and nights were consumed by training and the study of war, honing his body and mind into a weapon as strong and true as Demacian steel. It was then that he first met young Jarvan IV—the prince who, as king, he would one day serve—among the other recruits, and the two became inseparable.
In the years that followed, Garen earned his place in the shieldwall as a warrior of Demacia, and quickly gained a fearsome reputation on the battlefield. By the time he was eighteen, he had served with honor in campaigns along the Freljordian borders, played a key role in purging fetid cultists from the Silent Forest, and fought alongside the valiant defenders of Whiterock.
King Jarvan III himself summoned Garen’s battalion back to the Great City of Demacia, honoring them before the royal court in the Hall of Valor. Tianna Crownguard, recently elevated to the role of High Marshal, singled out her nephew in particular, and recommended him for the trials necessary to join the ranks of the Dauntless Vanguard.
Garen returned home in preparation, and was greeted warmly by Lux and his parents, as well as the common people living on his family’s estate. Though he was pleased to see his sister growing into an intelligent, capable young woman, something about her had changed. He had noticed it whenever he visited, but now Garen wrestled with a real and gnawing suspicion that Lux possessed magical powers… though he never let himself entertain the idea for long. The thought of a Crownguard being capable of the same forbidden sorceries that had slain their uncle was too unbearable to confront.
Naturally, through courage and skill, Garen won his place among the Vanguard. With his proud family and his good friend the prince looking on, he took his oaths before the throne.
Lux and her mother spent much more time in the capital, in service to the king as well as the humble order of the Illuminators—yet Garen tried to keep his distance as much as possible. Though he loved his sister more than anything else in the world, some small part of him had a hard time getting close to her, and he tried not to think about what he would be forced to do if his suspicions were ever confirmed. Instead, he threw himself into his new duties, fighting and training twice as hard as he had before.
When the new Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard fell in battle, Garen found himself put forward for command by his fellow warriors, and the nomination was unopposed.
To this day, he stands resolute in the defense of his homeland, against all foes. Far more than Demacia's most formidable soldier, he is the very embodiment of all the greatest and most noble ideals upon which it was founded.
The Soldier and the Hag

