A broken mirror
Out of frustration for the scant presence of some characters in the lore, I wrote a short story to try and figure out their place in Runeterra. The story grew its own life, and eventually became the lore piece for a champion concept (the kit can be found here): https://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/skin-champion-concepts/lbKKUGu0-champion-concept-istafal-the-reflective-fabulist
Hope you like it!
*Say, say, could you tell me a story, a tale? If not, I can tell you one or many to the same avail. I can tell you lots or just a few stories. How about one of a prideful emperor and all of his glories? Or maybe one of the end of a good king, fallen from grace, And the loss of his great love and her beautiful face? I also know one of subjugated slaves who overthrew their mysterious masters. Maybe one of an old, almost forgotten kin lost to great war or ancient disasters. Maybe some of runes to shake the land asunder, Or of the deep beings in these many seas of plunder. I know many little curiosities about the tiny ones’ playful will. And I have stories older still. I know many of the black and white hunters no-one escapes from, it’s true, And several of the big mouthed glutton’s, albeit those are not that interesting, mind you. And of course, I know the greatest of all stories ever lain, The last one I will ever tell. But all in due time, for skipping to dessert for the dining is vain, And what takes good time will always end well. Say, say, why don’t you tell me one now? I wish to believe there are some I’ve yet to hear. If not I’ll be sure to thank you and bow, For the show will be done and the act will be clear. Because then this world will have lost its meaning, its sense, from all time its purpose old. After all, what is left when there are no more tales to tell and my own is told? *
In a tired fashion, Silas wandered through town. His eyes weighed down on him and his feet dragged, and he couldn't wait to get back home. He hoped vainly that the smelly old geezer who owned the joint would have made stew, while well aware it would probably be just the usual bread and beans. The establishment was a rather well kept, well lit tavern, but it emitted a tired, bored aura that would match his own and yet bothered him profoundly.
On that day, however, it shone with a faint glee echoing out into the streets, so Silas heard the establishment well before seeing it, for his own surprise. Upon entering, he understood what the commotion was about: a foreigner had come to town, and he stood over a table, declaiming elaborate prose and playing an unusual instrument with several strings, holes and plates. After getting his serving of grub, Silas set besides a colleague, flicking him in order to get some answers.
"Oh, didn't see you there, old boy! That fellow's a talented one, says he's from a circus or something, and he didn't have any money so he's paying the owner back for the food with a performance. He’s been telling jokes and stories for a while now."
"He one of them river folk?"
"Not to my knowledge, the clothes are weird but don't really match. I'll ask him when he's done."
At this moment only did Silas take the time to examine the performer. He was not very tall but not tiny, not fat but not slender, and his hands were not large, but not small. The attire was not very noteworthy, and yet graceful. Namely, he wore a long purple coat with golden embroidery, with twisting curls at its end indicating a lack of care and a shining glow that showed how meticulously well he kept his clothes. There was also his hat, which bore a ragged conical crown and had its rims filled with rings from which colorful bands of cloth went down, sharing the embroidery of the coat. Distasteful and yet magnificent. His face was among shadows, covered by the colored strips.
"Probably got lucky in a barter and took them from a bankrupt noble somewhere."
"Hold those snarky thoughts of yours. He's an entertaining guest, and after the work today I we need some fun."
Silas didn't like performers. They were wanderers that slouched around and were unfamiliar with the concept of hard work, stealing and lying their way through life. He couldn't deny, however, that this one was particularly adept at his art. He was telling some story about a man who turned into a werewolf as a punishment for his own ambition. How could anyone believe such stories? Once the performance was over, the stranger offered a humble bow and then spoke in a mellifluous voice, with an accent that felt like it came from everywhere and nowhere in particular:
"I thank you all for your hospitality, even if it is in a peaceful frugality! To wish for a better host no-one could, but without a doubt one could wish for better food.” Chuckles were heard here and there. “I felt upon my arrival that this town’s mood is decked, a certain feeling of disinterest reigns here, unchecked. The summer harvest is on its peak, and all you think of is food reaching your beak. You can't get nearly enough rest, and for that reason I bring forth my best... I offer you here a cure, a solution, a rekindling way of offering your heart absolution!"
