Rise of the Darkin: 1

(note this is the first part of the story i am writing. ENJOY! Prologue: Defeat
3000 BRW (before rune wars) southern Shurima Aatrox marched across the blood-soaked battlefield, the harsh Shuriman sun beating down on him, threatening to burn everyone on the battlefield to a crisp. Aatrox's army stood behind him, only reigned in through fear of the fallen god warrior, for those who had stood against his kind had their lives brutally ended. Although his kind had dwindled over the centuries, those that still remained wielded unimaginable power. For these were the Warriors who had faced the abominations of the Void that the Icathians had foolishly unleashed, and they had emerged victorious against the unknowable nothingness. The horror that had consumed the very men who wished to wield it. The sunborn had been the only ones to return from that cursed place. They had served the empire of Shurima for centuries after the Icathian wars. Eventually however, Shurima fell, its emperor was slain, and its greatest city was razed to the ground. A slave from Nerimazeth had befriended the emperor when he was simply a prince, aiding him to become the new emperor, the prince had promised to free the slaves that Shurima had been built upon. However, when Azir had become emperor, he had ignored his promise, continuing the conquest of the southern continent, with little regard for the now bitter slave that was plotting against him behind his back. The nameless slave had serenaded Azir with promises of godhood in the light of the sun disk, Azir, ignorant to the plotting of the slave, began to believe the claim that his Ascension would cement his legacy in Shurima's empire. He believed that with his ascension he would rule for an eternity, with empire being just as immortal. The slave had arranged everything for the emperor’s ascension, plotting for an unjust godhood of his own. When the emperor stepped up to the sun disk, his greatest warriors were dealing with a spirit of fire that had escaped due to the slave tampering with the seal that held the spirit inside of a tomb. As the light of the sun disk began to infuse godly essence into Azir, the slave shoved him aside, incinerating him in an instant, in his place the slave became a god, however the stolen godhood came with a price. A devastating blast annihilated the great city of Shurima, and the slave was transformed into a being of pure energy. The Greatest warriors of the day, renekton and nasus were able to seal the ascended slave in an ancient tomb at the cost of Renektons life. After this the remaining god-warriors burned Nerimazeth to the ground in vengeance-the first sign of the corruption that the void had left inside them. After this Nasus left Shurima, for he had seen the destruction his brethren had unleashed upon the first capital of Shurima.
Soon the god-warriors, with no monarch to follow, turned against each other, warring until only three were left. Soon these tyrants became known by another name: Darkin. They had made the entire world kneel before them. When Aatrox first heard a mortal mutter that word under their breath, he had lifted them and crushed them alive in his massive fist, glaring into the dying mortals’ eyes, as they thrashed futilely, Organs crushed within the still-living body, blood seeping through Aatrox's massive fingers, for the word Darkin roughly translates into the old shuriman tongue as "fallen one". Now One of the last of the Darkin stood at the head of this massive army. Before them stood the remaining Resistance of this area, a mere sliver of the army that they had defeated at this very battlefield two days ago. In an instant the two armies charged, fresh blood mixing with that of the soldiers that had fallen in the last battle. Aatrox dove into the conflict without fear, his blade becoming a maelstrom of death claiming many lives with each cleave of his massive sword. he stood twenty feet tall, his massive wings spreading behind him. Solders fled before him like insects, all but the fastest of them were ended beneath his massive sword. As he cleaved through another line of soldiers, he spotted a mortal mage moving toward him. Gold-blonde hair, like the men found in the cold north, spilled around her shoulders. Her features were youthful, but her eyes, one rich blue, the other twilight’s purple, held wisdom beyond her years. She wore thin silks, colorful and entirely unsuited to the desert, tied at the waist with a thin rope, from which hung a single golden key. A vivid pink scarf coiled around her neck. Aatrox nearly laughed at this mortal girl. he raised his sword to cleave her in two, and she dodged the fatal attack, he swung again and once more his blade cut through empty air, enraged he attempted to stab her, but she blinked from one location to another with strange magic. The girl raised her hands and he felt his limbs betray him and go slack, all feeling draining