The old woman pulled the rope taut around the Demacian soldier’s throat. He’d attempted to speak, which was forbidden by the rules she had laid out. One more infraction and she’d have the right to slice the head from his shoulders and use his widowpeaked helm as a chamberpot. Until then, she could only tighten her grip, hope and watch as the tendrils of memory leaked from his head into hers.
Of course, she could just decapitate him whenever she wished, but that wouldn’t be proper. Much could be said of the gray-skinned seer, but nobody could say she didn’t live by a code. By a set of rules. And without rules, where would the world be? In disarray, that’s where. Simple as that.
Until he broke those rules, she would sit here, siphoning away everything he had – his joy, his memories, his identity – until she was done with him. And then: slice. Chamberpot.
A voice screamed out in pain somewhere near the entrance of her cave. One of her sentinels, no doubt.
Then another scream.
And another.
Tonight was shaping up to be very interesting.
She could tell he was an unyielding fellow by the persistent slamming of his heavy boots onto the wet cave floor, announcing his long approach. When the echoing steps finally fell silent, a handsome, broad-shouldered man stared at her from across the cavern, the look of grim determination on his face illuminated by the den’s dim torches. Rivulets of blood dripped down his breastplate. Even from the back of the room, she could smell something sour in his armor – some sort of acidic tang that calmed the magic flowing through her veins in a way she did not like.
This would be an interesting night, indeed.
The knight, broadsword in hand, ascended the stone steps to the old woman’s makeshift rock throne.
She smiled, waiting for him to haul the blade up and bring it screaming down toward her head – he’d be in for quite the surprise once he did.
Instead, he sheathed the sword and sat on the ground.
Wordlessly, he stared into the old woman’s eyes, patiently holding her gaze. He did not break their connection even to flick his eyes in the direction of the leashed soldier at her side.
Was this a ploy to throw her off? Was he trying to wait her out, make her talk first?
Most likely.
Still, this was boring.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.
“You feed off the memories of the lost and the abandoned. Children say you are as old as the cave you inhabit. You are the Lady of the Stones,” he said with confidence.
“Ha! That’s not what they call me, and you know it. Rock Hag. That’s what they say. Afraid I’d smite you if you used that name, eh? Trying to butter me up?” she coughed.
“No,” the man replied, “I just thought it was a rude name. It’s impolite to insult someone in their home.”
The old seer chuckled until she realized he wasn’t joking.
“And yours?” she asked. “What are you called?”
“Garen Crownguard of Demacia.”
“Here are the rules, Garen Crownguard of Demacia,” she said. “You have come for your lost soldier. Correct?”
The man nodded.
“Do you intend to kill me?” the woman asked.
“I cannot lie. I think it likely that either you or I will die, yes,” he replied.
The woman chuckled.
“Eager to spill my blood, are you? Maybe you’d even succeed, with that armor.” She coiled the rope squeezing the soldier’s neck tighter around her ancient hand. “Still – if you raise your sword against me before our dealings are through, I will pull this so quickly you’ll hear the snap of his neck echo in your mind for the rest of your days.”
She yanked the leash taut for emphasis.
Garen’s gaze remained unflinchingly focused on her eyes.
“So, the rules. If you can give me a single memory I find more delicious than the accumulated memories in this one’s mind,” she said, flicking the prisoner’s helmet, “I will take it from you, and give you him.” She watched Garen’s eyes closely now for any hint of doubt. “If you cannot, well…” she tightened her grip on the soldier’s leash. “Should either of us attempt to renege on our deal, the other is entitled to take repayment however they wish, with no resistance. Do you agree?”
“I do,” he said.
“Then let me hear your opening offer. What is this soldier’s life to you? Apologies for my rudeness – I’d refer to him by name, but I’ve forgotten it already,” she said.
“I do not know his name either. He joined my battalion only recently,” Garen replied.
She frowned at the young man. He clearly did not know what he was getting into.
“I offer a memory,” he said, “from childhood. My sister and I astride my uncle’s back as he barked like a Noxian drake-hound. We laughed for many hours. It is a good memory, unsullied by what would later happen to him at the hands of one like you.”
The old woman scratched at the gelatinous film of her eye.
“You do me disrespect,” she said. “You think to trade a joyous memory as if that is all I savor.” She cupped the soldier’s head in her hand and relished the wisps of memories flowing into her mind from his. “I want... everything. The pain, the confusion, the anger. Keeps me looking young,” she laughed, dragging a twisted finger across her wrinkled cheek.
“I offer my grief, then, at my uncle’s death,” Garen said.
“Not good enough. You bore me,” said the Lady of Stones, and pulled tighter on the leash.
Garen sprang to his feet and unsheathed his sword. The hag’s heart leapt at the thought of killing the impatient young knight. But instead of attacking, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head before her, and gently placed the tip of the blade on her lap, pointed toward her midsection.
