Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE TRIFARIX COUNCIL REUNITES.

From an orphan, to the very top of the Immortal Bastion. Yet he remained the same. Darius was too aware of it, the same petty squabble with his brother, the same bold front, the same comptent for any hindrance on his path. Only lonelier now, and with some gray hair to boast.

Really, all of his progress went most unnoticed only to his perspective. Darius looked down on achievements and his hands. Clenching them repeatedly on nothing. Open, closed. His way of thinking was no different to when he was a simple soldier. He was still that child in his mind. But this time Daris awaited not orders, only for a council to begin. Even if the conference only aimed to debate what those orders will be. A crow sat at the edge of one of the many obscenely large windows. A security liability he always notified but that no one would dare to correct. The people of Noxus claimed their freedom first and foremost, but not even zeal could escape superstition. Trained warriors dared not to touch anything of the Immortal Bastion for more than to move some chairs around. None could decipher anything else from the leader of the Iron Legion except his unrest, and his repetitive behavior only fanned the flame further. Soon, he’ll boil.

But hell, when did Darius ever rest? The old Hand of Noxus, always restless, was famously irate when his time was being wasted. Years lost on a meaningless campaign does that to a soldier. Still, for the Trifarix. He made an exception, he’ll cut heads off only after the council instead of at its awaited start. He was early, after all, otherwise, he’d be overthrowing the government in his next breath.

Swain quickly arrived. Right on the actual time for the council to begin: the Grand general was never late. After all: Darius was just always early. And, to his surprise, The Faceless was already there: Because the Black Rose was always there..

"You could have said something." Darius dismissively muttered, if he had been surprised, it did not show. The masked figure only nodded with the snark only a thousand years of boredom could allow. Emitting a sort of laugh or cough. It was a distinctive sound, from the mouth of a woman, this time: The Faceless often changed gender like they did shape. Whether it was for the sake of anonymity, or the pleasure of apparatus, Darius did not care to know.

"I could have." They answered with a falsely playful tone. But nothing else. With a sway from the Hand, the remaining guards and soldiers curtly bowed. Then excused themselves, closing the door and getting ready to slit the throat of any uninvited ears. The Triumvirate was to begin their debate for the sake of Noxus in the most total secrecy. It was rare for all of the Head of the Trifarix to gather. Usually, their scions took care to report for them. But this council, apparently, did not allow for half-measures or demagogy. Good, as Darius disliked both.

"Alright, let’s not waste any time. We are here to talk about the threat that has risen to the south." Swain started. Softly taking a seat, and relaxing his grip on his cane. Him and Darius shared a courteous nod. They haven't met face to face for the better part of a year. But they needed no more time to greet each other sufficiently. Sharing a battlefield does that to you, and baring wounds from the same war almost made them friends. But acquaintance was another acceptable appellation.

"The void-sighting?" The Faceless faintly asked. Mostly to flex that the information had already leaked, certainly. 

"Yes, the Void sighting.” Continued Swain with an edge to his scowl. More one of annoyance than one of surprise in front of the vacuously childish addition.  “One of our delegation has disappeared in its mouth. And our intelligence reports that a swarm is to be expected in about the end of next month. As the taint seems to grow, like the Void always does:  It is spreading toward our Shurimans colonies. perhaps with purpose, although I’d doubt it."

"A good trimming can always help with that." Darius nodded. "The Trifarian can relocate quickly, I can slow it down if we have assets to secure. But to push it back. I lack the tools. Even the Legion would not be enough. I need weapons."

"Not very Mighty of you." This version of the Faceless was quite mocking. Not the best match for this table. As Darius dealt in very little joke, still, he huffed. Knowing that the nature of the enemy they faced this time was not fought against with simple might. Strength and numbers was something Noxus had in spare, but this was beyond strength. The Void was a disease.

"How does the Ravenbloom's School for the Gifted fare?" Swain asked, mindfully passing a hand in his beard. “We could use some of your most potent students on this occasion. Firepower has proven itself efficient against the purple taint.”

"Not worth the risk. These assets are for the future, we should not use them rashly on a threat so hard to assess. Let’s use the hemomancers instead, they are growing hungry, after all."

Darius scoffed. “Blood magic is a terrible matchup against Icathia’s taint. They are weak to corruption and overindulgence: If you want them gone, kill them yourself. But yield me your most potent mage for the Void.” He mumbled. “Aren’t you tired of having them burn your schools down anyways? Let them prove their worth.” But again, the Faceless only answered with a dismissive nu-huh.

"Then the zaunite chemicals." Swain proposed. "This situation deserves no half-measure." 

Something tensed up. Darius' hands clenched and he crossed his arms, gruffing. This could mean murder. Darius was always reluctant to recourse to Singed's fabrications, usually, but it was true that the Void was not an usual enemy. It drew breath only to spit out nightmares. It spoke only to twist minds, and lived only to spread.

"Is there a conflict. Comrade?" Swain denoted, in an effort to make the conversation more casual: Not out of camaraderie, but because it might prove fruitful: Darius' eye immediately snapped right onto him, aware of his aim. But he had nothing to hide to Noxus’s other heads.

"Possibly. The front in Freljord requires my presence. And the Void is a pain in everybody's asses that need purging. I assume it could justify recourse to more terminal strategies. But the chemicals are less of a tool and more of an uncontrollable disaster."

“Then I will remind you that an uncontrollable disaster is exactly what you'll get if you misuse the Ravenbloom's assets you demand from me.” Offered the Faceless to no one, “Your childish distaste for the chemicals does not warrant wasting my ressources.”  Darius did not bother to dignify their little games of rhetoric with an answer, he had no patience for them.

Swain pondered for a moment. Ignoring the growing confrontation between Guile and Might. "...Then what about our Shurimian neighbors? Didn't they have a weapon fit to vanquish their old enemy? or at least push it back in the hole it ought to stay in?" Swain asked again, this time targeting the Faceless.

The masked figure chuckled. Of course, Jericho always digs at their secrets. It was maybe the only thing of any real importance happening in this room, that the Grand General learned of another truth. The Faceless changed voice: it was now one belonging to a man of great width. A somber one, almost threatening.

"The Bird emperor is hard to deal with. But Miss Du Couteau has been looking to get her hands on some Darkins treasure. Those could help, but it is not a certainty… As they’re famously uncontrollable too.The secret of Ascension has not been breached yet, but we're looking to get elements of the Emperor's close circle… convinced. Sadly, these are all works in progress:"

"Fine. The poison of the Zaunite it is. Then." Darius grunted. Pressing. Already motioning to stand up and gather his troops.

" But there is another option." The Faceless added. Its flair for theatrics pulled at the limits to Darius’s tolerance. His knuckles pressed against on the stone, until  Swain invited the figure to proceed with their explanation with a gesture of his good hand. Smiling politely.

"In the deep North, one of the Frejlord factions has had history with the Void. They’ve called it the Watchers in their scriptures."