In a graceful gesture, he reached under his coat and unfolded a worn, long sheet of paper. A poster. It read:
“Be prepared to be amazed, To witness the unknown and let your imaginations weave, To enter The Wonder Hall Then exit through its doors but never really leave”
As a confused muttering started to rise in the tavern, Silas lost his patience and spoke out:
"To no surprise, all you come to do here is promote your circus. You must think us fools to waste precious wages on such low level of entertainment."
The stranger looked in his direction. For a brief moment, Silas felt he had gone too far. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea. But his second thoughts were interrupted by the performer's gleeful, spontaneous laugh.
"My dear sir, you misunderstand, let me reassure you with a hasty hand. I will not be asking your folk to pay us any more, as food is the farmer’s very valuable ore. Shelter is all that we could ask for after our long travel, better a roof overhead than sleeping over gravel!” More laughs ensued, and the tension lifted a little. “The countryside provides comfort in a way the city never could hope, like the gleeful field maiden with whom in our dreams we elope. So, to be more concise, we will gladly perform just for the shine in your eyes. And if I might be so bold, while we shan’t ask, we won’t refuse any gold!"
Cheers and sounds of approval were heard around the tavern. However, some were still not convinced.
"If it’s free, it ought to not be any good," argued a voice amongst the crowd.
"Well my dear sir, do not fret, for you’ll be shaken and that I am willing to bet. You will see things you never imagined could come true, and witness, as the performances go through, some of the most endowed practitioners in the whole wide land do things that you might not even come close to understand. And do not get me wrong, for the only reason this cicada sings its song is because it comfortably sits upon a solid revenue and will have long to wait before it has to pay its due. Then again, you are free not to go. But those who do will be in for a show."
He stepped down and strode calmly towards the door. Upon reaching it, he clapped his hands and a flurry of posters erupted from under his coat, leaving his spectators astonished.
"I shall be waiting at the edge of town, for those unwilling to go to sleep with a frown. Waiting for those whom my stories curled, those who wish to see the hidden truths of this world," he said, clearly entertained, before swiftly going through the exit.
While doubt and disbelief remained amongst the crowd, curiosity stirred wildly. They took turns looking at the posters. They were worn out and dirty, and yet all showed different colored pictures of great detail, accompanied by elegant and vibrant letters.
"Feast your eyes upon the magnificent tricks of our masterful jester!" "The deadly beauty of the invisible mistress will leave you baffled!" "Be amazed at the excellence of our ingenious puppeteer!" "Bask in the amazing might of the lord of dreams!" "See the marvels of the little witch and her magical assistant!" “Revel at the performance of our bird trainer and his skills with the violin!”
They all seemed excessively grand and pompous to Silas, who was convinced it would be a tremendous fiasco. But given the enthusiasm of the townspeople, he figured it couldn't hurt checking.
Around two dozens of villagers had reunited at the entrance of the tent, after several minutes of walk from the village. It was a rather tall, long construction covered by purplish linen with embroidery. The entrance, curiously enough, was made of wood. It was a rectangular gateway of carved wood, showing multiple figures: in the bottom, long serpentine Krakenwyrms encircled ruins, on top of which were grinning fishes and toads amongst willows; wolves and sheep ran in fields, stars falling among dragons in the sky above. Many more kinds of folkloric imagery were likely to be found if the gateway were to be studied with more attention. The most impressive feature, however, was the picture crowning the gate: a giant, broken mirror, with hundreds of missing shards and fractures. The foreigner waited before the gate, lamp in hand and with his hat back on. When all had gathered, he turned and declared, in a mighty and unexpected baritone voice:
"Do come around, do share in joy and glee, dear friends in reverie! Feast your eyes on the miraculous happenings we’ll do and the magic that our business brings to you! Tonight, we shall show the craft of our most talented artists, and their tricks will raise brows! Magic and surprises to shake your beliefs beyond what imagination allows! I am the ringmaster Istafal, and I have great pleasure to meet you all. I will be your guide in our mystical journey into…”
He paused for emphasis.
"The Wonder Hall.”