“Search my mind,” he said. “Take whatever memory you wish. I am young, but I have seen much, and experienced a life of privilege that you might find pleasurable. Should you try to take more than one memory, of course, I will push this sword through you, but any single memory is yours for the keeping.”
The woman could not help but cackle. The arrogance of this boy! He had the nerve to think one of his memories would outweigh the lifetime she could absorb from his colleague?
His courage – or ignorance – was unquestionable. One had to respect it.
Smacking her lips, she leaned over and placed her palms upon his head. She closed her eyes and peeled back the layers of his mind.
She saw triumph at the Battle of Whiterock. She tasted the lyrebuck roast at his lieutenant’s wedding feast. She felt a lonely tear fall as he held a dying comrade on the fields of Brashmore.
And then she saw his sister.
She felt his intense love for her, mixed with...something else. Fear? Disgust? Discomfort?
She pushed deeper into his mind, past his conscious memories. Her fingers probed his thoughts, pushing aside anything unrelated to the golden-haired girl with the big smile. His armor made the search far more difficult than it would have otherwise been, but the old woman persisted until–
Childhood. The two of them playing with toy figurines. His soldiers charge her mages, ready to slaughter them. She tells him it isn’t fair; they have magic, it should be an even fight. He laughs and knocks her clay mages over, batting them aside with his metal crusaders. Upset, the girl shouts and suddenly there is light shooting from her fingertips, and he is blinded, and confused, and frightened. She is taken away by their mother, but before their mother leaves the room, she kneels and tells the boy that he didn’t see what he thought he saw. It wasn’t real – just a game. The boy, his mouth agape, nods. Just a game. His sister is not a mage. She couldn’t be. He pushes the memory as deep as it can go.
Stretching her fingers, the old woman finds more and more memories like this spread amongst the knight’s childhood, each ending in a blinding splay of light. Buried deep. Cacophonous mixtures of love, fear, denial, anger, betrayal, and protectiveness.
The knight had not been wrong – these were good memories. Far juicier than those provided by the broken man.
She smiled. The knight had been clever, putting his sword to her stomach, but he wasn’t clever enough. Once she took a memory, he would forget he’d ever possessed it – she could take whatever she wanted.
Branching her fingers, she sifted through his memories, searching for anything involving the girl of light. She snatched up every single one she found before pulling out of his mind.
“Yes,” she said, opening her eyes. “This will do.” She pointed at the cave’s exit.
“Your bargain is accepted. A single memory for a single life. Take the boy and leave at once.”
Garen stood and moved to the leashed soldier. He bent down, helped the soldier up, and began to walk backward out of the cave, never once looking away from her.
Quaint. He was worried she might break the deal. Poor thing didn’t realize she already had.
The knight stopped.
He dropped his companion to the ground and charged, his eyes still locked on hers.
The old woman thrilled at his impetuous attempt. He was too big, too lumbering, too slow to ready his cumbersome sword before she would descend upon him. Her fingertips crackled with dark energy, thirsting to drink in more of his mind, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his. In them, she saw the years of luscious memories she would feast upon, until there was nothing left to –
She felt something cold inside of her. Something metal. The sour tang of the knight’s armor stronger than ever now, tickled the back of her throat.
The hag looked down to see Garen’s sword jutting from her breast. Stains of red and black seeped from the wound, dripping onto the knight’s gauntlets as he stared steadfast into her fading eyes.
He was faster than she’d thought.
“Why?” she tried to say, only to cough up a mouthful of black bile.
“You lied,” he answered.
The hag smiled, acidic tar bubbling between her teeth. “How’d you know?”
“I felt... lighter. Unburdened,” Garen replied.
He blinked.
“It didn’t feel right. Give them back.”
She thought for a moment as her blood mixed into the mud of the cold cave floor.
The hag’s fingers went numb as she placed them on Garen’s skull, forcing the memories back into his mind. He gritted his teeth with pain and when he opened his eyes, she could tell from their weariness that he’d gotten everything he wanted. The poor fool.
“Why even bother with the trade?” the old woman asked. “You are stronger than I thought. Much stronger. Leash or no, you could have sliced me to ribbons before I’d lifted a finger. Why bother letting me into your mind at all?”
“To draw first blood in a stranger’s home without giving them a chance would be...impolite.”
The hag cackled.
“Is that a Demacian rule?”
“A personal one,” Garen said, and pulled the sword out of the hag’s chest. Blood gushed from the open wound and she slumped over, dead.
He didn’t spare her another look as he picked the soldier up and began their long march back to Demacia.
And without rules, he thought to himself, where would the world be?
Gnar