"...Are we sure it is the same ancient foe?" Asked Swain, dubious. He was more than fond of history, as it pertained very close to secrets. But while he expected the Faceless to uncover more of their arsenal to him, he hadn’t expected a history lesson. It is often distressing to find a new blank page in a book you had assumedly finished reading long ago.

"The Black Rose is positive."

"You are talking about the Ice Witch, aren't you? Cheh! That’s religion! I need a weapon we can grasp now!" Darius snapped: As usual, he brought it all back to earth. A necessary recall: But the Grand General noticed before all the most important oddities there: Darius knew of something he did not. And this didn’t not belong in the soldier's arsenal. And this wasn't exactly the type of rumor you would learn on the battlefield, Swain assumed. 
At least half- as surprised as he was, although Jericho could never be sure of the truth of it, the Faceless openly made a double-take, the shadow under its hood turning slowly to the head of the Trifarian: They spoke somberly, as if to teach a child a lesson.

"You want to burn out the Void threat with an unmanageable weapon you resent. And my proposal is to freeze it with one that has proven its effectiveness. Rationality and a lack of imagination is supposed to be your thing." The Faceless turned to Swain. Its voice twisting to one befitting of an older lady. Darius didn't even pay attention, instead fissuring the stone of the table under the weight of his knuckles. Trying mostly not to erupt at the provocation.

"With what weapon. Faceless? The Ice Witch is not exactly among our warmasons, last time I checked!" He explained with a threatening undertone to his voice.

"True Ice." Swain answered for them. "It abounds there. We know how to wield it, although we lack the means to"

"It barely abounds. Why the reticence to use the chemicals you proposed, now?" He mumbled.

"I think you know why, Darius. Better than most of us." 

The ex-Hand exhaled. Nodding sharply. Yes, he knew why, but the Void wasn't… human. For once. It seemed acceptable. “A weapon fit for monsters,” he conceded. “For once, I accept  it. It fits the target.”

"Does it, Darius? Even so no man would burn, the soil would. Any long term damage is to be avoided. We do not need the Shurimans to league against us because of environmental consequences.”

“Have the Ionans finally managed to turn you to their ways?” Darius sat back in his seat of stone, allowing himself a chuckle. His brows creased with amusement: But he saw the point Jericho was making: The General responded in kind.

“Ha! Let’s just say that, especially with the Sun Disc attracting dissidents already, I’d rather not give any zealot an excuse to revolt again. If True Ice had proven its worth against the Watchers - Therefore the Void -. We should use it. The chemicals are efficient, but they haven’t been used against the taint… and the Void likes to adopt any weapons that fail to kill it."

Once again, Swain's words aim was true. Striking right at the Might of Noxus momentum: Would the chemicals fail and the Void use it, it would prove disastrous. Darius sharply nodded. Now soundly convinced: It was that quality the Grand General enjoyed in that man. Darius needed no political niceties. If your explanation was sound, he would accept it. And objectivity was oh so easily twisted around with an appeal to paranoia…

"Then that sounds good to me. But for now, how do we get our hands on the means to use True Ice?" Darius genuinely asked, looking for orders from the Triumvirate he was part of again.

"...T’is true that my crows do not carry very far into the North: I do not know of any location that abounds in True Ice, nor do we abound in Iceborn in our ranks."

"Could we turn our attention to the Frejlord so that we turn it back to the Void? Accelerate our invasion?" The Faceless asked. But Darius negatively shook his head.

"No. The warfare there cannot be accelerated without catastrophic loss of numbers. Our foe's strategy to retreat and bite at our heels will be our downfall. We’d lose too much and on all fronts. We need another angle for the timeframe we’re talking about. Another strategy."

"...Diplomacy." Swain muttered.

An actual silence floated in the Council room, all of Trifarix’s Leaders taking a moment to look at their options.

"...We have figures in the Frost guard. The Ice Witch hunger for support. We can talk to her as soon as tonight." The Faceless proposed.

"The Avarosians are famously eager to trade. Although distasteful of our ways. I could make their leader see the… greater good of a new alliance. Exchange wheat for weapons...." Swain added. Pensive, he wasn't sure. These were none but suggestions, almost brainstorming.

"Then you'll need sure roads." Darius grunted. And it dawned on them that It came back to the battle he’d been fighting way before the call for that reunion. To the single tusk in his heel. To Her.

"I have a bird telling me about the recent failure of an assault from the Winter's Claw against Demacia. They might want… help?" Jericho suggested, the corner of his lips moving up as he rested both his hands atop his scepter. Groaning, Darius rose an eye to him, frowning. Of course, the General thought of this as mildly entertaining. It wasn’t often one was allowed to suggest soft tactics to the old Hand of Noxus.

"....We could offer help. No. We could ask for theirs. Diplomacy, right?" Darius corrected himself. Amateurishly. But the effort earned him a bit of laughter from the supposedly more mature man.

"You've been at war for what, the greatest of 5 years? 10, if we count Darkwill's reign. Won't they refuse any pourparler on principle?" The Faceless asked, full of hungry curiosity now that such a possibility had been mentioned.

"The Northern people have strange ways. But they’re no stranger to accords: I can always try. But frankly, this is not my expertise. Jericho, can’t you take care of it?" Darius crossed his arms again, shaking his head during the whole of his sentence. Now mostly to accept his fate rather than express his disappointment.

"A bird tells me the Warmother will not be eager to conduct any talks of cooperation with a weak looking old man instead of the general she faced for most of her life. If a real, useful accord is to be reached, the warrior that has been on the job for a decade will be a better fit. You know how these people think, Darius."

"Don't you got a bird somewhere that fucking agrees with me. Sometimes?" Sighed the soldier, vulgar in defeat..

"Well, Béatrice would like you better. If you ever stopped swiping at her."

"Back to business, please: We got a Void swarm coming for our cities down south. We need a weapon fit for it, so we turn to the Frejlord. And we're planning… a large-scale diplomacy assault on the North front?" The Faceless summed up, its voice turning into one more fit from a child: Darius only shrugged.

"It bears worth trying. It is an interesting prospect. It was due time we switched tactics regarding that front anyways.” Concluded Swain. “ If it proves fruitless, we can always take the risks and turn to the chemicals. I shall meet the Avarosians, Faceless, you will discuss an alliance with the Ice Witch, and Darius, you’ll negotiate with the Winter’s Claw." He stood up as well. A cue that the rest of them followed suit.

"We know it is not what you expected, Darius" The Faceless hummed. Clearly amused. "Call this a secret invasion, if you need to see it as a prolongation of your efforts up to this point instead of their failure."

"I have no issue with flightless tactics." Darius grunted. "I simply hope we will not be deemed vanquished, or worse, cowardly, to our enemies." He mumbled. Shaking his head. “Freljordian will not negotiate fairly with people they think to be turning to surrendering.”

– —--- FRELJORD —-- – –

"Are these cowards surrendering?"