The gasp he obtained was the expected response.
“I wait for you within, so be welcome, and come on in!”
He rapidly ventured into the tent, and after a brief hesitation, others entered. Silas didn’t know if he was entertained or bothered by the fact that the man rhymed every sentence. And he couldn’t shake off an unpleasant feeling on the back of his neck. It wasn’t the first time he had been fooled out of his money, and he knew they would most likely find a way to do it. His curiosity led him inside nevertheless. Inside, the place was much bigger than it seemed on the outside. It was barely visible, with a few torches here and there. Long colorful drapes unrolled as they walked in, and covering the walls many mirrors could be found. OF all shapes and size, and all kinds of artistic style, showing that this circus had most likely traveled all across the land. As people took seats on the tall rows of benches, the ringmaster stood in the middle of the circular venue. After all were seated, he spun around and proclaimed enthusiastically:
“We wish you welcome, and hope you will enjoy the performances we now bring. The decision was made to start in grandiosity, and skill is its thing… For I’m guessing the crowd wants to see grand acts of prestidigitation! Which is why what we now bring is truly worthy of adulation. Now I should stop my mumbling, and let the show start. I leave you now to witness the Grand Jester and his art!”
As the ringmaster said those last words, he pointed to the section of the crowd in front of him. There, standing, was a figure covered in drapes. Before the people could react, the drapes fell to the ground. It had vanished into thin air. The gasps started, only to increase when, a couple of seconds later, he appeared in the middle of the rink. He was dressed in a red and black coat and a hat of the same colors. A white mask with a large, yellow grin covered his face. Silas felt awry of this performer, even though he couldn’t tell why. Something about the clown seemed off. The jester snapped his fingers, and several boxes popped out of thin air, falling to the ground. One of them hit his head, spurting some laughter in the crowd. He waddled clumsily towards the box, only to be surprised by a dummy on a spring that came out of it. Once again, laughter ensued. He then clapped his hands, and a clown identical to him appeared. The crowd clapped, and as the clone hit the jester in the head with a fish the laughter rose again. As more foolishnesses ensued, Silas popped a laugh. Still, he was trying to understand what seemed so awry about this figure. It had to do with the picture in the poster he had seen, but he couldn’t tell what.
After a couple, more acts of goofing, the jester clapped his hands twice. The other clown then ran off stage, and soon came back carrying a big circle of wood with the same two colors. He then he attached himself to it. Silas overheard someone next to him whisper:
*“Isn’t that a Wheel of Death?”
“Yeah… The man surely knows what he’s doing,”* another replied. Silas was no longer smiling.
The jester walked up to his assistant and gave him a good spin, making him turn around. He then took some distance, and almost magically sprung some knives from his sleeve. Then, he proceeded to throw them at an amazing speed at the wheel. The crowd held their breath as all the knives hit the wheel without harming his twin assistant. Then, after throwing the last knife, the jester finally spoke, in a gleeful, yet cryptic voice:
*“Any volunteers from the crowd?” * let out a mischievous chuckle.
A young woman stepped forward, pushed by her young peers. Too ashamed to walk back in, she hesitantly strode towards the wheel. There, the assistant put her in the place where he had been, and proceeded to spin her. The act went on just like the previous one: with surprising precision one knife after another reached the wheel without coming close to the girl. As the jester threw the knives, Silas set eyes on him, and finally realized what was wrong. In the poster, the clown had had the exact same appearance but for one thing. His pants were squared patterned black and white in the poster, and yet those of the performer before him were patterned black and red. A spotted, uneven, very dark red. His eyes widened, and he realized that the jester had stopped the act and was looking at him, juggling the last knife. His eyes were piercing his thoughts. He could almost feel the smile behind the mask. If there even was one.
“Oops. Time’s up.”
Silas yelled, realizing it was too late as the last blade left the jester’s hands and found the heart of the young lady. Screams of horror were heard as her head dangled upside down in the now still wheel.
“For my final trick, I’ll make all of you… Disappear.”