Before the ice had given the Freljord its name, there existed a land brimming with wonder—that is, if one could see the world through the eyes of Gnar.
A young yordle with boundless energy, Gnar and others like him lived openly among the hardy tribes of the northlands. Though barely big enough to leave footprints in the snow, his temper rivaled that of beasts ten times his size, and he would erupt with a babble of curses the moment anything went amiss. For this reason, he felt more kinship with the greater and wiser creatures, who kept their distance from mortals. To Gnar, they looked like overgrown, white-furred yordles… and that was good enough for him.
While the tribes foraged across the tundra, gathering wild berries and tasty moss, Gnar collected more essential items, like rocks, pebbles, and the muddy remains of dead birds. His greatest treasure was the jawbone of a drüvask. When he tugged it from the cold earth, he squealed with glee and flung it as far as he could.
It landed two hops away.
Thrilled by this early success, Gnar carried his “boomerang” wherever he went. The world would try its best to offer him new delights—shiny lint, sweet nectar, round things—but none could match the pure joy he felt in throwing and catching his cherished weapon. He now considered himself a hunter, and trailed herds of wild beasts that paid him no mind.
But even he could sense change coming to the land. The sky seemed darker. The winds felt colder. The mortal tribes who had once foraged together, now appeared to hunt each other…
The big white yordles would know what to do. Gnar would go to them.
Using all of his hunting skill, he tracked them into the snow-capped peaks of a vast mountain range, much farther than he had ever wandered before. As he approached unseen, he also saw more mortals than he could count. This was exciting, but no one else seemed too happy about it.
Then the ground shook, and split apart. For the first time in Gnar’s life, it seemed as though everyone else was throwing tantrums. The mortals yelled. The big yordles roared.
But the monster’s arrival silenced them all.
Heaving itself up from the newly opened abyss, it bore huge horns, whipping tentacles, and a single eye, burning with strange light that made the fur on Gnar’s back crawl. While some mortals fled at the sight, he began to feel an odd pain in his chest—it was like the thought of losing his boomerang, or never being hugged again. This horrible thing wanted to hurt his new friends.
And this made him angry. In that moment, Gnar truly raged.
All he could see was the monster. In a flash, he was in the air, leaping toward it. In one paw, he grasped a snowball… or so he thought. In fact, it was a boulder plucked from the mountainside, for Gnar had grown as large as the big white yordles. He would send this monster back where it came from, by walloping its face!
But the blow never landed. Gnar felt a chill colder than any winter, one that seemed to turn the air itself into ice—truly, this elemental magic froze him in place, biting through his shaggy fur. Everything, including the monster, became quiet. The yordle’s strength and anger melted away. A deep tiredness crept into his limbs, and he fell softly asleep.
Gnar napped for a long time. When he finally awoke, he shook the frost from his shoulders, breathing heavily. Everyone else was gone. With no monsters to fight and no friends to protect, he felt very small and alone again.
The land was very different, too. There was snow everywhere, blanketing everything as far as his wide eyes could see. Still, he let out a happy yelp when he saw his beloved boomerang lying beside him, and scurried away to find something to hunt.
Even now, Gnar has no grasp of what took place that fateful day, nor how he escaped. He simply marvels at the world before him, with so many oddities to collect and places to explore.
The Hunter Hunted