She could not believe it and was even at a loss simply hearing it: Hesitantly reading down the missive again, courageously risking his neck by repeating these insanities, Sejuani’s bloodsworn could only nod furiously with approval, less confused that she was. But far more nervous.

"Well-I mean, there is the usual pretty gibberish from any southerner. But it mostly read as: we wish for our fighting to reach an end, and are ready to pay what that peace is worth. If you would meet with us and let us know what it would take, milord yada yada."

Sat not so far from here. A large viking warrior immediately erupted in what could only be described as a form of wailing. Flailing arms that would maybe more accurately be described as logs at the risk of concussing his comrades.

"Not them! Not the Noxians! They were the only ones that would not retreat!" 

"Hush. Olaf!” Shouted the warmother. Sitting back down and containing her want to pout at this strange news. This could only be a trick of sorts! “Those are… surprising words from our enemies! It must be some new type of trap!"

"It has been delivered directly by a soldier of the Iron Legion, Warmother. I- It is certainly one of their tricks. The messenger is waiting in chains, he says he is expected to return with our demands. Should we cut his hands?"

"We want more battles! What am I to become if even the Noxians surrender? Sejuani, please! I need to die in battle!" Olaf came back roaring, red not with rage but teary despair.

"There will be more battles. My friend, but this matter will be addressed first. Go cry elsewhere if all you can do is shout!"

Her bloodsworn berserker went back to his wailing. Absolutely devastated at the idea of losing their single most relentless enemy. But his worry was shared by most, although for rational and different reasons: What could infer such a change? Was it something to be welcomed? War and Raids were the ways of the Frejlord, and the Warmother was not interested in peace by itself. Ease made you complacent, weak. But that suggestion of a payment was not something to ignore. Not when she had other enemies at every quadrant. She lacked machines of sieges… steel… both of what the Noxians had in spare. The sturdy walls of the lavish Demacian had mocked her long enough. If there was a way to steal anything of use, she ought to take it. Peace was easily broken. And the blunt trap of the Noxian was easily avoided: they thought themselves smart, but they lacked wisdom.

"This bears worthwhile attention. Warmother.” Uttered one of the figures allowed in her tents. But quickly, hisses and spats were heard in response: This one had not earned his right to speak so mindlessly! Sit!

"I assume this could be linked to your recent campaign… but this cannot be the only reason behind this Noxian surrender." Another shape mumbled. “Careful, Warmother, while these southerners are foolish. They’re not one to change their ways without reasons. I agree that it must be a trap.”

Sejuani nodded. Looking down at the message, trying to decipher some meaning beyond the words. In the scripture, the wordplay, the hand that wrote them. But the terms were sharp, simple, clear. Mechanical in their proposition. With a lack of wisdom came a lack of vernacular. Still, she shrugged at the dubious oathsworn surrounding her. 

"I suppose that 10 years of a stalemate might have broken down their resolve. They caught cold feet."
Her declaration was met by silence, followed by courtful nods, some convinced grunts. But also doubtful looks. Some did not agree with the feeling, but all listened.

Glaring up, she then roared, imperative and imperial: "Tell them they are to meet with us. Have them send us the general of that camp, and their scribes! if they're so eager to pay our ransom for peace, then they better be ready to spend every last ounce of what they've dared to fight us over, and more!"

—- – - TOMORROW - – —--

"Warmother, he's here." 

The soldier wore a grave expression, mindlessly patting her Druväsk, Sejuani noticed his unrest. But assumed it was due to the oddity of the situation itself. Too busy feeding some wheat to her mount, she did not turn to face the messenger, Bristle would never mean to harm her, but that didn’t mean much when he could engulf half of her fingers on a big, hasty bite.

"Finally. Guide him to the Bloodsworn Tent. I'll see them here." The matriarch ordered.

"Warmother. It's the Hand of Noxus."

That title wasn't really in use anymore. Sejuani had heard of the change back in Noxus leadership. Everyone in Runeterra had, really: Darkwill's head had since long rolled over and rotted, and his downfall at left room for the newly named Trifarix to reign:
From an nameless orphan, with no lineage. To the Hand of Noxus. To the Trifarix of Might.

She uttered slowly, her neck threatening to snap with how quick she turned. “What.”

To the Winter's Claw. Darius would always be the Hand of Noxus. Sejuani’s first foe from the South and the one that had gotten away. The hand that always reached for their neck. That had stalled her ambition for far too long. Her soldier mumbled something hesitant, more or less soiling himself as the Warmother grabbed him by the shoulder, he could only repeat what he had said, only lower.

So the Noxian had returned. Her hand gripped around the fur atop the head of Bristle. Who stilled. Smelling the battle in the air.

"What a poor trap he has laid! Call for the Bloodsworns, they will be eager to crush some Noxian skulls!"

"No, Warmother. He is alone! I mean - He's the general of that camp! Our scouts only picked him up and a scribe! He’s here to negotiate the terms of the truce!"

She repeated, very carefully, “What.” and this was less of a question and more of a threat. Her soldier withered under her stare. It took her a moment to untight her maw: slowly hissing between clenched teeth, Sejuani tried her best not to threaten the boy, but she thought of wringing the man head of his shoulders for the insanities he was speaking. Yet, in his fear, she saw that he spoke the truth.

 “This - if this is trickery, then it borders on insanity. I shall see for myself!"

—----- —- — — —- —-- —-------

"What are you doing here?"

There was no questioning in her tone. Not even an ounce of interrogation, her questioning was just a growl. The wind howled above their heads. Besides Darius. A warmason quickly reconverted as a scribe meekly raised his eyes to his General. Clearly not so sure about this tactic now that he was in front of Sejuani's monstrous Druväsk. before the beast, even the Hand of Noxus appeared somewhat small. But his total lack of fear left the beast to remain still. Its absence proved concerning to its instinct. Two Noxian. facing the brunt of a whole station of the ravenous Winter's Claw. Would these barbarians give in to rage, and there would be no way out. Had the role been reversed, the Noxian knew he would not hesitate long to have them in chains and relieved of their heads, that is, if they haven’t received their missive.

Freljordians shared some of the basic codes of war: Such as respecting counsel between enemy tribesfor the sake of merging. While Noxus famously ignored some of those supposed rules when they saw fit. It was important, in Runeterra as a whole, not to be too treacherous when it comes to honor and such. It made his decision all the more ambivalent, if not slightly insulting, but totally moronic. Even in Darius’ case, a bad movement could mean his head might roll. A wrong answer equaled an expeditive doom. 

Bristle huffed, taking in the smell of iron and rust the man carried along him: he remembered that one. He’d grown since.

"You walk, alone. In your enemy's den?"

"I’m not alone, the scribe you’ve asked for is with me: I’m here to meet your demands, Sejuani."

"Your jokes do not amuse me! The Hand of Noxus cannot be the leader of such a small delegation! What are you really doing here, Darius? Where is your Legion?"

