Dane, The Nullifier (LORE) - Dane's storyline!
Dane is a champion concept that I have compiling for nearing two months now, and I have decided to take the next step, in developing his lore and sort of origin story. If you would like to see Dane's champion kit and other information of my inspiration for creating a champion like Dane, you can find that forum here: https://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/skin-champion-concepts/7KcdIRi0-dane-the-nullifier-champion-concept-two-months-in-the-making
For those of you that would like to stick around and read his story first, just a fair warning, it is six pages long, and roughly 3200 words altogether. Without any further delay, here is Dane, The Nullifier's short passage, The Witch's Child.
**The Witch's Child**
The corners of Freljord were a turn of the face. Forgotten and outlied, these streets are where hopes of a new day went to die. Soldiers, wounded with the foggy memories of battle, seeing their brothers drained of life before them, questioning why they were the ones to be spared.
Sorcerers, abandoning their training in hopes of fitting in with a normal crowd of people, by slumming with those that did not care who you were. All of these people that crowd these taverns and halls of Freljord are lost, and in search of a new beginning so they may be found. But perhaps, not all of them, are completely as lost, and are only looking for the next chapter...
The Randuin Tavern, a popular tavern in Freljord, that served all of the finest brews, served by the kindliest of mixers, and is sought out by those of these lost souls can afford its adequate taste of coin. Among these men, Muliner, a famous by location name, who among the small handful of men that are not lost, and are looking to help redeem the stories of those that are.
Muliner runs a sort of business known best as bounty shifts. He hires these men that parade the local taverns, although weak in mind, warriors physically. He grants them a quest, whether it be to hunt something or someone, or simply receive information from another individual, Muliner pays them handsomely, as bargains it as taking those from the bottom and putting them on top. Those that have done deeds for him in the past know truly that it is to his benefit.
Muliner is selling his campaign to a table of bearded and broad travelers, three to be exact. “Many a man like you come here searching for a story in exchange for the ones they have, so tell me, what is the story that leads you to me?” He smirks, standing up from his chair, and facing the men from a higher angle.
The man with a crisp black beard and a ripened cap spoke first. “We hail from a small sequester from the western front of Piltover. We were relieved of duty from the lack of mutations crawling out of the arse of Zaun!” He peeled from his tongue, with heavy smell of whiskey and peanuts.
“Piltover.” Muliner regained his thoughts, “A long way for glorious soldiers for you to walk.” The men snorted and sent glimmering stares of disgust toward each other, as if to taunt Muliner. “Never call us that again.” The man in the middle stood up, confronting Muliner face to face. The scene tended to everyone else in the tavern, quickly drawing in all attention.
He pushed Muliner backwards, sending him to fall back on his elbows against the bar counter. “We all know who you are Muliner.” He proceeded, as his two men grabbed hold of both of Muliner’s arms. The brute forcefully anchored his fist across Muliner’s face, bleeding his lip. “ A coward! A coward who is not fit or expensive enough to hire real service, so you slope here, treating these poor men and women like dogs on a leash!” He continued, as he proceeded to beat Muliner like a bag of rice.
“Please! There needs to be something done-” Muliner pleaded to speak of an urgent issue, but was cut off by his own bottom lip being pinned closed by the fists of retired Piltovian soldier. “What kind of task, coward?” One of the other men mimicked Muliner, but was unable to answer. The tavern began to rile, beer being tossed into the air in excitement, men laughing and enjoying the scene.
The men lifted Muliner off of the bar, as the third sent a striking blow to his stomach, dropping him to the tavern floor. The brute looked around at the attention he had gained, and then looked down at Muliner smiling. “A witch!” Muliner begged one last time. The Piltovian grabbed from his sword, placed near his seat, and held it with both hands at a downward angle. “Not far from here, a witch!” he screamed from the floors.
Muliner’s request did not seem to budge the brute’s mercy policy, as he raised his blade up over his head. When he jabbed his blade downward at Muliner, the sound of metal clashing boomed through the tavern.
The brute looked at his blade, only to see another blade had intervened with it. He followed the blade to the hand of the holder, and looked up into his face. A man with scraggly long auburn hair, and a beard of the same color that fell slightly off of his face. A man that was indeed know knight of savior, but someone who had been wielding his weapon with great strength for many years.
“Who are you?” The brute gritted. “Walk away.” The mysterious man said calmly and endearingly. He thrusted his blade, lifting the brute’s edge away from the beaten man. The brute grunted, and back slashed at the new foe. The mysterious warrior easily countered his swing, knocking the brute’s own blade out of his grip, and onto the floor behind the table.
The warrior found himself holding his blade against the neck of the Piltovian brute, warning him one last time to leave Muliner alone. “Why do you protect this thief!” The brute said angrily to the man. Him and his two men gathered their settlements, took one last sip of mead, and headed out to the cold night of Freljord.
The man helped Muliner regain his feet, helping him off the ground. “Th-thank you, here, take this.” Muliner said, handing the warrior a bag of coin, the coin he would have used to pay off the brutes for completing a task. The man pushed the coin bag back into Muliners chest. “You said something about a witch.” The man said, sealing his sword back in its cuff.