Leslee Sullivant

The jungle does not forgive blindness. Every broken branch tells a story.
I've hunted every creature this jungle has to offer. I was certain there were no challenges left here, but now there is something new. Each track is the size of a tusklord; its claws like scimitars. It could rend a man in half. Finally, worthy prey.
As I stalk my prize through the jungle, I begin to see the damage this thing has wrought. I step into a misshapen circle of splintered trees. These giant wooden sentinels have stood over this land for countless ages, their iron-like hides untouched by the flimsy axes of anyone foolish enough to attempt to cut them down. This thing brushed them aside like they were twigs.
How can a creature with this level of strength disappear so easily? And yet, even though it has left this unmistakable trail of destruction, I have been unable to lay my eye upon it. How can it appear like a hurricane then fade into the jungle like the morning mist?
I thrill in anticipation of finally standing before this creature. It will make a tremendous trophy.
Passing through the clearing, I follow the sound of a stream to get my bearings once more. There I see a small shock of orange fur, crouching, waiting. I spy on it from a distance. A tiny fish splashes out of the stream and the creature scrambles for it, diving gleefully into the rushing water. To my joy, I realize it's a yordle. And a hunter, at that!
This is a good omen. The beast will be found. Nothing will escape me.
The yordle's large ears perk up and face toward me. He runs on all fours with a bone boomerang in hand, quickly stopping in front of me. He babbles.
I nod in appreciation at the young yordle and venture onward. I traverse the difficult terrain with ease, trying to pick up any sign of my quarry. As I try to pick up his scent, a distraction. I'm startled by strange chittering. The yordle followed me. I cannot allow him to disrupt my hunt. I face him and point into the distance. He looks at me quizzically. I need to be more insistent, good omen or no.
I rear back and let out a roar, the wind whipping the yordle's fur and the ground rumbling beneath us. After a few short seconds, he turns his head and, with what I think could be a smile, he holds up his small boomerang. There can be no further delay. I snatch the weapon out of his hand and expertly throw it into a tree, impaling it high amongst the branches. He turns and scrambles for it, jumping frantically.
I barely get ten paces when a roar shakes me to my very spine. The deafening crack of stone and wood echoes all around. Ahead, a giant tree crashes across my path. The bone weapon of the yordle juts out from its trunk.
An unearthly growl rises behind me.
I've made a terrible mistake.
Gragas

The only thing more important to Gragas than fighting is drinking. His unquenchable thirst for stronger ale has led him in search of the most potent and unconventional ingredients to toss in his still. Impulsive and unpredictable, this rowdy carouser loves cracking kegs as much as cracking heads. Thanks to his strange brews and temperamental nature, drinking with Gragas is always a risky proposition.

Gragas has an eternal love of good drink, but his massive constitution prevented him from reaching a divine state of intoxication. One night, when he had drained all the kegs and was left wanting, Gragas was struck by a thought rather than the usual barstool: why couldn't he brew himself something that would finally get him truly drunk? It was then that he vowed to create the ultimate ale.

Gragas' quest eventually brought him to the Freljord, where the promise of acquiring the purest arctic water for his recipe led him into uncharted glacial wastes. While lost in an unyielding blizzard, Gragas stumbled upon a great howling abyss. There he found it: a flawless shard of ice unlike anything he had ever seen. Not only did this unmelting shard imbue his lager with incredible properties, but it also had a handy side effect - it kept the mixture chilled at the perfect serving temperature.

Under the spell of his new concoction, Gragas headed for civilization, eager to share the fermented fruits of his labor. As fate would have it, the first gathering to catch Gragas' bleary eyes would shape the future of the Freljord. He blundered into a deteriorating negotiation between two tribes discussing an alliance with Ashe. Though Ashe welcomed a break in the tension, the other warriors bristled at the intrusion and hurled insults at the drunken oaf. True to his nature, Gragas replied with a diplomatic headbutt, setting off a brawl matched only in the legends of the Freljord.

When the fallen from that great melee finally awoke, Ashe proposed a friendly drink as an alternative to fighting. With their tempers doused in suds, the two tribes, formerly on the brink of war, bonded over a common love of Gragas' brew. Although strife was averted and Gragas hailed a hero, he still had not achieved his dream of drunken blissfulness. So once more, he set off to wander the tundra in search of ingredients for Runeterra's perfect pint.
A Well-Earned Tip

Laura Michet

Up in the mountains that separate Demacia from the Freljord, there aren’t a lot of jobs that pay coin. Some pay in furs, or in loaves of frost-hard bread... But Aegil’s baby sister was born sickly. The family needed coin to keep her well-fed, and to buy her medicine.
So Aegil’s father cut a deal with Aegil’s uncle, Jasper. Aegil would become a servant in Jasper’s inn at the mountain pass, selling ale to passing traders.
“Work hard, all right?” Aegil’s mother told him. “For your sister.”