"I’ve come here to directly supervise the negotiation with the Winter's Claw. Nothing more, nothing less. This is not a task for someone of lower responsibilities"

God, she wanted nothing more than to jump down her mount and strangle the soldier where he stood. Staring down, she met his dark eyes. The eyes of the Machine. Again: He was serious. Because of course he was, this man knew nothing else but duty. Something irked her the wrong way about his new title. He had kept the promise he made himself that day. But it did not sit well with her, Darius moved up the echelon of his country quicker than she did hers. This was not a defeat, but it was infuriating. A sigh escaped her as her eyes thinned.

"You speak the truth. Don't you?"

He did not answer. He made a point never to answer pointless questions. Rhetorics were below him. Ever so greedy with his words. Was he! Containing a chuckle of derision. Sejuani turned back , motioning to her troops to recede down the wall of her camp with a single wave of the hand.

"Then we will talk in my camp, Hand! This joke of yours better be explained properly!"

“T’is no joke.” He weakly mumbled, following in the steps of the Warmother: Once she had decided to take his claim seriously, she acted on as quickly as he would: Would this had been a trap, she was not scared to have him walk in her lair. And there were maybe only two or three places worse than a Winter’s Claw’s settlement for a Noxian to get himself into.

Darius imagined that getting out of another one of these lairs could prove problematic this time. Still, he marched on. Pushing the scribe forward with a shove to his back: The Freljordian Doctrine was sound, although way less naive than the Demacian way. As long as his proposition remained serious and sensible in Sejuani’s opinion, they were in no risk of execution nor capture. Although meeting eye to eye in terms of negotiations could easily prove impossible and shatter that fragile balance between a respectful discussion and a asinine insult in the Warmother’s eyes. Luckily, Darius was not intent on failing at negotiating. He disliked failing overall.

"Leave the damn paper muncher behind. You will explain this to me yourself."

"It’s just one man." He mumbled. But nevertheless. He proceeded. And. Somewhat relaxed, the warmason found himself nevertheless in a barely better situation: When he understood it only meant that he was to return to his delegation by himself. Left behind by the Frejlordian's scouts. They had no care for him any longer since the General of the Legion himself were in their wall.

And now he was alone, where Frejlord could easily prove deadly to a man with an unsure step. Still, saluting his general, he then poorly aimed where he thought he should go, and went running.

—- — – - – — —---

Grim and annoyed, the Matriarch pushed open the curtain of her tent. Her closest, her Bloodsworns and Oathsworns, filled the place. Not a palace by any means, but more than enough for negotiations. It held no throne, but her spot was enlightened, expressly made wide for her to sit. Surrounded by her fiercest soldiers.

Those, always eager for battle. Were forever on edge, sharp and seething. Every single one tensed up as the Hand of Noxus walked past their Warmother. His heavy steeled boots creased the snow and the earth beneath: Usually, to fight in the Freljordian lands, you had to yield armor for fur. And heavy, steeled boots were to be discarded for lighter footwear, allowing you to roam and run on the deep snow of the place without stumbling as a toddler would. But some apparently discarded such necessities. Legendary, in battle, Darius had come to regret that lack of mobility only once. The rest of the time. The regrets only belonged to the men he cut down. Here, it simply made each of his steps leave an impression, on the crowd as well as on the ground.

Sitting down, Sejuani gestured to him to take a seat in front, quite below her station. She mumbled. Unamused, snapping fingers to break the wary silence.

"Food. And wine. My Bloodsworns, you stay with me. And you, you explain yourself." She said, curtly. Short and to the point. A moment silent, Darius took place in front of her like she motioned to. But remained standing. So that they met eye to eye: He was not here to rest. 

Some eyes lingered on what he brought with him, especially the weapon on his back. The Axe, reforged. He held nothing else but a simple backpack. which he discarded without a thought. Clearly, the Noxian had an easy stroll through the harsh land. An invisible feat, but enough to make some ponder about his attitude. To be so rashly unprepared could be seen as an insult.

"You should have received a missive explaining enough: I am here to negotiate the terms of our truce." 

At those words, a large figure next to Sejuani stood up. A man of large build. With his hand scarfed in bandages. A necklace of huge beads swaying against his naked chest: A shaman.

"You will address to the Matriarch as Warmother. Southerner." Udyr mumbled. He had changed. So much that Darius didn't even recognize the man that once was Sejuani's shaman advisor. But he recognized the authority in his words. And so he nodded. Not a gest of great deference, but far more than the usual for his character:

"Noxus wishes for our conflict to end. Warmother, on terms we are eager to… Discuss." Darius completed. Letting his eyes roam amongst the visages of that crowd, he recognized the threats some of them posed. Not everyone here was someone he could be able to cut down without losing blood. These warriors were elite.

"Why would Noxus, of all countries, beg for peace?!" Sejuani chortled. Finally really speaking her mind. Darius ignored her insults, mostly acknowledging the smudge of truth in her question that required an answer:

"The Trifarix have decided that a truce was the better way forward." The way he explained it clearly implied that his opinion might not have been one of agreement. Or at least, it is what it suggested to those who heard him speak. Truth is, all of their decisions were discussed until they were unanimous in essence. But there was no need to let them know that.

"So what. You are just done? Just like that?"

"We have waged war against each other for eons, and it did not see much progress. It is due time for that to change. Noxus has learned since the end of Darkwill’s reign."

"Since when do we have a problem with a stale war? Progess to what?"

It was an exaggeration. While the front swayed back and forth. Their conflict was paramount to the equilibrium of their respective country. Many warriors of the Winter Claw had been taught their way all throughout their fight against Noxians. Only their craft had changed, like a weapon being sharpened. A stale conflict kept them strong, sharpening both of them. Still, Darius frowned.

"Needless bloodshed is a waste. Noxus does not abide by it."

"...Nor do the Winter's Claw. But you cannot expect us to accept it to end like this."

"Which is why I'm here to hear about what it will cost us."

God, he hated this. This was painfully slow! Darius tried not to let it show that these circles they made around what they were supposed to discuss annoyed him greatly. He managed to only cross his arms. While whisperings and discussions rose, some of Sejuani's packmates walked over to whisper their advice. The man named Udyr, except for his early warning, remained particularly still and silent, visibly not so opinionated unless protocol was broken. His huge dreads ornamented his burly face like a hood would cover the sides of a nun. But he seemed… sensible, smelling the shift of the mood in the air. For a moment, he and Darius locked eyes, trying to gauge each other. 
The soldier's eyes only told him that there was a softness to this man. A martial one. He held no weapon, Darius noticed. But he rightfully guessed that his body might play that role anyways: Strong, heavy, gripping muscle. Callous skin atop the knuckles and on the inside of his hands too. His stride was heavy and his strikes must have shared that weight, exhausting and deafening would they land. A bit of a mismatch with him, wasn’t he? 

The Shaman saw in Darius far more than he did in him: Udyr skill to see past the physical gave him a vastly better judgment, and he saw a man more troubled than it seemed. He was sharp, but detached from his body needs in many ways. He drew from rage and whatever monstrous concept his duty had become. Darius was someone hard to stop, in nature and in body. A sort of bull. Maybe. Although Udyr rightfully compared him to more of a juggernaut in his mind. This man was an avalanche.

