Fiction: -- Westward the Eye --

+-- Westward the Eye --+

There is a place far across the barren body of the desert, an oasis town called Khoriphe. Sight of it lying upon the sands is a joyous one, for its bright clay buildings and lush palms mark the only refuge from the sun’s heat for leagues. Out there, weary souls may finally find food, drink and respite from their harsh travel. It does not matter who they are, or where they hail from, but only that they are alive. The desert does such things to those who make it their home. All are who the sun makes them, and from parched lips comes an understanding of what it means to survive.

Beneath the night sky, peppered by starlight, a traveler rode silently into Khoriphe. He clad himself entirely in black and white linen, stitched with intricately swirling patterns. Upon his back were strapped a pair of twin swords sheathed in fine wooden scabbards, each covered by a thin coat of lacquer and masterfully wound with grips of silk. They spoke with quiet pride of their eastern design, as did the man himself, far from his home.

Dismounting his camel, the traveler stepped neatly onto the dusty ground. “よくできたね.” He whispered to the tired animal, giving it pet on its neck. Then he led it to a water trough outside a nearby building, largest in all the oasis.

Like a chunk of glacier it rose from the streetside, a tavern dyed the most vibrant blue. From within, faint echoes of boisterous noise rolled out into the night. Atop its doorway hung a sign that simply read: Saphi.

The traveler gave the tavern a wary glance as he tied his camel’s lead to a post. Walking up to the doorway, he pushed his way inside.

Saphi was packed, it seemed, with the entire population of Khoriphe. Each table had been filled with raucous customers, clinking drinks and singing loud. Two panicked servers carried a constant stream of trays laden with fresh pours and weaved through sweetly scented hookah smoke. In the corner of the tavern, a man and woman played music with curious stringed instruments, always hovering just beneath the merriment—professionals. Even the bar was nearly full. There a huge man ambled behind the counter, mixing drinks for all, a friendly smile smacked upon his face.

The traveler made for the bar and its one empty seat. As he sat, the massive bartender trundled over, a picture of cheer.

“In from the wastes, friend? What’ll it be, tonight?”

The traveler spied a table of men and women chugging their drinks madly. “I’ll have what they’re having.” He said, throwing a thumb in the direction of the exuberant bunch.

The bartender laughed buoyantly. “Hahaha! Excellent, one pint of desert ale coming up!”

As he went to fill a glass, the traveler took a closer look around the room. Large banks of candles were lit upon a number of small tables here and there. Between them tapestries of linen, the same as his clothing, were hung liberally, some depicting scenes of the desert, others beautiful patterns. Above the bar a link of prayer flags were strung on a thin line. The light of a ceiling lamp shone brightly through them and make their colors pop like stained glass. Behind these flags and upon the back wall, right above the well drinks, was displayed a magnificent battle blade, the weapon of a knight.

The bartender returned quickly with the pint of ale. “Here you are, enjoy.”

“What is that?” The traveler asked, pointing at the sword above while accepting the drink.

The bartender turned and stared at the blade, a look of nostalgia cooling his features. “Ah, that, my friend, is an old companion of mine. I’m afraid all she does now is keep watch over Saphi, but once upon a time she wasn’t quite so amiable—if you catch my drift.”

The traveler gave the man a steady look. “That blade has oft been described to me by my clan. It is said that he who wields it has the strength of ten men and has never been bested in battle. Marvelous, no?”

A shout echoed from the other end of the bar. “Garen! Another pint!”

The bartender, Garen, waved his hand at the caller. “Just a moment! I’ll be right with you!” Then he turned back to the traveler, a proud look in his eye. “Tis true, I never have been bested. Tell me, what else did your clan have to say? What stories?”

Sensing the man’s ego slipping into their conversation, the traveler adopted an air of mock disappointment. “Oh, this and that. Stories of grandeur and heroism. It’s a shame you gave it up battling, I would have enjoyed seeing your fabled strength with my own eyes. But I suppose age comes to us all, someday…”

“Age?” Garen slapped a hand down upon the countertop. “I’ll show you age! I'm just as sharp as I've ever been.” He searched for one of the servers carrying drinks about the tavern and waved to catch his attention. “Oi! Martin! Bring out a fresh cask. I’ll be punching drinks tonight!”