Muliner placed his bag back into his pocket, and looked at the man in the eye. “Her name is Amoline. She is one of the known witches to walk about the Ironspike like a free woman.” Muliner began. “Why do we give such creatures this freedom.” The warrior asked Muliner. “I was once drawn to, and abandoned in a place full of witches and other sort of nightmares, I will not allow any others to be wrenched through the pain that I was.” The man said lifting up a half drunken mug of mead and washing out the pain in his voice.
“I do not want your pay, or your help. Just tell me where she is.” The warrior conspired to Muliner. Muliner shook his head, extending his arm for a handshake, completing the offer.
Dawn arrived, the tavern had been left behind by all the drunk and hopeless, who were now taking up every inch of the streets nearby. Muliner had arrived at the hut that the strange man from the tavern told him he’d be. Muliner handed him a small roll of parchment, with every bit of information on Amoline that he needed to find, and cure the world of her magic.
This unknown blades-men reassuringly took the parchment from Muliner, and without much word, he was off, to slay the witch. He traveled for days on horseback out of the frozen traverses of Freljord and by several fields of Noxian territory, when he finally arrived at his destination, the outlying lands of Ironspike Mountain.
Muliner’s tip gave clear directions to the house of Amoline, and the warrior found it with ease. It had been sequestered from all other sources of man, seeming that the witch did not like the attention of others, and isolated herself beyond the mountains. The warrior had nothing on his slip that would prepare him for the kind of magic he would be faced against, so he decided to use an element of surprise. He scouted the area, and waited for it to grow dark, and he sat there for countless hours, just listening.
What seemed to be an abandoned house, suddenly grew with noise. A woman, presumably Amoline, rushed out of the house with an empty pot in her hand. Tears streamed down her face, as she ran at a quick pace toward the rushing water behind the house. The warrior rose to his feet hastily, and followed behind her.
He kept track of the crying woman, and followed her all the way through the trees and snow. When the woman reached the creek, she quickly fell to her knees, and began to fill the empty pale with freezing cold water that ran downstream, her tears mixing in with the water.
Once the pale was full, she got back on her feet, and began to run as quickly as she was before. The warrior rushed behind her, going through many twists and turns through the trees, when suddenly, Amoline seemed to vanish. The warrior slowly walked and looked around, confused at where she had disappeared too.
“Who are you?” The warrior heard from behind him. He slowly turned around, to see the witch he had been following, now aware of his presence. “I was sent her to find a woman of the name Amoline.” He told. “Don't you mean a witch of that name?” She choked, tears still rushing from her eyes. The warrior held his hands into the air as to assume he meant no harm, as the witch began to conjure fiery spell. “Who are you with?” She proceeded to interrogate him more. “I come alone, and in treaty.” He answered softly. The witch screamed as blazes of magic spewed from her very hands, igniting the woods around her, sending a blast of fire towards the warrior. He was quick to react, and conjured a spell of his own, the metal of his chain-mail seemed to soak up the flames like a sponge. He did not hesitate as the fire sorcerer stood in shock, drawing his blade, and plunging it into the stomach of Amoline. Amoline choked, and fell to her knees once more, the snow around her turning a deep red. As quickly as it had been given to him, the warrior’s task was complete. Amoline was vanquished.
The warrior’s walk back through the woods went beyond into the morning, as he returned to his horse, and prepared it for the journey home. He was still stationed outside the witch’s house, when he noticed she did not live alone. A man walked around the outside lengths of the home, as in search for something. The man seemed panicked, but quickly hid his emotions. To the extent of the warrior’s knowledge, the witch was married, and apparently a mother. A small child dark brown hair, and fitted in a bright red gown walked outside to meet her father. Ferocity grew within the warrior, as he now set his next task to find Muliner and make him pay for this false information.
The warrior returned to Freljord, and to the tavern where he first met Muliner. He walked in through the doors, only to spot him immediately. He was in the same scenario, talking a table of men he had never seen before, assigning them a false task in exchange for coin. Muliner made eye contact with the warrior, as the blood rushed from his face.
Muliner stood up in fear and shock, as he ran out the other door of the tavern. The warrior quickly chased after him, sword drawn. When the warrior finally caught up to the coward, he threw him to the snowy ground, and pinned the tip of his blade to his throat. “You did not tell me she had a child!” The warrior boomed his voice at Muliner. Muliner had began to sweat with fear, trembling before the man. “Please, I did not know until you had already accepted the deed.” He pleaded. “Liar!” The warrior responded threateningly.
He noticed the street-folk around them, and spared Muliner regretfully. He removed the blade from his position, and stood back, allowing Muliner to sit up properly. Once again, without a word, the mysterious warrior left, leaving behind guilt in what he had done days before. He had devoted his life to slaying those that were a threat to the world, and now he was endangering one due to his own fault.