One night, a season after Aegil started working for Jasper, a whole crowd of customers arrived just as the inn was closing. It was strange for travelers to arrive so late after nightfall in the winter.
Jasper peered out the window. “I don’t know them,” he said, tugging nervously on his wild black beard.
The door slammed open and a crowd of shaggy-haired men thumped inside, shaking the snow from their boots and cloaks. They parted ranks, and an old fellow with a velvet-trimmed cloak approached the bar.
“Good evening,” he said with a Great City accent. “Our business associate is arriving in a few minutes. What’s on offer?”
Uncle Jasper pointed numbly at the drink list hanging behind the bar. There were twelve brews there—an impressive selection for this part of the Demacian hinterlands. But one by one, the guards all ordered the absolute cheapest: Forsyn’s Red. Aegil had never tasted any other beer, but even he knew it wasn’t good stuff. That’s why it was so cheap.
Aegil hurried into the back room where the kegs were kept to pour their ale. As the skunky beverage foamed into the cups, he wondered how much these guests would tip. Would he get one big tip from the leader, or eleven small tips, one from each? His heart raced.
Then Aegil heard a heavy step on the path outside. The door creaked open... and the next step made the tavern floorboards groan.
Aegil wheeled the drink cart out into the main room. The newcomer was the absolute biggest man he’d ever seen. His head scraped the ceiling beams. His limbs were pure muscle, as thick as tree trunks, and his face was covered in a bristly red beard. The grisly scars criss-crossing his vast sides looked like he’d really lived through the gruesome battles Jasper’s drunken patrons liked to brag about.
The velvet-clad man raised his hand toward the stranger. “Gragas, I presume?” he called.
Gragas didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the drinks list hanging behind the bar.
“You are Gragas? The brewer?” the merchant repeated impatiently.
Gragas turned his huge shoulders and gave the little old man a red-faced glare. With a voice so loud it reminded Aegil of an old god speaking from below the snowpack, the newcomer growled, “I’m buyin’ a drink.”
The air in the room felt like it does when a thunderstorm gathers overhead. Aegil began handing out the ales. His hands were shaking.
“What’s that ‘Karsten-Flower’ stuff?” Gragas asked Jasper, pointing at the list. “What flower’s that?”
“That’s just the brewer’s name,” Jasper said. “It ain’t got flowers in it. Sorry.”
“Hmmm,” Gragas rumbled.
Aegil handed out the final drink to the old merchant, then stood patiently, waiting for his tip... but the merchant ignored him. His glinting gaze was fixed on the huge newcomer—like a fox’s eyes before the pounce.
“I’ll take... the Sungold Porter,” Gragas announced. “That’s a precious one, I’ve heard.” Jasper scurried into the back to pour it, and Gragas thumped over to the table to sit down. “Now, what d’ya have for me?” he asked.
The old merchant started digging around in his huge coat. “I heard you’re in the market for Shuriman goods,” he said. “Floodplain grains. Cactus blooms.”
“I’m... innerested,” Gragas said.
The merchant noticed Aegil standing there. “Shoo, boy,” he said.
Aegil froze. No tip?
“I said shoo,” the merchant snapped. All the guards laughed.
Tears starting at the corners of his eyes, Aegil hurried into the keg room behind the bar. Jasper was pacing back there, tugging nervously at his beard.
“Damn that man,” Jasper seethed. “The Sungold Porter? I don’t have any!”
“We ran out?”
“We never had it! I can’t afford to stock any of those rare ales. They’re on offer to impress people. Almost nobody orders them—they’re too expensive! And when they do, I just mix some stuff together! Nobody can tell!”
To Aegil, this seemed like stealing. “You should tell the big man,” he said.
Jasper laughed. “Why? It doesn’t hurt anyone. I have a business to run, boy! One glass of the porter is a week of earnings here at the inn.” Jasper squared his shoulders. “He won’t be able to tell.”
Jasper snatched a massive stein off one of the hooks on the wall and started filling it at the Forsyn’s tap... then Eigen Ale... then Karsten-Flower.