"So, how much is Noxus willing to pay for peace?" She finally spoke, pushing away the last of her counselors.

Darius snorted, finally. It was starting. He was not too eager to play the diplomat, nor the part of a merchant, but he tried earnestly:

"We are sensible to reasonable demands. I assume that if it does not interest you by itself, Warmother. Maybe ressources will do the trick: this could easily benefit the both of us."

"How so?" She asked. Bristly. And Darius felt the room tighten: she wanted to hear what they wanted first. Correctly assuming that they must want something. Already, this vapid, verbose game was giving him more headache than any warfare… he shouldn't reveal his hand yet, right? 

"Cooperation would be welcome. I know firsthand the value of your forces. Since we shared many battles. I know we also share enemies.The Claw, like us, thrive in battle, doesn’t it?" He mused: Swain would be proud. 

"I want your Iron Legion." She calmly stated. Her smile was made of ice.

"No." Escaped straight out of Darius’ mouth. Unable to bring himself to even add one word. It came out far too quickly: His throat hurting, he reprised himself. "I mean- our support is yours. If you want it."

Interested, Sejuani leaned forward. Meals and drinks were brought. And many Bloodsworn started to sit around the long table. Crossing their legs and leaning deep on their knees to listen. Mindlessly grabbing some of the food to gnaw on while they listened to the banter. Darius remained standing. But Sejuani grabbed a lamb's leg. Taking a bite. She gestured it toward his face:

"I want more than support. I want them. Give them to me." 

She dipped her feet in the water, trying to gauge the real limits there. The permanent scowl on Darius features went darker. And he leant forward too, pressing his hand down on the table. Leaving the wood to creak as the strength behind his weight threatened to break it. Negotiation was not always about being smart, and Jericho knew that perfectly well: his presence alone would have been… uncouth: Darius had been deemed the one fit to conduct this talk for more than one reason: One was that the Winter’s Claw had shared a long, history with him, the other was that the Winter’s Claw had shared a long, violent history with him.

"No." He repeated. This time. With less room for questioning. "This would be fruitless to us both."

"How so?" She asked again. The head of the Winter’s Claw was not scared of the Hand, but she respected him, in ways she refused to articulate: That little test was just to prod him. But if Darius was to bring anything to the table, he needed to prove himself worthy of her time:

"Would your people have use for crops? Your clan is nomadic, built on raids, never staying in the same place. The Iron Legion is simply not suited to the ways of the Winter's Claw.” Which was why he hadn’t won against her yet.  “And they're vital to Noxus. I am serious about us cooperating. Sejuani. This truce is for strengthening us. Not weakening each other."

These words echoed well in the crowds, there were some nods. A bit of approval, but also some laughs: Clearly, this Southerner understood a bit about their culture: If they liked peace so much, they should go to the Avarosian! Yes. Peace, to Freljord, Should only serve to prepare for the next battle! If the benefits of the conflicts outweighed those of a peaceful trade, then they’d rather fight! Peace was a breeding ground for weakness!

"Weaklings often delude themselves into thinking strength lies in numbers. What good are we together?" She whispered back with a grin, slowly standing up to meet his posture, but that only ended with her staring down on the Axe.

"All can be good in war." Darius crossed his arms, feeling the discussion going awry. "You're no stranger to alliances, I know that."

"And it proved fruitless before! The Ursines have been a liability."

"Because they were rabid, and aimless. All things Noxus are not."

"But I do not know what Noxus wants: Although I might not care, to be honest…" She finally admitted, sitting back on her covers. Looking with more attention to the feast than to the man. Trying to unnerve him, it worked.

"We want the same thing you do." He mumbled. Pensive.

"And what would that be?" She mused, curious as to his opinion rather than the veracity of it.

"Glory. It is time we thought about what we could achieve together, instead of what we've been preventing each other to do." 

This reached not only the Matriarch, but many of her Blooddworns: there were sharp nods. Courteous sounds of approvals. All but two -no, three.- And Darius took into account each of their faces. He would have detailed them, but one quickly stood over, making a beeline right toward him.

Darius managed not to reach for his weapon. An herculean feat. But he had to hold his ground and brace an arm up when the man shoved him. Strong, blonde. Fuming under his helmet:

"Olaf! Sit, right now!" Sejuani growled. But made no move to refrain the strange man with more than words. He did not back down, but stilled, his breath a raging labor.
Throwing his arms up, the Viking looked like a wailing ghost. Amidst despair and rage: pointing a trembling finger at Darius' chest. He spoke, close to manic:

"Glory! Yes, But Glory in death!" He screamed. Spitlet followed his every word. "Is it not what you're keeping from us right now!? Noxian!? What you are taking away from me!?"

This ‘’Olaf’’ was clearly conflicted. He shivered all over, but not because of any cold, clearly., He was obviously debating with himself about hurling the Hand of Noxus out of the tent and battling him then and there. But Darius managed to remain calm, although confused: he’d met many such soldiers in a permanent state of anger and febrility, but those usually lived very-short lifes. No one was above their station, so to see such a fool among Sejuani’s elite… Either she had bad taste, or this one was a greater warrior that his madness suggested.

"I meant Glory in Victory. Conquest. You… you want to die in battle. I assume." He mused, trying to get a read on the Bloodsworn. 

"Don't we ALL!" Olaf roared. Red in the face. "And you are taking that from me!" He repeated. “Glorious purpose!”

The Noxian had a snort, and the sound of it brought all of Olaf's tremors to a brutal stop, an enormous wave of rage threatening to roll over the whole place, but Darius raised an open hand. Explaining himself before it came down to a fistfight:

"Your kind is not rare in Noxus: There's battle out there, in this world, that far outmatch what we have shared until now. And Noxus wages such conflict everyday: this “truce” could be your best ticket to the beyond yet. Berserker."

"A ticket to where, South!? I have been to these places you speak of! I’ve battled ghost, wraiths! All feeble in front of my axes!" Olaf had a mocking roar of laughter, throwing his head backward in theatrics. Joined by many of the warriors here: mocking Southerners was a thing of culture, here. Still, Darius didn’t not miss the glint of curiosity in the barbarian eyes: His rage had halted, and he hanged on his words:

"The Freljord is harsh, for sure. But there land's down there, that would kill you with burn rather than cold. There's danger greater than ghosts and ghouls down there. Jungles and wildlife that I’ve doubt you’ve faced. Do you refuse to meet a danger you don’t know of? Do you only have the guts to challenge the familiar?””

The appeal to his pride worked, and the red in the Viking face subsided, replaced by an even stranger curiosity:

"Guts? Guts I have to spill, Noxian! Show me those monsters! For I have a great death to achieve!"

"You'll achieve a great death in our stables as meat if you don't take a damn seat. Olaf! Hell, sit too, Noxian. And eat, for god's sake. Do not waste warm food." Sejuani mumbled. Exasperated by her warrior outburst. 

