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Lore
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Theme Music
"This name follows me, Mishurah..."
"This name follows me, Mishurah..."
“It was a beautiful day, in the boundless plains of the Kaladoun Valley, Southwest of Freljord and North of Demacia, one that artists would pay fortunes to paint, and one that kings and queens would travel half a globe to view. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, and elegant patches of clouds were gently lazing across the skies like smeared pastels. The sun was large in the above, and radiated its warm colors and tones in an awesome gradient. It glared down at the land, contrasting the rejuvenating greens of the grasslands to the earthy browns of the plains, and dazzling all who dare look up at it. It was as if the gods really knew that the family of Khazav had just received its second son. The Khazav family ruled the eight tribes of the Kaladoun Valley, who were followed by a hundred and two lesser tribes. Before the appearance of the Khazav family, long, long ago, chaos and turmoil roamed the Valley. But then, tribes that have slaughtered one another by the thousands for centuries were united under one rule: one of the Khazav family, one of gods. Thereafter, eight territories separated by rivers were carved from the Valley for eight tribes. A king, a queen, and their son controlled the vast expanses of the Kaladoun Valley, and the mighty army of the joined tribes. The people truly believed that gods lived among them. However, this was not the truth. The Khazav family was composed of naught but ordinary people, ordinary people with dreams of peace and prosperity. As traditional, the newborn’s birth was celebrated around a fire. A representative of each of the eight tribes and the hundred and two lesser ones were present the event. The guests stood in a large ring around the fire, and the family sat on an elevated platform outside the ring. The elder son presented the audience with an ardent sword dance: his sword moved and snapped through the air like a viper, dexterously and effortlessly, and his body flowed like a river. His face was steady and his expression confident. As he danced around the flames his shadow followed, flickering accordingly. On the dirt, the only thing separating his image from the rest was its clear and formidable skill, not its face or its birthright. To him, three things existed at that moment: him, his shadow, and a large ring of brightly illuminated faces. Focus.
Since a boy would struggle understand the scenario and its circumstances, the family’s newborn was raised to believe that he and his family were really gods sent from the heavens to rule. The eldest son was tasked to make sure of it. When he grew up, at the age of seventeen, he was finally told the truth by his parents. He and his father were sitting in the garden outside their tent, next to a wooden table with a large map of the Valley spread on its face. “Do you know who we rule?” “Of course I do, father. We rule the eight tribes: Lemalah and Khar of the North, Lematah, Lokhan, Rhahawk and Zhar of the South, and…” He stopped, trying to remember “Ahmitti and Vhatik of the West,” his father said. “Yes, Ahmitti and Vhatik of the West. And the hundred and two lesser tribes,” the son responded, and paused. “What of it, father?” He looked curious, wondering why the matter is of importance on a late on a pacific, late afternoon. “Before our family ruled, the Valley’s tribes were at war with one another. Do you know when they declared the war?” “Third era?” the son responded in question and with a confused expression. “They never did. They always were at war.” The father proceeded to explain how and why their family took control of the region to establish peace and bring prosperity. The son was reluctant. As the father continued the son was shocked, consternation fell upon him. All he lived for and believed in never existed. How have eight tribes and a hundred and two lesser tribes fall prey to a deliberate ruse devised by his family? What is a gilded crown really worth if it is hollow? Hollow.
When the elder son came back into the tent, he was lured outside by a faint brook of blood. He laid down the trophies of the hunt, and drew his sword. “Who stands there? Speak or have your last words be silence!” As he walked outside, he saw two dead bodies to his right. They could not be mistaken for anyone else but his mother and father. “It’s a lie, brother” The elder son looked to his left and saw his younger brother. The elder son’s head turned in caution, and his eyes squinted with disbelief. “I know it’s a lie,” he responded from behind his teeth. “They are mere mortals, we are true gods, brother,” the younger brother said. “What have you done…?” the elder brother replied, aghasted. “Join me,” the younger brother said solemnly. The elder brother’s face fell, and his eyes closed. “That crown,” he muttered, “belonged to father!” He drew his sword, and in one swift motion, went for the head. He missed. The blade ricocheted off of the crown that was on the younger brother’s head, which made a sharp, metallic sound which resonated through the air. Terrified, the younger brother pushed the elder brother away and ran outside the tent. He drew a sword and prepared for his brother who was chasing him. “Traitor!” he shouted, trembling, pointing his sword at his brother who had just exited the tent. The elder brother slowed next to his brother, sword first, gasping for air. As they stood in place, one of preparation and one of fear, a crowd gathered around them. “Traitor! Cease this traitor!” As the elder brother prepared to strike, and the younger brother, raised his sword and cower, a rock hit the elder brother’s head. The world around him became a series of blurs and sounds. He fell on his knees. And sank into unconsciousness. The younger brother looked around: he won. “From this day and till the end of days, I shall be called my true name: Mishutov!” The crowd mumbled “Mishutov” in agreement. “And from this day on,” Mishutov paused, looking to his people, and lowering his tone “my brother will answer no name but one: Mishurah. This is what happens to he who doubts my rule.” Mishurah was thrown into a narrow, bottomless pit, and the evening skies took the faint color of blood. Sanguine."
"What does Mishutov mean exactly?" "Mishutov means 'good' and Mishurah means 'evil' and 'wicked'," the bard responded. "Anyways:"
"Mishurah woke up. It was quiet and dank. He tried to move, but he could not. In the dark, he felt around. He felt his sword on the ground, but other than that, he was surrounded by earth, nothing more. And above, nothing. As he touched his body, he felt the grip of a sword. His stomach was impaled by the sword, and its guard was peeking out of his stomach. As he tried to pull it out, the sword illuminated. It’s stuck. The light creeped from the blade to his body, and to his bones: none of which were broken. He grabbed his sword from the ground and carved the other sword out of his body. Where there was once flesh there was a hole, but it was quickly filled by layers of muscle, steel, and skin. He risen from his position, his sword dropped and the other sword in hand. He looked up and fell forwards onto the wall. He paused, and looked down at the sword, which was now deep inside the side of the wall. He had not even noticed. Leaning against the wall, he effortlessly pulled out the sword. He looked at it curiously, and then slowly moved it towards the wall again. The sword did not make a sound as it was inserted into the wall. Mishurah was astonished. Quickly, he grabbed the sword with both his hands and sliced the walls of the pit around him. They collapsed on him, but he was unharmed. The sword’s glow rejuvenated him, and its energy regenerated him. He sliced his way up, making his way out of a bottomless pit. He exited the pit and cut his way to Mishutov. No crown could save him then. Mishurah killed Mishutov and fled. No more lies. But wherever he goes, the name that follows him and the only name he remembers is Mishurah. Mishurah....”
“And that’s why you never lie, even for a good reason. Everybody loses.” He drank from his mug. He put the mug on the table. “Now, I’ll look away as you take that ace out of your sleeve.” “You mean... that is why the Kaladoun Valley is such a bloody mess, and why nobody could ever fix it?” The bard laughed, “of course. Now lose that ace, I mean it!”
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