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| Noxian Heritage; What Jondor did while under the 'employ' of Noxus | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 11 2016, 10:35 PM (185 Views) | |
| JondorHoruku | Aug 11 2016, 10:35 PM Post #1 |
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The King of Alliteration
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Enjoy (BTW, not a particularly cheerful story): NOXIAN HERITAGE Jondor inhaled quietly through his nose. His heart beat in his throat as he sat crouched in the alcove of a Demacian tower. He had spent the last six weeks in Demacia, posing as bartender of all things. He was finally closing in on his target, a Demacian agent in charge of gathering intelligence on Noxian troop movements. He was given the alias the spy used while in Noxus, Raken Sark, but no description or other information other than ‘Southern Demacia.’ He twirled an arrow between his fingers, waiting for his current target to leave the bar. The brown-haired spearman was not Sark, but he had been seen near Sark’s location one too many times for it to be a coincidence. Barot, the man in question, brushed back his hair as he exited the bar. He staggered slightly as he began moving toward his barracks. Jondor popped a berry in his mouth, wincing as its acidic flavor burned his throat. He coughed as he slid down from his perch, rubbing his throat as the Kumungan fruit made his voice hoarse. He pulled a dark crimson scarf over his mouth and nose as he followed the soldier, waiting until an opportunity presented itself. He saw an alley on the right, a few yards ahead and began walking faster. Barot felt himself bodily flung against the wall of the alleyway. He turned to find an arrow an inch from his eye. His assailant was clad in black and red, the only skin visible was surrounding a pair of cold verdant eyes. “Raken Sark,” the scarf rustled with the movement of the man’s jaw. His voice was cracked and unnatural, “Location.” The bow tensed as it was drawn to full pull. “I-i-i-” The man released an arrow into the wood by Barot’s left eye, nicking his ear. Before Barot could even flinch, another arrow was on the string. “Raken Sark, location,” came the repeated command. “I don’t know!” The eyes narrowed and the bow dropped momentarily. Barot relaxed for a second, only to scream in pain as a bolt of ash and flint pierced his foot, nailing it to the pavement. “Raken Sark, location,” he repeated, another arrow on the string, once again leveled at Barot’s forehead. “I can’t tell you!” The eyes seemed almost apologetic as an arrow skewered the man’s raised palm, “Raken Sark, location.” “His name’s Simeon Aro! PLEASE!” The eyes took in the pitiful Demacian suspended by an arrow through the hand. An arrow appeared next to Barot’s right eye, nicking his ear, “Simeon Aro, location.” “I don’t know, please--AGH!” Barot felt an arrow pierce his other hand. “Simeon Aro, location,” the command was becoming more forceful. “I have a family, a--NO!’ A sixth arrow pierced his remaining foot. Instead of the inquiry, the eyes merely informed Barot; “I’m running out of extremities.” “He’s bunked in the north barracks, please stop!” Jondor’s eyes met Barot’s as the necessary information was finally extracted. Barot saw the eyes soften slightly. He watched as they became wet. “Sorry,” he growled, and released a final arrow through the Barot’s heart. Jondor coughed and sniffed, pushing his gloved hand across his eyes. He retrieved his arrows and closed the man’s eyes. He quietly walked out of the alley and climbed into his room at the inn from the window and began cleaning the blood off the arrows in stoney silence. “Ass.” He didn’t remember when he first started talking to himself. He would complain or grumble when he was a slave in bilgewater, but full on conversations were a relatively new thing. “I’ll say it again, you monumental dou-” “What was I supposed to do?” “Get on an Ionian ship, maybe.” “Why didn’t you say anything then?” “Like you would’ve listened to me.” “Shut up.” “You could’ve not killed him.” “Do you think I wanted to do that!” “You’re a bloodthirsty Noxian now, aren’t you?” “Not my choice.” “Nahar’s teeth, it’s not your choice. You chose to put that arrow through him.” He slammed an arrow into the nightstand, “I didn’t have a choice!” He remained in his room for the bulk of the following morning, skipping breakfast as he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep the meal down. He entered the bar where he worked, frequented by the soldiers in the various barracks. He dressed in a simple brown tunic and breeches, and closed his eyes, steadying