Years passed by, and the man had continued his fashion of finding people who needed a magic being or demon to be cured, and took pay. This was how the warrior got by on a day to day life, slaying terrifying creatures, returning back to the nearest town and drinking his duties away with mead, and then waking up the next morning and doing it all over once more.
A particular night had come, and the warrior found himself staying inside the tavern rather going out in search for a demon to slay. He had turned down countless offers he had received, and sat in silence, thinking back on that night, the night he shed blood of the demon that Muliner told him of, and how he had half orphaned a child who could only assume was human, just like him.
“Have I become the monster myself? Was there anything I can do to change it?” He thought to himself. He made the conscious decision to travel back to Ironspike, and relive the scene he so brutally left behind, in the hopes of finding the girl he had taken the parent away from was well and not in dread.
After the brutal trip back to Ironspike Mountains, the warrior had found the cottage where Amoline hid herself once more. To his surprise, there was a new woman that walked around the yard.
The same man and little girl he had seen once before were still living there, along with a new woman he hadn’t seen before, and another child. The warrior assumed this was not for him to intervene with, and headed to the nearest populated settlement. He drank away more of his memories, as he spread the word softly that he had been hired hundreds of times before that he was a witch hunter, and looking for work. Night fell, and the tavern had surprisingly grown quiet, with mumbled murmurs flooding the halls.
The warrior found himself drinking alone at a table near the back, away from all the other drunken men, thinking of where to travel next, when suddenly the peace was interrupted by a small man with a gray white beard burst in through the doors. “There’s been an attack from a fire-shifter! A witch!” The man screamed, sending the bar into panic.
Filing through the crowd of rushing and terrorized civilians, the warrior made his way to the short bearded man. “Where?” he asked, gripping the man boldly by his collar. The man appointed him toward the Ironspike trails, as the warrior grew aware of smoke arising over the trees. This trail was the trail that lead to Amoline, which could only mean she was not dead.
The warrior rushed on foot back down through the trees and into the mountains, to find the home once more. The wood that held up the roof of the house was scorched and still burning brightly, as the house slowly began to crumble. Among the horrifying scene, the warrior spotted the small brown haired girl lying just outside the house.
Out of fear she was hurt, he rushed to her assistance, peeling her up off of the ground. The girl did not speak, but pointed at something the man had dropped on the ground while picking her up, a small poorly put together teddy bear. She pointed harshly at the bear that soaked in the snow, begging for him to pick it up.
The warrior knelt down to pick up the toy, and rushed away from the burning scene. He set the girl down with her toy far into the woods away from the fire, and let her rest. She stood up to the warrior, holding her toy in her hand, and began to cry in agony. Unsure of how to proceed with the situation, the man held out his hand, and placing it over her shoulder, in attempts to calm the crying child.
“Can you tell me what happened, was it an attack of a witch?” He sincerely asked. The child continued to cry. The warrior assumed he needed to create a basis with the girl, in order for her to trust him. “I am Dane, and I can help you kill the witch that hurt you, I just need to know what happened.” He searched for answers.
The small child Dane had rescued from the burning scene looked up at him, her eyes igniting as bright as the house behind them, as it became clear that she was the bloodline of Amoline. She hurled a projection of fire toward Dane. Not having his defenses ready, Dane slashed out his sword, as if to block magic with his mortal weapon.
Shockingly, his blade defied the spell of fire, and seemed to trap it inside the metal itself. His blade now burned brightly with fire, and seemed to be able to maintain it without it going out. Amazed at his new weapon, Dane forgot all about the girls magic. The child readied a new blast of fire, but Dane spoke, “Wait.” He pleaded. “It was you.” He added, the girl putting out her own spell to hear him out. “You burned the house, didn’t you?” He asked steadily. The fire had vanished from her eyes, as water began to fill them up again.
“I didn't mean too.” She said softly. She began to sniffle with pain once more. Normally, Dane would have already silenced a witch with such power, but this one was different. He understood. “Your power. It consumes you.” He said, placing his sword into the snow. The cold snow melted away shyly from the blade, and did not seem to affect the blazing fire at all. Dane crept slowly toward the girl. “I can help you learn how to use it, I was once corrupted as well.” He said kneeling down to the girls height. “I can help you learn what I did. I can help you learn how to use your magic without the threat of bearing upon someone you do not wish to hurt.” Dane said, staring deeply passed the child’s tears.
He reached out to wipe her tears away, the skin of her cheeks burning his thumb. He shook his hand quickly in the air, and submitted his thumb into the snow covered ground, as it made a sizzling noise, and small trails of smoke arose from the burn.
Dane could see the true agonizing pain in the girls eyes, and realized, although she was the birth of a witch, and possessed her mother's powers, she was just like him. Human. Dane stood to his feet, and grabbed his blazed sword, and offered out his hand to the little girl. "Come with me. We will make sure nobody else will have to go through what we did." He said sincerely. The girl grabbed hold of his hand, still tightly hugging her bear in the opposite hand, as they both walked away from the almost completely cindered house, and away from the pain.
