1001 Runeterran Nights - Lovely Style
*[Author's notes: I have some time on my hands at night and unfortunately a very poor connection currently to play games on, so I've decided to do a little bit of writing practice by creating a short story involving each of the champions in League of Legends in turn of release date. How long can I keep this up? Goodness knows.
Ground rules for myself:
-Use the most current lore as the basis for each story -Each short story should feel satisfactory as a self-contained episode -Avoid creating characters of my own which would create hard connections in the ongoing story and world.
Since the first 20 or so champions were released on the same day, I'm mostly going to go through these at random. Tristana is my first pick, and boy did I regret that decision. She is maybe the very hardest champion to write a compelling story about which encapsulates the most important snapshots of their character. There is just so much there and yet so little to go on at the same time with her background. In a way, Tristana is the every-yordle. I settled on a story which in some ways is as much intended as an introduction to yordles as I see the race as it is Tristana herself]*
Story #1 - Tristana (alternative title: Thirty Paces)
“What is this filth, furball?”
The bandit leader aimed a swift kick at the yordle merchant trembling near his boots, allowing himself a malicious grin as the elderly yordle’s resentful gaze followed his outstretched hand to settle on the bundles of goods being ripped apart by several sets of strong hands belonging to the bandit’s followers. Swallowing, the yordle began to respond
“Medi-“
“Of course I know medicinal herbs when I see ‘em!” the bandit interrupted, punctuating with another kick, “You must think I’m some kind of idiot, is that it?”
Leering closer to the trembling merchant, the bandit almost laughed as he recognized the expression was almost as much rage as fear. Fiesty creatures, these furballs! This was the fourth caravan his gang had seized on their little vacation while they waited for tempers and vigilance of patrols on the Demacian borderlands to cool. They were met with the same expression of bewildered anger from the victims of each of their hits. The bandit hadn’t had much of a chance to learn about this diminutive race yet, but he had learned they were equal parts industrious and fiercely proud. He was well pleased to reap the benefits of the former trait, but he would have to swiftly deal with the latter if any sort of living was to be made in his new hunting grounds.
“Word doesn’t travel fast enough around here,” the bandit sneered, stooping and resting the point of a long, thin knife square between the old yordle’s eyes, “You ought to know to have your coin bags ready for the-“
It was the bandit’s turn to be interrupted as two chunks of metal whistled into the thick of his men with deadly precision in close succession, erupting into fragments which caused all hit to scream and reel in agony.
“Oh, I’d say word travel’s fast enough, brigand.”
The bandit leader cursed inwardly, but maintained composure as yordles in light military attire seemed to step in from behind the bends and ditches around the path. Megling Commandos. Bandle City’s famous sharpshooters. Each of the diminutive ambushers wielded a rifle or hand cannon of some sort, though all somewhat crudely personalized and lacking the sense of uniformity that a formal Demacian patrol might bring.
“That was a warning shot, by the way. You’re lucky we found you first,” the yordle who appeared to be the leader of the squad continued, “You’ll have the kindness of being investigated and punished according to your crimes.”
Less than a dozen of the furballs, it seemed. Even with the severe injuries some had suffered from the surprise attack, the bandit was confident his men could overpower those few yordles, but he was a shrewd man and had learned a thing or two about stacking the odds in this kind of situation with the Demacian guards.
“Alright, I know when I’m beaten. We won’t make a fuss."
Surrendering obediently along with their leader, the rest of the thieves waited in turn as their captors relieved them of weapons and pocketed treasures to be returned to the merchant.
“Tristana, you didn’t need to catch up to us!” the leader of the yordle squad called out to a latecomer lugging a cannon larger than herself and breathing heavily as if having sprinted a large distance.
“Aw, captain. I always hafta stay away from the action,” the young yordle lamented, in between breaths.
“Not much action to see, but you can keep guard on this scum with me until we get back to the outpost.”
The bandit looked at the yordle assigned to his guard. Young, bright-eyed, and eager. The bandit felt the knife hidden away in his sleeve and did his best to give a mournful look to the new arrival. He could almost feel bad about taking advantage of the child-like creatures.
During the hour-long march back to the outpost, the bandit leader plied the tricks of his trade. He simpered and cajoled, told heart-wrenching stories about the troubles that had led him to his life of crime, acted beaten and dejected to let his captors drop their guard.
It was quite easy to strike up a conversation with the cheery female yordle called Tristana. Indeed, it was difficult to get her off the topic of the Megling Commandos’ legacy, which she regaled the captives with at length with obvious awe and innocent, shining eyes. Supposedly these were the finest soldiers Bandle City had to offer.
“Legends say Megling could shoot the tip of a falling leaf off at thirty paces,” Tristana told him for the third time, adding with a bubbly laugh, “I’m trying to do it at forty paces, but it’s really hard to do with my cannon shot!”
The rest of the yordles soon joined in with Tristana’s infectious good-nature, joking and laughing about some upcoming festival at home. Soft. Undisciplined. If these were the finest soldiers of Bandle City, the bandits would enjoy a few months of luxury squeezing the yordles’ trade routes for all they were worth. Their leader felt ashamed at his gang for being surprised by the furballs in the first place. He would have a few words and a few whippings in store for the lookouts later. In the meantime…
A piercing hawk’s cry echoed across the wilderness. The bandit leader grinned. It was about time the rest of his band of thugs picked up the trail. His hidden blade suddenly flashed out, pressing against the throat of the leader of the Commandos and forcing the yordle in front of him as a shield.
“Well, it’s been fun, but my boys are here to slaughter the lot of you if I see any funny movements. Now, drop your weapons!”
The bandit let out a mocking, victorious laugh, but it soon died on his lips. Regarding him with blank unconcern, the rest of the yordles kept their weapons levelly trained on the captured bandits.
“Do you need a hand, Tristana?” he heard the Megling captain ask.
“No, captain! I have one more shot than I need!” came the bright reply.
Tree limbs, rocks and foliage erupted in a shower of flaming metal. The bandit leader could not count the number of shots fired over the deafening noise, but somehow he knew it was the exact same as the number of his men closing in. As the rumble faded, he licked dry lips and gave a lonely sounding call into the brush. No response.
Lowering the smoking barrel of her weapon, Tristana regarded the bandit with an almost apologetic smile.
“Thirty paces away. Really? And after we gave you so many warnings.”
Face flushed with excitement and eyes shimmering, Tristana added, “To tell you the truth, they say Megling could shoot the tip off a falling leaf at sixty paces!”