He took a blade from his other sleeve and slashed the throat of his assistant, making him explode in a flurry of daggers that flew in all directions. The people cried out and ran, several being hit by the weapons as they frantically made their way for the exit. The dummies jumped around in their springs, startling all those near them and shooting sharp knives. As he ran to the exit, all Silas could hear was the maniacal laugh of the jester echoing around the place.
Once outside, he realized there was something wrong. The night had fallen much faster than expected. No, it wasn’t the night. A deep, thick darkness surrounded him. The moon was not to be found anywhere. All around, people yelled and cried. There was only one source of light, straight ahead, what seemed to be a distant fireplace of some sort. He headed towards it in frantic sprinting, and only then heard the ringmaster’s voice:
*“Dear sirs and ladies, do have the kindness of indulging our next performers’ airs! Basking in his great talent will raise every last one of your hairs! The Wonder Hall now brings you… The Most Eternal of All Nightmares.” *
A screeching sound emanated from the darkness. Silas heard a slicing sound. A blade cutting into flesh. As he felt the person next to him vanish, he hastened his pace even more. More yells and screams echoed around him. A single, horrifyingly calm voice whispered:
“All alone.”
It came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But Silas didn’t care. He just ran, and he ran faster than he had ever remembered running. He could feel the people being snatched away, one by one. They weren’t the ones screaming. They didn’t even manage to scream before it took them. Silas had almost reached the lamppost’s light when he felt it. The sheer chill the presence gave him made him freeze where he was. The pitch black surrounding him couldn’t hide it. It was beside him. Gazing into his soul.
“How fast can you run, little bag of flesh? How well can you hide from your thoughts? Because you can’t hide them from me. Nothing can.”
Memories started flooding his mind. He suddenly recalled the time his father drowned before his very eyes. Or the time his hands turned into spiders and then devoured him. And the many, many times where he had fallen into a bottomless pit, never to reach the bottom. Because he always woke up. But this was different. This was no nightmare. He wasn’t waking up from this one. More by instinct than anything, he bit his lip with such force it drew blood. Moved from his stupor, he realized the presence had moved on, and kept running until he reached the fireplace.
Upon recovering from his nightmarish stupor, Silas noticed that he now was standing in a clearing by the small fire, heaving for air. Around him were several other people gasping for breaths, and more scattered around. The moon was back in its place upon the night sky, and the darkness no longer overwhelmed them. Silas heard desperate whimpers all around him. He lifted his eyes, and realized they were in the field, surrounded by tall crops. There were no signs of the circus.
“Is it over?”
The child grabbed her mother’s vest, clearly not even close to understanding all that had happened. The woman held her and swung back and forth, mumbling incomprehensible words among tears. The voice had disappeared. All he could hear was the wind and the occasional cawing of a crow. He looked around, and then started walking towards other villagers he spotted. Most were in shock, and those who weren’t were very close to being so. From his counting, less than half the crowd were left, but the nightmarish experience finally seemed to be over. Silas remembered those who stayed behind, in the village, and then felt himself lose breath. He thought of those maniacs heading into town to perpetuate more carnage and looked around for the path leading back into the village to run and warn them. But there wasn’t one. The very clearing where they had been was no longer there. Slowly, he realized many things were awry. They were in between harvest, and yet all crops climbed high. They were green, of an unhealthy, dried color. All but one scarecrow had disappeared. A lone, thin figure of bags, sticks and hay hanging on a tree. These weren’t their crops. These weren’t their fields. Only then he heard the ringmaster’s voice:
*“Regretfully, it seems our time together is coming to a finish, my friends. But all is well that starts as well as it ends! For now, I assure you, you’ll never forget…” * His voice was drowned by a cacophony of cawing, but Silas could still make out his last words.
“… The Fiddler’s duet!!”