himself, before leaving toward The Red Rabbit. He entered quietly through the service entrance, tying on his apron and nodding to the proprietor. The owner of the bar, an Owen Smoak, was a pudgy little man who thought as little as possible. The strategy seemed to work for him, as he was the owner of at least half a dozen successful bars in southern Demacia. Owen had merely shook Jondor’s hand when he received the application, and set him to work clearing tables and making drinks. The tongues loosed by drink were an assassin’s best friend. If he actually cared for Noxus, the troop movements of a dozen different battalions, as well as the names and locations of four of the more important Demacian Generals, would have been easily acquired. As it was, he merely sought information regarding Raken Sark, or rather Simeon Aro. He began cleaning mugs and glasses and arranging them on the bar. He was fairly sure that the man in charge of the late-night round of drinks was as drunk as the patrons by the end of the evening. The bar was always a mess when he came in slightly before noon. “You’re an assassin, what do you care about tidy bars?” Jondor shook his head and returned to his task. He found the simple act soothing and wholesome. “Black Zaunite,” a burly Demacian enforcer hefted himself onto a barstool. “Bit early, don’t you think?” Jondor inquired, beginning to pull the hard beverage. “I’ll tell ye what it’s a bit too early for, a butchering.” “Come again?” He slid the drink across the bar. “Got a call from me boss this mornin’... about an hour after sunrise. Some poor sap got himself perforated in an alley ‘bout three blocks south of here.” “Ooh, that’s a pretty big word for a guardsman like him.” “Perforated?” “Over half a dozen arrow wounds in his hands, feet, ears, and chest. Some sick bastard thought’d be fun to poke holes through the man.” “You’re a sick bastard.” “Who was it?” “Aye, you’d know him, Barot, the spearman. He got engaged last month, he’d come in here with his mates and get a round of…” the guard pondered the drink selection of the victim as he pulled on his Zaunite. “Barot was your friend? I forgot, he loved his—” “Spiced Ales,” Jondor supplied. The man waved in agreement, “Aye, that’s it. Weirdest drink I ever tasted.” “What’s to be done about it? A soldier can’t walk to his barracks without getting murdered?” “It’s odd, there were no arrows left, and we couldn’t find anything there, just a lot of blood. This is the first time anything like this has happened around here. I’ve heard of this happening at the capitol, assassinations and torture from those bloody Noxians, but this far south? I don’t know what to make of it,” the man pulled on his drink again. “Well, let me know if you find anything out. It’ll sure help me sleep at night.” “You betcha, Ratriot, can’t have our brews mixed because our barkeep is an insomniac,” the man chuckled, raising his glass in a salute. Jondor smiled in return, wincing inwardly at the use of his alias. He saw a group of archers walk in and began pulling some white ales for the group. “Say, friend, I have a package for Simeon Aro, do you know where I could find him?” Jondor said, wiping another glass. The bar went silent in an instant. “Who gave you the package?” The burly guardsman rose slowly, pushing his drink to the side. “I’m sorry?” Jondor began slowly backing toward the service door, opening the tap for the mechanical pump. “Simeon Aro was killed two years ago by a Noxian assassin. When Demacians are captured, they give his name to stop the torture,” the entire bar was staring at Jondor, “only people who have packages for Aro are murderers. Like the archer that killed Barot last night. “Tell me, Ratriot, what’s your weapon of choice?” “Water.” The soldiers looked slightly confused. Jondor glanced meaningfully at the open faucet, “Water.” Jondor’s eyes glowed blue as he called upon his element, rupturing the pipes as he drew the well dry. A massive wall of water was forming around him, building in size in fury. “I am Jondor Horuku, I am the storm in the night.” The wall crashed into the bar, flooding the establishment. Half of the bargoers were knocked unconscious immediately, a few were killed as their necks or skulls cracked against tables and chairs. The rest spluttered and lost their feet, dashed to the floor by the sudden surge of water. The few that remain conscious weren’t surprised to see Jondor gone, the ruptured, dripping bar the only evidence of his existence. Jondor ran up the stairs of the inn, shedding his plainclothes disguise as he ascended the steps. He pulled on his midnight cloak and blood red scarf, and felt his