[Story] Gaius of the Rakkor

The following is an account of Gaius of the Rakkor tribe of Mount Targon.

"It was my birthday.

My parents woke me early for breakfast. The table was more full than I had ever seen, the pine wood barely visible among the plates and platters that rested on it. I had an entire loaf of bread to myself and a fair sized slab of goat flank. While I gleefully choked down mouth-fulls of bread; my parents barely ate nor did they say a word. When I would look at them, their mouths would form hesitant smiles yet their eyes betrayed their concern. After all, it was my birthday.

After breakfast, my father helped me to prepare for the day's festivities. First; we bathed. The water was warm as it cascaded over my body; heated by a small coal fire underneath. Once finished, I dressed in a sackcloth tunic and pants. Over these, my father tied on a decorative leather fauld. This was the first time I had worn the piece; though I had helped in its creation.  I strapped on my sandals and made for the door, but not before my father caught my shoulder in his hand.

I turned and gazed up at him. He was a large man, standing a head and a half above me. Before he spoke, he kneeled down on one knee and prompted me to do the same. His mouth opened several times, but his words seemed to have escaped him. With a sigh, he instead pulled me into his chest. The embrace lasted several moments; all the while I was eager to be going. His hand brushed my hair down and he looked at me as if appraising a gem. I smiled to him and he responded in kind, but only for an instant. Still wordless, he stood and pressed me to go out through the cloth curtain that was our door. He tarried in the house for a moment more and appeared with his shield, a family heirloom -- gilded in bronze with a large shined iron mirror in the middle. Around the flange, decorative chiseling depicted the sun in the various seasons.

Mother joined us as we made our way through the streets. The simple houses were decorated with laurel and paint in preparation for the solstice. Several more were painted in honor of their children who would be undertaking the Rite of Kor that evening. We made our way to the clearing that was dubbed "the arena" to watch the commencement ceremony and the duels. 

Jagen called forth the first pair, a girl and a boy, who would have the honors of the first fight. Their fathers stood beside Jagen, debating the weapons that would be used. The girl was given a net and a trident while the male was given a rectangular shield, a gladius, and a helmet with a large plume on it. As the pair were being dressed and attended by their mothers, their fathers fastened their family relics on ceremonial totems and erected them on either side of Jagen. The boy's family were apparently archers, as their weapon looked to me like a bow while the girl's family had a beautiful two bladed sword as the stake. 

Looking around, I marveled at the beauty of all of the metalwork which people had brought with them. Swords, shields, pikes, all made to shine golden. My father would tell me, when I was younger, that these relics were magical. I was skeptical, back then, about the magic of his shield. He made claim that it could reflect magic back at its user. When I gazed upon it; however, I only saw my own distorted reflection.

A low horn sounded and resounded across the mountain, the signal to begin. The pair flew into the fray, motions too hectic for me to recount. If memory serves, the boy managed to win but not before taking a trident to the leg while struggling in the net.

There was no cheering after the fight. The girl's body was pulled away in two parts and the boy limped to Jagen to be exalted and to have a seat of honor to watch the rest of the bouts of that day. The totems were pulled down and the relics removed."

-----Chapter 2-----

"It was finally my turn.

My turn to become a man. I walked with my father and mother to the field, letting a smile cross my face. My opponent did not seem so happy with his lot. I had known the boy; we spent most of our lives together. I knew he was a fierce warrior, but I would not be dissuaded. 

My father won me a sword and buckler in the negotiations. For my opponent, a trident and kettle helm. The choice confused me severely, but in my state I saw it as him handicapping himself. I strapped the wooden buckler to my arm and swung the sword a few times. It was not a gladius. It had one sharp edge leading up to a spike on the dull edge. It gave the blade a wicked look, but I highly question the validity of it.

We took our paces on the field. The mountain wind was cold on my skin. As we turned to one another, the crowd grew ever more silent -- it was deafening. I looked into their faces, gaunt with hunger and sorrow. They did not want to see this. I spied a pair of Solari among them -- it was unusual for the Solari to watch the Rakkor rites; too brutish for them.

My parents stood arm in arm as they watched; hopeful, yet already their minds were wracked with macabre scenarios. I shook them out of my thoughts. My fingers rolled over the cloth wrapped hilt of the sword in anticipation. Everything was still. 