"We still have many terms to find. Warmother." Darius tried to resist. A bit uselessly, he realized midway through his arguments: This, too, was the way of the Freljord:

"Do Noxians think better on an empty stomach? Sit. Hell, what is it with you people and standing all the way through the simplest discussion…"

“You’ve gotten too used to fighting mounted.” He grumbled. Begrudgingly sitting, the Noxian discarded one of his gloves. Reaching a hand to the nearest plate. "So, are you accepting that acc- that trade proposition?"

"Depends. You still deny me your Legion. Don't you?"

Darius grumbled, He tried to draw an acceptable line in the sand in the snow here: :"I'll give you their full support, and the means to use them well. If you want to, but the Iron Legion cannot station under the Winter’s Claw. At least simply because they'd quickly rust down to nothing among your people. That would simply be a waste."

"And we do not abide by it." She repeated amidst a bite, she discarded the bone, throwing it in her Druväsk mouth, where it disappeared instantly. You could fit a whole man in there…

"We could share even more: If I give you access to the Legion. What do you give me in exchange?"

She hesitated. "What would Noxus need from the Winter's Claw? You people always had the numbers over us."

"And they’ve served us poorly: Your people's fury in battle is renowned. And the tricks of your magic are…  weapons unknown to Noxus. You could… teach them to us." He explained, trying not to openly disclose his desire for Iceborn expertise over True Ice.

"Ah! There's nothing you southerners could learn from us! To tame the power of the Freljord, you ought to be from the Freljord!" She laughed, slapping her knee at the suggestion.

"That isn't exactly true."

The voice came from one of her Bloodsworn. One of that hadn't taken a seat yet. One of those that didn't nod in agreement earlier too. When Sejuani's turned to him, the rest of the table grew cold: an unpopular one. Understood Darius. It was great to learn that it could be the case. No country ever escaped the poison of politics, he assumed…

No, it was more than that: he was a stranger. He realized, as the man discarded his hood. His traits were clearly Demacian.

"Speak. Sylas. And eat as well! What is it, with you summerland fools, and disregarding great food?"

"I'm just wary. Warmother, it makes my stomach too tight to enjoy any food." Moving forward. The man kept his explanation going: "As long as one earnestly joins the Frejlord, the way of the North can be learned. And its power can find you. But not everyone is fit to handle it."

"A Demacian, in your ranks?" Darius stuttered, not trying to hide his surprise: This was surprisingly important intel to report. The type of which Swain should be knowledgeable about as soon as possible. But his words brought a great frown on the suspect’s face.

He was emaciated, all line and sinew. But this man was undeniably capable of great violence. If not great destruction. It was visible mostly in the way he carried himself, with typical demacian pride. But the threat was in the way people, elite warriors, definitely recoiled at his approach. The Noxian saw that this was a man at war, even in his sleep. Someone discarded . A man without country, assessed the leader of men. 

"I am as much a Demacian as you are, Hand. Haven't you heard of me?"

The name did rang a bell, from about a year ago:

"Sylas, The Kingslayer." 

Darius was currently aware of critical information none else here could know: La familia Du Couteau had taken advantage of the unrest brought by this man to… kill the previous Jarvan. Sylas bore the weight of the accusation of Regicide, and then some more. 

A move behind covers from Noxus, which helped cement the feud between Demacian and their mage community. And a knowledge he should by no means, ever, even infer here.

"So I've been named. Although I wish I did more than that to this blasted, twisted country: We would all do better without Kings…"

Darius turned to Sejuani, a tentative smile appearing on his face. "...so you do know about the concept of an alliance, don't you?!" He snorted, pointing at Sylas. His hand was still occupied with a mug of wine: Surprisingly, diplomacy proved to be quite interesting. 

Sejuani waved a dismissive hand, amused as well. But reluctant to admit it:

"Sylas brought me more than trade. Darius. And he was not at war with us. He gave me a Bloodsworn. He is family!" She spoke those last words loudly, not only for him. But for the whole congress of northmen around her. A sensitive subject, Darius assumed. She then violently tugged the man to sit next to her, which he proceeded to do with a small, embarrassed chuckles: chains ornamented his hands. Large ones, of the white of Petricite: here was one man that did try enough. A worthy ally, certainly.

"Noxus would welcome you as well, Kingslayer, we've recently revolted against the concept of kings and dynasties…" Darius overtly proposed. Not ashamed of grabbing the meat on the Warmother's plate, figuratively and literally. "While you are unpopular here, you've got quite the support over there at the Immortal Basti-"

Sejuani's cut off the discussion, pointing a threatening finger right under the nose of the Hand. But Sylas answered first.

"While pleasing to hear so. My home is here, Noxian. I have found brethren, among the Freljord. I need only to prove it to them."

Oh so Demacian. Polite and a natural at being humble. Even while being the greatest rebel alive…Darius just nodded. He had been utterly serious, but knew that anyone with character would not betray Sejuani's right in front of her face. Still, looking not a Sylas, but the Warmother. He uttered, pensive.

"There's a saying in Noxus, Matriarch."

"So even your people have idioms. Amusing, enlighten me, then."

"Kill them. Until they are family."

The words were spoken in such a de-facto manner that no irony could be appreciated. No laughter was shared upon hearing it. From the fearless man, it came out ominously. Like a promise. Part of the table went silent. As Darius pensively stared at the wine twirling in Sejuani's mug. She waited for an addition, looked at him the same way she did then. Not angry, not scared. But with hungry curiosity. He pursued:

"For most, it means to imply that Noxus ought to beat their enemies into submission: but I find this idiom to have another meaning, of kinship through conflict. Which fits well into Frejlord's ways."

"Family, here, have a meaning none of you, especially you. Can even understand. To not stand with each other is to die." Sejuani growled. 

Darius knew. He knew that meaning, but it wasn't time to contest her. It was something they were pridefully guarded about. He bowed ever so imperceptibly his head.

"Then maybe it is time for Noxus to learn such a meaning." He conceited. 

Sejuani thought. Longingly. She wasn't sure if it was an option worth trying. And the possibility that this all was a trap hadn’t been dispelled. After all, But at her own self-questioning came a pungent sensation, an ache in her hands. A want she had learned to resent. Clenching them tight, she motioned with her chin at Darius to keep going. Unsure, he started to widen the scope of what the trade could entail.

"We could aid you with Noxus' military edge. Give you ways to break the walls of the Demacians. And the Steel to shield yourself from the Avarosians' arrows. You could let the Icebornes join our ranks. Show the Fury of the North to our enemies. Be independent from the whims of the gods and kings alike."

So he knew about the conflict with the Ursines. Not a surprise; the very thunder carried the Volibear's rage over all countries. She faced a god up north, and that cost her greatly. Not only the shamans, of course. But even some of her troops. Too scared to face legends from the past. But she needed to bring them to heel. She needed not the Volibear's help, but his respect.

