The Darkin Will
The war was hopeless. They had suffered defeat after defeat, receiving no mercy even as the wounded fled from battle. All morale had vanished from the soldiers as if their very essence had been drained away. Looking at each man, at each face, the same thing was seen over and over again: Fear. No one knew what would happen, only that the war was lost. They were outnumbered and their enemy had but one goal in mind; to destroy them forever. There would not be any mercy, only the flash of steel. There would be no more fighting, only another massacre of ill willed men.
There was only but so much the body could take, only so much the mind could endure, and those limits had been pushed beyond even the strongest willed warrior. All they could do was wait, wait for the approaching army, wait for their ever closer demise. Even the general who led the legion of men was broken, beaten and battered by the relentless enemy. The general's men were poorly quipped, most of their gear damaged or missing. Some soldiers even lacked appropriate gear, everything from missing armor to dented or broken weapons. The remaining soldiers had fought and fought, with little sleep between fighting and even less food consumed. For every man they had, the enemy had seven more to replace the first should he grow tired of swinging a sword.
Before them, the ranks of their enemy marched closer, each of their faces hidden behind their helmets and shields with only narrow slits for eyes. The men stirred, but very few took up arms. The few who did moved to the front of the remnant legion, raising their shields and swords for one final fight. It was a hopeless fight, and even the brave few who stood knew it would only be a matter of time. From his position, the general stood with shield and sword, although his arms hung limp at his side. He observed the enemy closely, knowing they had at least seven more men for every one he commanded. To consider the reality that not every soldier would fight for him reduced the chances of victory to an impossible feat.
When the approaching army was but a hundred paces away, the general lifted his shield and sword, preparing himself for his ultimate fate. There was no easy way to accept this fate, only to fight it rather than sit and watch. Movement to his side caught the general's eye, causing him to turn and look down from his perch atop a small hill. Below, a dark and oddly shaped figure walked briskly through the ranks of the legion toward the front of the battle lines, armed with only a curiously shaped sword. From where the general stood, he heard the voice of the strange man, a deep and commanding voice, say, "Some fight for honor, some fight for glory. It matters only that you fight."
As if to compliment the figure's words, the men closest to him took up arms and followed him to the battle lines where the enemy was less than fifty paces away. "Even those who have nothing can give their lives," the newcomer said as he assumed the head of the legion. Standing just ahead of the front line, the man rolled his shoulders, revealing some sort of wings arcing off of his back and falling behind him like flags. Whoever the man was, the general knew that he was not one of his soldiers.
As the enemy army met with the strange man, there was a moment of complete silence before a deep voice echoed over the land. His words were lost as an army collided, noise exploding into existence as metal hit metal and blade met flesh. There were flashes of red where the strange man would resurface amongst the enemy soldiers, his body and blade moving as if one, before disappearing once more into the chaos of battle.
One by one, more and more of the legion's men stood and joined the fighting. First, the closest stood, then like a wave, the men behind those stood and joined the fighting. Two armies melded together in a see of death, but one thing was obvious from where the general stood; more of the enemies were falling than were his own men.
It was like a sudden wave of confidence had hit the general, not because of what he saw, rather what he felt. It was as if the very battle before him had come to life and was sinking into his flesh, releasing the willpower to fight into his limbs so that he might throw himself at one last foe. The will to fight rushed through the general, a once glorious feeling now returned on the eve of his own destruction. Lifting his sword into the air, the general shouted one last command before the remains of his army: "Charge!"
Each and every remaining soldier took up arms and rushed at their enemy. A renewed thirst for blood surged through the ranks, each man fighting with the strength of ten warriors. When victory was at last at hand, the enemy army began their retreat, but just as they had been treated, the general showed no mercy to his crippled nemesis. While the mysterious man had vanished after the initial fight, the fury of the legion did not. With so little losses, they pushed back and defeated every last person who stood in their way.
When the war was at last over, the men of the legion returned home as heroes, hailed for their acts of courage and honor in the face of defeat. While they may have defeated their sworn enemy, something from the war lingered in each of the surviving warriors minds. Within themselves, there remained a darkness, an irrefutable fact that they had each committed atrocities with their own hands. No matter how much they resisted or tried to forget, each of the warriors still had a part of the mysterious man living within them, threatening to reawaken should the need arise once more.
-The Roadkill
NOTES: This story is based on a lot of lore that already exists, and all credit goes to the respectful authors of Riot Games. I only took what was already solid lore and added the twist of seeing it through a spectators eyes rather than as the legends of lore hold it within the League of Legends lore. Feel free to let me know what you think, or if you perhaps want to see more of my writing. I wont know if it is good or not unless someone gives me feedback, so leave a comment :P