A low bellow echoed in my chest; our signal to begin. We closed the twenty foot gap in a matter of seconds. Too fast for him to properly position his trident for a first strike. He glanced off my shield and I met his sternum with the rim of it. As he staggered backwards, I could already see the bruise forming across his pecks. A grunt echoed around in his helmet as he pushed forward, jumping into me with the back end of the trident. 

The force of the hit surprised me. He immediately began to jab at me with the trident, catching the shield with each blow. Every time the prongs would hit the wood, I could feel and hear the shield shattering. I tried to count the blows: 7, 8 -- He must be tiring himself out. During a lull between hits, I dared to look out from behind my shield. He was winding up for a hard drive. Instinctively, I pulled my shield closer to my chest. As he extended the trident passed his body, I slammed my shield into it. The head of the trident shattered, as did my shield. While he was stunned by the loss of his weapon, I swung my sword against his head, denting the helmet, but not piecing it. He was sent careening towards the ground.

As I caught my breath, a thronging in my arm drew my attention. The shield had left a half foot splinter jammed into my forearm. I could see the shape of the wood underneath the skin and stifled a cry as the pain flooded my brain. I looked to my opponent; he lay motionless, so I dropped my sword and grabbed the splinter. The contact tugged at my flesh and I let out a cry of pain. Blood oozed from the wound and down my arm. My vision became blurred by the pain. I grabbed the splinter again and pulled, my flesh screamed as I ripped the splinter out. My arm was ruined! Moving my left hand caused torrents of blood to fall down my arm. I dropped the bloody splinter to the ground.

Holding my wound to my chest, I bent down to pick back up my sword. As I stood, a sharp pain pierced through my chest. I looked around, confused as to the origin of this pain. Crowds of people blurred together as my eyes caught him. My opponent had gotten back up. I looked down to behold his trident pole pierced into my chest -- jutting out several feet from my sternum. My breath caught and strength fled from my arms. My sword again dropped into the dust and I to my knees. He began walking toward me. 

I looked at my parents. They wore steeled faces even as tears fell down their cheeks. He continued to walk towards me. I saw the Solari, they had turned their backs and were walking away. He was almost upon me. I saw myself; hatred filled me that fate ordained that I die and he live. Rage built up in what was left of my chest.  I spit and shouted at him, "Hell take you, Panthe--"

He drove the splintered stick all the way through my back with his foot and my world fell silent."

-----Chapter 3-----

"I awoke with a start

I sat up, sputtering and coughing as my breath sat trapped in my chest. My body was stiff, as if I had slept on the floor again (something I was accustomed to). As my breathing became sustained, I opened my eyes. Columns of light filtered through the canopy above me; dancing in a cold breeze. I did not recognize the trees, at the time; each as big around as a house. 

The ground under me was covered in moss and dew, slimy and cool to the touch. A dull thud sounded and resounded through the trees, dampened by the sound of rustling leaves. I stood and brushed the dust off myself. I aimlessly wandered towards the sound, each step loosening rigid limbs.  The thud grew more distinct -- it was a shovel moving dirt.

I came upon the origin of the noise, a hunched silhouette picking at the ground with a worn shovel. The clearing was cast in shadow by the dense canopy overhead -- long arms of moss dangling from the branches -- still in the deadened wind. The figure was lit by a small lantern on a pole behind him. 

Standing behind him, I watched the flame; dancing endlessly without candle or wood to sustain it. He continued to hack at the ground, three or four feet deep. I spied a blank headstone on the far end of the hole, a grave. Was he digging a fresh one or robbing an old one? It didn't matter. 

I only wished to watch him work.

A strange thud shook my trance. It was metal hitting wood. I blinked as the headstone lit in an ethereal fire. As it danced across the smooth stone surface, it left an engraving: 'Bartholemew Briggans, Admiral of Noxus'. The gravedigger was pushing a coffin towards me from inside the pit. His voice was low and gruff as he barked the orders to me, "You, thrall, lift the damn casket." Even with the strange epithet, I knew he was referring to me. As I pulled the casket from the ground, the fire on the gravestone was snuffed and it was again a smooth marble rock. 

I began to pull the casket back out of the clearing, towards where I entered as the gravedigger started shoveling dirt back into the empty grave.

You look confused, summoner, perhaps I need to explain. At this point in my story; I was what we refer to as a 'thrall' -- a mind-slave. I had not developed a will of my own, I had no personality, nor any memories. I was there as a worker and soldier to the Shadow Isles. "