Noxus hadn’t failed to investigate  the apparent disparition of the Ursines berserker. It could only hint about an inner conflict. But the scope of it had been a surprise to all. Kings were easily toppled over, but none had learned yet how to kill a god.

"A good trade for us." She admitted. " But still. A poor one, for Noxus'"

Dubitative, of course. The perks of paranoia, Dairus respected that. But, looking within, he now realized that she was .. wrong. He did try not to reveal the reasons for this sudden need for an alliance. But he now could see that the alliance would be genuine: maybe this diplomatic option should even have been tried long ago.

"Noxus welcomes all, such a settlement could be worth much more, Warmother. We could resume fighting, if you truly want to. But I find that we have more in common than what which oppose us."

"...you wax good poetry, for a warmonger. But you make a poor negotiator! Worth more, you say? We'll take that deal for nothing less than what it's worth!" A new voice erupted. Followed by a bellowing laughter from the assembly.

His mistake made Darius lower his sightline, he allowed himself a moment of annoyance. Pressing the bridge of his nose:

"I am a better soldier. I'll admit." He grunted, as the one with the acute observation stood up. Grabbing his attention.

Another bloodsworn. The last one that refused to approve earlier. A woman. An old one, maybe 5 years his denizen. Young enough to still fight, but not to mother any longer. He knew her from somewhere he could not pinpoint. 

"...Vrynna." Softly muttered Sejuani. Less as a warning to the concerned, and more as a presentation.

Vrynna had obscenely long dark hair. That grazed over the snow where she walked, and just like him, a small paste of white-ish, gray hair. She spread just around her an air of cruelty. An edge, A lethality. Something quite aided by the fact that she had more scars than she had wrinkles. To such a degree it suggested scarification. But clearly, each of these scars had a story.

"...I do not like Noxians." She stated. Well, not a great start. "But."

He was surprised to find he held his breath. 

"I do respect history. And you have some with us, don't you? Darius, Hand of Noxus!" She shouted in theatrics, twirling not a spout of her hair, but her weapon.

"I did not share much more than conflict with the Winter's Claw."

"How about your life? It was supposed to belong to the Bear, long ago. You've dodged that fate. Quite cunningly."

"There was no cunning to it." He muttered, sent to the past. 

"Still, you are here, again. You've been chained to this place. You lost time, if not lives. In that… conflict of ours."

Darius made no comment, he didn't like that one's tone.

"But we all did. Of course. Such is the way of the Winter's Claw. Such is the way of the Freljord!" She continued.

Vrynna. Vrynna the raider, Scarmother. Her name suddenly cut through his memory, the nicknamed, Queen of raids and ravage. He derailed one of her campaign, killed some of her daughters. Most of her scars were indubitably gifts from him or his troops.

"Do not bring your grievances to our deliberations." Sejuani warned her. But Vrynna only curtly bowed. And, in a familiarity that left Darius confused, slipped right between her and Sylas. To wrap her hands around Sejuani's shoulders and nape with a gesture that bordered on the motherly.

"None here. Warmother. I do not grieve. But I remember. And I remind you that This Noxian owes us a life."

"Which?" Darius asked himself.

"Yours." Sejuani answered, a clarity suddenly obvious in her eyes.

Again, he did not comment, unsure. The Warmother, slowly. Stood. And all of her Blooddworn followed suit. Darius hesitated one second too long, and remained sat in front of Sejuani, tall and brooding.

"You were my prisoner. Five years ago. And you escaped: now, you are back."

He thought he then saw where this was going, a growl formed in his throat. His naked hand making a fist. 

"...so what? Do you still want to give the Volibear his old meal? Aren't I way past due. Now?"

"No. I'm suggesting that, maybe, if you managed to escape your end back then, it was because I was not ready to make the right call."

"...What?"

"I will not waste you this time. Darius. You want a truce? Fine. Be my Bloodsworn. Earn your place as family. Then, I'll show you the way of the Frejlord."

This was a proposition of such vast implication that it would need conscious, slow, educated research. It required extended knowledge of a culture Darius only knew of in spurts through shared clashes of warfare. It demanded a care and a sagacity held not only by tacticians, but also politicians. By all means, it was a question asked with gravitas, and its answer could not be anything but thoughtful. It begged for patience. But Darius was a man of action.

—---- - – — —-- —------ —------ —

The wind was howling. It makes for a perfect cover for the noise of crunching snow. Not that she was noisy in the first place! The real challenge was to remain unseen…

Quinn layed on her front so low that barely an eye could be seen from the mass of leaves she hid in. From within the branches of the trees. The greatest Demacian scout had a good line of sight on the inside of the camp. She ignored the stables, the huts. Her sight focused on the largest tent. Valor scented the mark of an ongoing feast. A reunion she will not miss spying on.

The constant whirling worked against her. Despite some roars of laughter. Quinn could not decipher any words in the wind, she heard only the sounds of a coming storm. But she could observe. And she had seen a very dangerous man walking in an even more dangerous place. 

She saw him come out. Pushing the curtains, unharmed. He was followed by numerous warlords, before the greatest one came. The Warmother.

Quinn could not read into the sullen expression of these warriors. But she saw the single most important thing to report, filing it in her mind as a disastrous turn of events for all of the Realm. A singular action that required no words, but was universal enough that its consequences could not be misinterpreted.

An handshake.

Chapter Text

BACK IN THE DELVERHOLD

“I don’t get it, what exactly is this custom supposed to be about? What am I reading?” 

“A missive to Swain.”

Darius could not help but bring his head into his hands, whenever he spoke to his brother, headaches followed suit. It did not help that this did not feel so necessary as it was a chore: Draven had wanted to come with him to the Freljord, and now the general felt obligated to at least involve him. Or at least, to allow him room for advice, a fatal mistake.

“I’ve made the mistake of asking you for advice on how to convey the news to the Grand General, seeing as he is your friend. And you have been making it a problem ever since.”

“It is not my fault you are making your messages unpalatable, brother! It’s no surprise no one ever bothers themselves with answering you. This is a bore to read, man! Why do you word it all like a report?”

“Because this is precisely a report. And you don’t even know what unpalatable means.” 

Draven slammed the papers back onto the table, groaning and rolling his eyes far enough he could stare at his unused gray matter. “Come on!” He complained, with an emphasis on the “on”: “Unpalatable is what you are, that I know! What is this whole ‘Bloodsworn’-shabang? You think Jericho knows? I sure don’t!”

“You don’t know anything, Draven. You- make any correction you want. Just make sure that the general Swain knows that diplomacy is working just fine, and that we are on course.”

“On course for what, Darius? Like, come on, when do we steamroll these guys?!”

“We’re not. At all. I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again: I am somewhat glad, for once, that you’ve decided for yourself to come to the battlefield instead of wasting time with your games in the Noxkraya, but if you’ve hoped to be spinning axes all day, you’ve come at a bad time.” He explained, somewhat saddened by that as well.