A terrifying moment of silence followed. Not even the cawing of the crows could be heard. The wind bristled the grass. Eyes skipped in all directions, widened in anticipation of what was to come. Too worried to notice the one scarecrow guarding the fields no longer hung from the tree. The first cry came from behind Silas. A man had been dragged into the crops. Almost instantly, the other villagers frantically scattered in all directions. The group Silas followed thinned with macabre precision and timing. The moment no one looked at someone, they would disappear. The crops extended without ending, and yet somehow all villagers, now reduced significantly in number, came back to the very spot they once were in. A moment of confused hesitation followed. They scanned the crops, eyes widened and sweat dripping as they tried to spot the monster. It was only after hearing a gust of wind that they came to a horrified realization: as they gazed outwards, the demonic scarecrow somehow now stood in the middle of the clearing, behind them. With a grisly grin, he opened his arms and burst into laughter. Screeches could be heard from above. A humongous flock of crows covered the skies over their heads, and then flew downwards in an unholy vortex. The survivors fled once again, screaming as the birds pecked through their skin and cut them with their talons. Horrified, Silas saw how the cries came to an abrupt end as the birds crammed themselves into the mouths of their victims. He realized there was no way out. So, he did something that he knew was utterly and completely stupid, and ran towards the tree where the scarecrow once hung. As he ran, the birds gnawed and swung at him, springing blood from his wounds mercilessly. Despite this, he yet he kept running. Once again like he had never run before. He barely reached the tree, resting his bloodied arms around its crooked bark. And then it was all over.
At first everything was fuzzy and confusing. Silas slowly opened his eyes, feeling the hangover hit him. A light blinded him, and as he covered his face he noticed the wound on his hand was gone. When he grew accustomed to the light, he looked around. He was now sitting at the tavern, in exactly the same spot where he had been earlier that night, and many empty glasses lay before him on the table. A bad dream after a night of drinking? He could have believed so. But he didn’t. Because directly in front of him sat the ringmaster, clad in his usual garb. When he noticed, Silas was awake, he spoke in his usual, gleeful tone:
“Quite a show, wouldn’t you agree? We sang a song of hope, with some speck of misery.”
Silas looked around. The few people around were by their lives as usual. It was as if he hadn’t left. As if nothing had transpired.
“What is this?”
“Your usual tavern day. Though it may feel slightly gone astray.”
Still dumbfounded, Silas looked around. The colleagues that were with him last night were not sitting there anymore. His eyes widened. He lunged forward and grabbed his collar.
“What have you done?!”
“I fulfilled my promise to you all. You saw unbelievable things befall!”
Silas quickly reminisced the night’s horror. He pushed him, grabbed a chair and attempted to strike the traveler with it. The man moved swiftly backwards, dodging him. As he kept on swinging the chair, he cried and yelled. Before he knew it, two men had grabbed him and were trying to calm him down.
“What is wrong with you, Silas?” One of them asked, bewildered.
“He killed all of them! He brought them to that cursed circus and killed them!”
“Are you insane? What are you talking about?! There’s no circus in town, this guy is just a merchant!”
He looked into the eyes of the man holding him. He knew him. He was the brother of the blacksmith. The blacksmith that had died to that horrendous scarecrow. And he was scared of Silas. That man actually believed his own words. Silas’ strength left him and he dropped to the ground. Then, looking at the ringmaster, he helplessly murmured:
“Why?”
The ringmaster took the chair from him, and then sat down on it. The man clasped his fingers and the two men turned around and left as if entranced, and the mood in the tavern went back to what it was. Something in the ringmaster’s demeanor had changed. He was no longer jovial and entertained.
“You came to see our show, and therefore you remember it done. Those who didn’t, don’t know, and the rest are sorely long gone.” His voice no longer had any musicality in it.
Silas looked up to him, confusion evident on his face:
“What do you mean?”
“I was clear, you must be tired. I said those who didn’t come see don’t know of what transpired. And those who did see are forgotten by their peers. It spares these people far too much sorrow and tears.”
“Are you expecting me to believe they won’t remember you taking their loved ones to your murderous circus?”
“I don’t need you to believe for they do not remember at all. There is no necessity to deceive nor to convince those you enthrall.”
Silas was dumbfounded:
“What?”
“They were confronted with the events and given a choice, between a story to bring sorrow or one to rejoice. And they chose the one that hurt less and made more sense. For why choose the smell of dung over that of good incense? They picked well, all of them did. And not a single of them wished to take the other offered bid.” He pointed to a fragile old man in a corner. “He lost his daughter in a tragic fire, and that son made his father an honorable warrior’s pyre. And that woman doesn’t have a husband or a child whose loss she’ll fear, for they both died to the dreadful winter of last year. All of your fellow villagers did the same for whoever they lost. If you try to persuade them otherwise it will have a high cost.”