out of them, and, as he fell to the ground, he felt a force dragging him into his blade. He saw the girl, grinning maniacally, and as his mind was dragged into the blade, a long-forgotten emotion clutched Aatrox's dying heart: Terror Darkness. The breath I cannot take plagues me. It is an emptiness in my lungs and throat. As if I had stopped mid-breath, and then held my lungs cruelly waiting. My mouth open, throat hollow, unable to pull in air. My chest, the horrible tension on my thorax. My limbs and muscles refuse to move. I cannot breathe. I am choking. The pressure builds. The stillness spreads to my chest and limbs. I want to scream, to tear at my face, to wail—but I am trapped. I cannot move. I cannot move. What if the sand and filth cover me? What if I’m hidden for thousands of years? Trapped in this prison. The horror of that idea feeds my panic. The battle is ending. I can feel it. I must will my form upright. I must… I must... I have no arms or legs. The darkness binds me, like a cocoon. Darkness. 1050 ARW (after rune wars) Northern Freljord The soldier ran from his adversaries, Terror filling his lungs and chest, panic infecting his mind like a sickness. His clan had stood against the invading winters claw, the elders of his people said that their knowledge of the terrain would allow them to defeat the infamous invaders. The elder’s smooth words and outstanding confidence had convinced the members of his village that they were going to defeat the invaders. They were wrong, the invaders had easily overcome the carefully honed defenses. his family was already dead, and His foes were just behind him. His life flashed before his eyes, His two brothers and three sisters, his loving father and mother, the warmth of the village during the cold of the freljordian winter, the other villagers looking out for each other, the hard life of training to be a warrior, cut short by the invasion, the demands of the winters claw to submit and become part of their clans, the easy confidence of the elders, all of which were dead now. The battle, with the endless soldiers, the terror when they easily bypassed the defenses, that awful boar goring his elderly father to death before his eyes, its cruel rider grinning, her true ice mace swinging above her head, the retreat as the battle ended, his fellow villagers falling one by one to the arrows of the winters claw. How he loathed the warriors who had been dispatched to kill the last remaining member of the once massive village, they represented everything that had gone wrong in the last few months. There were two of them, both from the Winters claw, both looking to kill him. I feel a mortal nearby. I have no eyes, no ears, but I can feel his approach. He is fleeing from adversaries. He must try to defend himself. He must grasp me. Can he see me? He could run past me. I would be left here As the solider ran he came upon some kind of ancient well that had long ago run dry, he leaped in, hoping to hide from his pursuers and he spotted the sword, it was a massive two handed greatsword, perfectly suited to slaughter, what looked to be a gem rested in its ancient handle. Something was off about the blade, but the soldier dismissed this as nerves from the horrible, devastating, battle. Immediately thoughts of vengeance and retribution entered his mind and he reached for the blade. I feel his hand grip this form and… his consciousness opens to me! I burrow into him, pulling him down. I am like a drowning man thrown into the sea by a shipwreck, dragging myself to the surface by clawing past my fellows. “What’s happening?!” the mortal screams. But he is silenced by the darkness—the endless darkness I have just escaped. And I have eyes. I am in a well of stone, aged beyond reason, crumbling from years of harsh weather, the sky above is the darkest grey, and ice and snow falls from the sky, indicating that I am in the far north where lays an empire, older than shurima that has long since fallen to the ice and snow that seemed eternal in this part of Runeterra. I leap from the well. In front of me stand two weary knights with spears. I cut them apart, and drink in their forms, recrafting this body to my needs. To the needs of the world ender. They are weak. I must move quickly. I must find a better wielder. A better host. Around me are only the dead and dying. I hear their souls retreating from this world. I roar. But not in triumph. Never in triumph. I was shaped by the stars, and the purity of my aspect. I was light, and reason given shape. I defended this world in the greatest battles ever known. Now, blood and ichor drips from this stolen flesh as it decays. The muscles and bones struggle, tear, and protest the abomination I have become. An unholy deathbringer I take a breath. “No, Aatrox,” I say, my voice wet and echoing off the dead that surround me. “We will go onward... and onward… and onward…” Until the final oblivion comes