“Patience,” she murmured in his shaggy ear. “Courage bores me,” the great black wolf grumbled as he tracked through the snow. Stuck in his heart was a single white arrow, shimmering with ethereal brilliance. The last breath of a soldier came with a ragged consent as his shield gave way to a heavy axe. Many will gladly meet their end.” She drew up her bow and let loose an arc of swift finality. Such delicious life-so many to end, so many to hunt! Wolf paced in the snow while Lamb danced lithely from sword edge to spear tip, the red-blooded butchery never staining her pale coat.
The battle spilled over like a feast before them. But to this day, Lamb and Wolf remain together, and they are always Kindred. The earliest dated appearance of the eternal hunters is from a pair of ancient masks, carved by unknown hands into the grave sites of people long-forgotten. Kindred waits for those locked in the undeath of the Shadow Isles, for they know all will eventually fall to Lamb’s bow or Wolf’s teeth. This perverse escape is no sanctuary, for it only holds a waking nightmare. There are but a wretched few who have eluded these hunters. After each Harrowing, the town of Bilgewater gathers to celebrate its survivors and honor those granted a true death by Lamb and Wolf.ĭenying Kindred is to deny the natural order of things. In the snows of the Freljord, before going off to fight, some warbands “kiss the Wolf,” vowing to honor his chase with the blood of their enemies. When the final moment comes, it is said a true Demacian will turn to Lamb, taking the arrow, while through the shadowed streets of Noxus, Wolf leads the hunt. If you refuse her, Wolf will join you for his merry hunt, where every chase runs to its brutal end.įor as long as its people have known death, Kindred has stalked Valoran.
Stand and greet Lamb’s silvered bow and her arrows will lay you down swiftly. When caught on the edge of life, louder than any trumpeting horn, it is the hammering pulse at one’s throat that calls Kindred to their hunt. Shepherd and the butcher, poet and the primitive, they are one and both. Kindred is the white embrace of nothingness and the gnashing of teeth in the dark.
0 kommentar(er)