heart slow as the familiar grip of Achinus, his bow, in his palm. The wood was thick, but the bow was still beautiful. The beginnings of carvings—battling dragons and krakens—were appearing around the grip. The yew, though still weak, had a layer of enchantments to protect it from water and trauma. He pulled on the thaumically-imbued string, testing the pull. He tightened the pair of quivers tied around his calves and the quartet of daggers strapped across various places on his limbs and torso. He flipped his hood up and slid out of the window. He climbed onto the roof of a nearby building and watched as his room was ransacked. He smiled softly, they’d find nothing. They had no evidence of his existence other than a bursted pipe. He pulled his quivers tighter around his calves and began moving toward the barracks, where one Raken Sark, or whatever his name was, was supposedly camped out. “Nahar’s Teeth, what the hell, you bloody idiot!” “What’s your problem?” “What is my problem?” “What is my problem.” “I—” His internal debate was cut short. A patrol of a half-dozen Demacians were in the street below, searching nearby alleys and buildings. The soldiers were thorough, leaving no hiding place undisturbed. He tossed his bow to his left hand and began silently leaping for rooftop to rooftop. “Are you ready to butcher again.” “I'm not a butcher.” “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Wanna help me?” “Do I want to become an international fugitive? No.” “The alternative is to be hunted by Noxus for the rest of our time this side of the Abyss.” “Fine. Nahar’s blood, what the hell. We're already murderous scum.” “That's the spirit.” “Target is one Raken Sark, tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Literally the description of every Demacian ever.” “Most don't have the tattoo of a Noxian assassin on their shoulder.” “True.” He slid down a gutter into the common area of the barracks. It was dusk, the creeping shadows called memories of Zaun to— “Not now. Focus.” His shadow followed him down orderly corridors as he made his way toward the front room. He didn't even look at the sentry as he flung a knife at him, striking the man with the hilt, knocking him out. He began rifling through the stacks of papers, tossing aside various confidential transcripts in search of the sleeping arrangements. “Can I help you?” Jondor glanced up, a tall brown-haired man stood relaxed in the doorway. “Telesto save us, is it really that easy?” “Perhaps,” Jondor replied uneasily, resting one hand on his bow, the other on an arrow, “I'm looking for someone.” “Ironic, because I believe we've found each other.” “I'm sorry,” the bow climbed into a more secure grip. “I'm not just a spy, I'm a counter assassin.” “Before we start this, may I have your real name?” “Janis Maldin, you are Jondor Horuku? The ‘storm in the night?’” He chuckled at the epithet. “Janus Medlan?” “No. He's dead” “That's the name everyone knows me by.” Maldin raised an eyebrow at the odd answer. Jondor shrugged and fired three arrows in rapid succession. In a blink, Maldin had crossed the room, effortlessly dodging the shafts. Jondor grunted as Maldin flung a punch under his rib-cage, knocking a bit of wind from his gut. The water-mage bashed his bow onto the Demacian’s head, stunning him briefly, before discarding the now useless length of wood and grappling with the counter-assassin. A fistfight was the last place Jondor wanted to be. His tools were suited for striking from a distance. He used his agility to keep his feet, focused on staying up as the room rapidly filled with fog. “The hell is this?” Maldin swore, as the room blackened. “My element.” Jondor broke free and retreated, expanding the fog into the hallway, filling the compound with the heavy mist. Maldin sunk down, moving close to the floor and walls, attempting to use the fog as concealment himself. Jondor shook his head sadly, the mist gave him near omniscient vision of all it touched. He padded softly forward, the heavy mist shrouding the sound, and slipped a dagger between Maldin’s ribs. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, laying the Demacian on the ground gently and closing his eyes. He pulled the haze along, muting his exit. The next few days would seem him dressed in plain brown clothes, hitching rides on wagons and donkey carts as he moved back to his patron state. Why was he returning? He shuddered as he rode through the night. His face a grim line, he had succumbed to fate. He belonged to Noxus now. This was his heritage. Edited by JondorHoruku, Aug 11 2016, 11:20 PM.
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7:15 AM Jul 11