“That is pure nonsense. You killed dozens and you think you can get away with it by trying to convince me no one knows what you did by means of some mystical trickery?!”
The ringmaster gestured outwardly, as if insulted.
“Well, in truth, I have to correct your creed. For, to be fair, it was my associates that performed the deed. And while I do not enjoy their art’s method or recipient, I must admit they are morbidly efficient. As for your concern, young man, please do enlighten me, if you can. How could people like yourself ever possibly fight back? For you saw what happened there, it was no simple brigand’s sack. They are too powerful for the likes of you to defy. You should not even dare think you can hope to try.”
“Then why did they not just kill everybody?” Silas let all of his anger pour into that simple question.
“Razing a village to the ground would attract too much attention. And what fun is a story if its telling has no dissension? Making this feasible requires some discretion, some snide. And that’s the element that I am here to provide. Besides, if they can achieve what you saw them perform, do you really think twisting memories breaks nature’s norm?”
He stood there, bedazzled, and realized the foreigner was right. He didn’t even remember the man’s name, but he was sure to have heard it the night before. He had been carefully allowed to remember the horror. The only person alive capable of providing testimony was him. And so, the burden lay on him, and him only.
“Why me?”
The ringmaster sat still for a moment. Then, he removed his hat, and as the long stripes were separated, Silas gasped. The man had a face identical to his own. Only it was smiling.
“Because from the first moment you saw me you were unwilling to come near. Of all people in this village, you were the most unlikely to hear. I listened for the song of doubt and only you struck the right chord.” He got up and kicked the chair, opening his arms him as he did so. *“And for answering my plight I gave you your just reward.” *
*“You consider this gift?!” *Silas was exasperated. He pulled at his hairs and bit his lip, hoping it was just a bad dream. “How can you do something like this?!”
“It is truly more consequence than cause. You see, such acts weren’t always in the show’s main clause. It had some real performers from near and yonder, ones that would charm audiences and truly leave them in wonder. But they slowly drifted away, leaving the hall in disarray. And so, the business stalled, until when opportunity called. For pacts with demons, while usually deft and moot, seemed to quickly provide the most favorable kind of fruit. Their blood payment I ascertain, and they gladly entertain! All I ask for my fare is that they leave one alive and aware.” “Your so-called gift. But why do you do it?! What do you gain from it?!”
The ringmaster was silent for a second. Then, he reached into his coat and from it removed a shiny object. It was a shard of a broken mirror. And Silas knew in his heart it was to be fit into the mirror over the gate he saw the day before.
“I gain the story you will tell. The horrifying tale of a truly living hell. One where dozens of villagers met their end whilst standing tall, massacred by monstrous demons within the twisted Wonder Hall. I win the pleasure of knowing it will echo in the winds, and travel from mouth to mouth as one adds and the other rescinds, and without need for further proof this tale will reach under every roof! The bliss of knowing children will wet their beds over nighttime stories, and that discussions about it will be of both its evil and its glories! For around campfires they will scare some as others refute it, saying that if it is true then they firsthand see and prove it. And chance might well allow it to come down, because we might just be done in the previous little town.”
Silas’ confusion was apparent:
“You’re insane.”
“Well, that is a valid opinion.” The Ringmaster shrugged. “You could choose not tell the story, for the telling is each’s own dominion. It would break this little wonder and ruin my day, and make my quest for stories suffer yet another delay.” He walked towards the door and stopped halfway, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Indeed, you don’t have to do it at all if you find it misbegotten. But that does mean every single soul that died yesterday will be forgotten. And no punishment being met, you will live forever in regret.”
Silas hesitated.
“So either you win, or I lose.”
“Very perceptive of you to see. Only I wouldn’t call it a win for me, but rather a well led negotiation. Two poor souls making the most of a rather clumsy situation.”
“You speak as if you were the one suffering from all this! What in all hells are you?”