As that murky mixture foamed toward the brim, Aegil realized he’d have to deliver Gragas the concocted drink. Cold washed over him like a night wind over the snow. When Jasper thunked the stein into his outstretched hands, he almost fell over.
“Keep a straight face!” Jasper ordered.
Aegil thought of his sister. He thought of money clinking in his palm. Then he tottered forward across the empty floor of the inn, struggling to hold the stein aloft.
Gragas’ booming voice filled the room. “...The recipe I’m working on has a very spicy taste already. I need somethin’ to balance it out.”
As Aegil approached the table, the merchant leaned forward. “So. We arrive at the real business.”
“Yeah,” Gragas grunted. “The real business.”
The merchant reached inside his coat and drew out a palm-sized lockbox covered in gold and glinting jewels.
The shining box was absolutely the most valuable thing Aegil had ever seen in his life—it was probably worth ten lifetimes of Jasper’s smelly ale. Standing near it felt like standing beside the sun.
“Azir’s Tears,” the merchant said. “Ancient heirloom spice. Ground from tomb-herbs found only in the ruins of the Sun Disc. The Sun Emperors used it to season their mead.”
“Really...” Gragas said.
“When I heard about your quest—the greatest ale ever brewed! Well, I immediately sought out the Tears. The trades I had to make! The spice is worth a fortune, but I knew you’d be good for it.”
Gragas nodded slowly, thinking. Aegil suddenly realized that if anyone was going to be able to notice a substitute drink it would be a master brewer on a quest to make the perfect beer. He reached for the stein, thinking frantically of an excuse—
But he was too slow. Gragas noticed Aegil, and the beer sitting at his elbow. “Thanks, boy,” he said, and grabbed the stein himself.
He drank deep—and immediately, Aegil saw his bushy eyebrows furrow. His nostril twitched. His bearded lip curled into a hint of a grimace. His gaze traveled across the room... and fixed on Jasper.
Aegil felt like he was going to melt. He knows we’re tricking him!
But the master brewer did not shout out his displeasure. Instead, Gragas held his hand out for the jeweled box.
“So lemme see,” he said. “Show me your perfect spices.”
The merchant handed it over. Gragas lifted the lid of the lockbox and sniffed.
And again, his nostril twitched. That sensitive sense of smell had found another flavor that troubled it.
Aegil felt his heart stop. They’re tricking him too. It’s a FAKE!
One forgery was forgivable. Two? Over the same pint? Not as much. Gragas glanced at Aegil—just for a moment.
It was warning enough. Aegil dove away from the table like a snow hare leaping for the safety of the treeline.
Then Gragas stood. He flipped the table as he rose, and simultaneously, each one of the guards produced jagged hatchets from beneath their cloaks.
Gragas just took out his fists.
Aegil saw only bits of the ensuing fight. He saw the merchant flee toward the bar... then Gragas followed with huge strides. There was a sound like an explosion. Jasper gave a high-pitched scream and skittered straight out the front door. Then the kegs all rolled across the floor toward the guards, a thundering avalanche spraying ale and foam in every direction. It flattened them—all but one, who hid behind a table, then popped up, ready to throw his axe—
But Gragas grunted, a barrel flew across the room, and the guard simply vanished. So did half of the back wall. Aegil heard the guard’s tiny scream disappear down the mountainside.
Aegil crawled out from under a table to see Gragas pouring the grey, dusty contents of the shiny lockbox onto the groaning merchant at his feet.
“Mummy dust,” he growled. “Have some respect!”
Then he caught sight of Aegil. His wild brows narrowed. “Boy,” he called. His booming voice made shards of broken glass tremble on the floor. “Come here!”
Cautiously, Aegil approached. He thought of his sister. He wondered whether he could run faster than a thrown barrel.
“Tell the innkeep to go lighter on the Forsyn’s next time,” Gragas said.
Then Aegil saw the lockbox in the master brewer’s outstretched hand. A huge smile parted that bushy red beard.
“Yer tip.”

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