Immediately a loud cheer rang out from all within the tavern.

“Hear that? Punching drinks!”

“Hit ‘em hard, Garen!”

“Give us a show!”

“Haahaa! Bring it out, big man!”

An exceedingly drunk man fell off his chair. “Gon’n ye’, punch’n’drinks, hiccup, Gar’n! YeehaoO!”

The traveler, amidst these outbursts, eyed Garen suspiciously. “What is it you have in store for me, exactly?”

Garen finished rolling up his sleeves. “Looks like you’ll get to see an old battler’s fabled strength after all.” He said with a wink.

The server, Martin, came back into the room rolling an immense cask of desert ale. With the aid of several others, he lifted it onto the bar. Everyone who sat there quickly cleared a space.

The traveler got up from his seat, too, and backed away into the crowd, arms crossed, intrigued.

Then Garen walked onto the scene. Raising both hands high, he bellowed, “Are you thirsty, lads and ladies?”

All and sundry raised their mugs to the air, yelling wildly. A group had even raised the drunken man above their shoulders so he could see.

Approaching the cask, Garen lowered his stance and brought a clenched fist to his waist. He stood completely still. After a few moments he exhaled deeply, then, as if his fist were a cannonball, punched straight through the cask’s bottom. Ale began pouring out fast, and everyone rushed wildly forward to get a shot at the amber liquid. Garen stepped back to let the drinkers fill their cups.

The traveler clapped in admiration, shouting, “You certainly still seem to pack quite the punch!”

Garen smiled as he approached. “Hahaha! That I do, and don’t forget it! So, have you seen what you’d hoped?”

“Yes, I have, indeed.” Said the traveler. “And it has left me wanting to repay you in kind with a display of my own. May I?”

Garen brought a hand pensively to his chin. “A display of your own, huh? Well, sure, I’d like to see that! Oi! Make room, everybody, we’ve got another show!”

The crowd, still laughing and drinking merrily, shuffled quickly away from the now drained cask and made room for the traveler.

As soon as they had cleared, the traveler stepped forth and stopped in front of the cask. He raised his hands in a prayer-like motion then reached back and grabbed the silk grips of his twin swords. After a short pause, the sound of blades leaving sheathes echoed through the tavern. Before anyone registered what had happened, though, they were upon the traveler’s back once more. As he turned to bow, suddenly the top half of the cask slid along a flush diagonal cut and onto the bar.

The tavern was oohs and awes.

Garen clapped the traveler on the back as he returned. “Whooh! That has got to be the finest swordplay I’ve seen, an’ I’ve seen a lot of swordplay. You’re a fighter alright. What’s your name, friend?”

The traveler made another small bow. “Shen, Eye of Twilight. And you are Garen, knight of Demacia.”

Garen offered Shen some fresh ale. “Aye, that I am. But if you knew me before comin’ all the way out here, you must have some sort of agenda. Not many know I’m bartending in the wastes. What’re you planning, Shen?”

Shen swallowed a draught of the drink gratefully, wiping his mouth clean. “I am headed for a place called Summoner’s Rift—to compete in the games. Can you guess what I want to ask you, Garen?”

Downing his own cup, Garen replied to the enquiring warrior, “I do, and I couldn’t have asked for better timing. This place is nice, but I’m a battler, through an’ through. So, when do we leave?”

A smile appeared unbidden on Shen’s face. “Tomorrow, at first light.”

“Tomorrow, huh?” Garen shook his empty cup mischievously. “I guess that means we better enjoy tonight. Come on, let’s get to the celebration!”

The newfound companions headed back to the bar and drank through the night, laughing and sharing in the revelry. On the morrow they would head out for the games, blood and glory. The Rift was calling louder.