The man stood still for a second. He then turned around and Silas’ eyes widened. Crackles had started appearing on his face, parting the man’s face, it’s face in uneven shards that fell off, one by one.
“Tell me, Silas, what is the difference between a broken mirror and an unbroken glass?”
He gave him a couple of seconds of thought and then abruptly said:
“There truly isn’t one, be it for a boy or a lass. For they both show the same lies. All you see is what you want with your eyes. And you end up choosing what you believe you look like, just as the climber chooses on what path he will hike.”
He smiled, and as he did his face cracked and fell, only to reveal the one of the young girl killed the night before. As his new face started cracking, he continued speaking in a distressingly calm manner, his voice changed to match that of the girl.
“Is there much difference between a story and the truth? For it all comes down to finding a belief that will soothe. In the end, all that matters are the beliefs you all rue. And when they spread and become big enough, then the false may become true. So, you can lie to yourself all you want, hide all your guilt and sin, but when your mirror breaks it will daunt, for you will know what truly lies within.”
The more he spoke, the more swiftly his face changed, matching the faces that had seen Silas grow up, faces he grew up with and he had seen grow. And they broke just as easily.
“Maybe Wolyo and his dear Farya were believed in too much. Or maybe there are no twin hunters, monsters and the such. Though I would bet and most surely dare say I doubt you’d believe that after what you’ve seen today. Tales are as bodies, with hunger and need, and it is on thought and emotion that they thrive and feed.”
The ringmaster now bore the face of a scared child, and as he spoke his voice shifted to a grizzly impression of a whimpering sob. He clicked his fingers, making three of the posters appear in his hand.
“My associates, more precisely, mostly find in fear their relish. The fear of chaos and discord in the present to cherish. The same holds for the fear of darkness and the memory of what is gone, or for the possibility of the horror that is yet to come.” “And what do you feed on?”
The ringmaster looked at him and chuckled. Now his face was back at being Silas’.
“Me? I do not partake in such mess; I just handle a business, though I’m surprised you can’t guess.”
“The business of murder?”
“Funny now, are we not? I rather wish my reason could brighten your thought. It is in the making of tales and poems, of songs and prose, for rumors and lies are my bouquets of rose. I make the real history, Silas, the truth vile and tender. The one you all know but don’t dare to remember.”
He walked up to him, and as he covered his head again Silas could fell the face shift shapes under it.
“Share it with the world or keep it within. The choice is yours, but as you said it is hard to win. I know what you’ll do, but I’d rather not spoil. For the teller’s suspense is as the snake’s sly coil. There is no place in this world where stories don’t reach, and no place where they don’t want to go. Because they are made to be told and to teach, and crafted to become even more so.”
He headed towards the door. Silas ran after him and grabbed his cloak. The ringmaster steered clear of him without much effort, making him fall to the ground, and turned to face him.
*“If tales have taught me anything, it’s that you will meet justice one day.” *The young man was now in tears, angrily trying to get up but feeling no strength left in him.
The ringmaster strode through the exit, holding the wooden door open for a moment. He then burst into laughter, a laughter of a thousand voices and none in particular. He then replied in a cheerful, mellifluous voice:
“The first soul I sold was my own. Of course, my fate has already been sown. And it will be a grandiose ending, enough to make the world shed a tear. But until then, I have many more stories to hear. Some I will take. Some I will make. And in doing so, many more mirrors will break. And little by little, my own will take shape.”
He walked through the door. Silas ran out after him, only to find the square empty. On the ground, a single sheet of paper danced with the morning’s breeze. And it read:
“Be prepared to be amazed, To witness the unknown and let your imaginations weave, To enter The Wonder Hall Then exit through its doors but never really leave”
Thank you for reading (or skipping to the end)! As stated earlier, this piece of lore started as an experiment to try and figure out the place three champions I cherish very much (Shaco, Nocturne and Fiddlesticks) would occupy in the new lore. As I added more and more lines I realized I wanted the ringmaster to be more than a pretext, and he ended up becoming a champion concept! Again, you can find the tentative kit here: https://boards.na.leagueoflegends.com/en/c/skin-champion-concepts/lbKKUGu0-champion-concept-istafal-the-reflective-fabulist