The hand that Draven had brushing deep in his hair fell flat on the table. Darius knew his brother to be restless in similar ways to him, but a glint of amusement shone in his brother’ s eyes, Draven smirked.

“Well I’d be damned: So you truly think that this is working? I mean, I didn’t come here to freeze my ass off doing nothing, but that’s never been your type either!”

“We won’t be doing nothing. The Bloodsworn ceremony requires me to bring my own.”

“Your what? Your bloodsworns? Who’s that supposed to be, your soldiers? I mean, glad to be invited, man, but it sounds like you ought to bring the whoooole Trifarian Legion in!” He laughed, pensively playing with his mustache, twirling it maliciously between his fingers. Despite his permanent irony and snark, Darius’s brother seemed genuinely curious. Not so much out of duty than out of amusement, of course. But it was painfully welcome. Grabbing back his missive and rolling it into a scroll, the soldier in command explained, monotone.

“It is more than that. A bloodsworn is, to Freljordian, a warrior of such trust that they qualify as family. We don’t really have that in Noxus, so I’m improvising.”

“Like, family-family?” Draven asked, making air-quotes.

“Yes, family-family” Darius groaned. “The closest we have would be… warmasons? But closer, and assimilated in a household name. Think of the DuCouteau adopted prodigy, for example.” Darius snapped his fingers as the thought of Talon crossed his mind. The miraculous scion of the blademaster’s famous Noxian family was a perfect example of the concept.

“Closer so what? So they can backstab you more easily?” the executioner raised an eyebrow. He often overplayed his iniquity, but the concept of giving anyone your back was considered outlandish among all Noxian for a good reason. Even he would not make such a mistake! But Darius knew Draven understood his meanings, so he gave him a glare instead of an explanation. Talon DuCouteau’s ordeal was a close enough parallel, cold-blooded killing culture aside.

“I’d say so, but back-stabbing is quite looked down on, here in the North. So keep your opinion to yourself.”

This advice was more of an order rather than a counsel, so with a chuckle, Draven raised both of his hands in surrender. 

“Aye boss! But damn! I’m touched! You’re really bringing me to that family gathering?” He sounded surprised, and had all right to be: Darius wasn’t exactly showing his brother around, most of the time. Or all of the time.

“You and others, I’ll bring the best of the Legion too. What we lack in similarities, we’ll meet in might. If the Freljordian won’t respect our ways, they shall at least respect our strength.”

“I’m takin’ that backhanded compliment and running with it all the way back home with it, bro. So, if I get that right, it’ll be like… a celebration? We're throwing a party like we’re brothers in arms, now?”

Darius' mouth was already moving to deny this assumption, only to freeze midway, his look losing itself to the snow outside. Draven was not so slow to get used to these news customs, and he shrugged in wait, amused at his brother’s confusion.

“I’m right, aren’t I? This is a welcoming party!” Draven threw his head back to laugh.

“I suppose it is.”

“Shit, should I have packed up my nice jacket?”

Darius dismissed his jokes, simply grumbling.“You should have packed warmer clothes. You’ll look weak if you are shivering all the while the Warmother watches you.”

“Ah! Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression upon the big lady, right? But, come on, are you really sure we shouldn’t use that opportunity to kill the bitch?”

Darius sighed, not even giving Draven the courtesy of a look of disbelief. “And what, get killed by her 50 bloodsworn here and there? I want her warriors, not her head.”

“I can take at least 20 savages!” Draven harked out a laugh, pointing his chin up in pride.

“I doubt it. (Draven could maybe deal with five) Those are elites, iceborne warriors. And it’s not what I’m asking of you anyways… But do get your axes, we'll never know if they will not give in to their basest instinct.” He mumbled, reminding himself of the frenzied Olad and his blood-soaked eyes.

“Yeah, can you imagine? How many of us are you bringin’, anyways?”

The Hand of Noxus visibly hesitated. “I was thinking of Farron, and Erzsi.” Silence followed. Until Draven’s expecting face turned more and more disappointed by the second. There was another name Darius would have added. But Quileta had decided otherwise… 

“What, that’s all? You bringing only 4 of us? Maaan, we’re gonna die out there!” Draven said this as if he mentioned a chore. If he died, he wanted it to at least be glorious! 4 to 50 would be a massacre and nothing more! Not even one of the impressive kind!

“Sejuani’s words are reliable. It is only some of her warriors I am concerned about; they don’t share their Warmother’s restraint.”

“Since when do you, man?!”

At that, Darius didn’t answer: he did not. Would he had met the same opportunity, he would certainly have taken them hostage, or simply executed them, and so without hesitation. But he trusted her word, not out of blind faith: But because he had experienced first hand the Warmother’s idea of honor. And while he didn’t understand in its entirety, Darius simply knew it wouldn’t allow for such a stratagem. Draven shrugged in the absence of a response, and simply leaned back deeper in his chair.

“So what are you telling Jericho, anyways?”

“You’ve read the missive: the plan is working fine. Assuming no one messes it up.” He added a glare to his brother as he said this. “We shall be bloodsworn soon. And we’ll have Iceborns warriors then.”

“A-ma-zing. Hahaha! I’m sure Jericho will be laughing all throughout the Bastion when he’ll read that diplomacy is working so well that you’re getting wed to the gal we’ve been at war with, what, ten thousand years?”

Darius sighed again: He’d never dignify his brother's stupidity with a chortle, even if hearing Draven’s spin on the Frejlordians customs was aggravatingly funny. “That’s not a thing in this part of the world, but that’s of no matter to you. Just shut up and go send the missive to the General, will you?” And when Draven acquiesced with too much eagerness, Darius pointed a threatening finger toward him: 

“And do not tweak anything I’ve written. We need no misconception of this pledge. And do not tell the soldiers that they’re made into dowry or anything of the sort. I have enough on my hands without you spreading moronic rumors.” 

-  —----------------- -

“So yeah, Darius gettin’ wed to the leader of the Winter’s Claw, pretty sure that it means we’re getting our ice soldiers as long he don’t fuck it up somewhere during the coming month. (I think I’m getting wedded off too? Technicalities, you know, we come in pack. He needed to give them something reaaaal good to sweeten the deal). Bref, the diplo-machine front is moving well down here, Jericho. Here’s to hoping you can achieve at least something half as outlandish with the Avarosian’s princess too. I’ve heard she was a sight! You better get some results, we are getting mad good at getting this shit done without any slaughter. Take care, bozo, Kindly signed, Draven.”

Jericho, with a short-lived chuckle, folded Draven’s personnel missive, and had it swallowed by one of his crows, which devoured it with no regard for taste. He was awaiting his own meeting. Ah, if Draven wasn’t so funny, he would have had him disposed of long ago. But the truth was that the executioner was doing just fine at what he was sent there to do: keeping Darius grounded.
Forced to deal with his brother’s antics, the old Hand of Noxus would refrain from actions that would be too rash. The simple presense of his little brother made the Trifarian Leader less inclined to suicidal violence, if only not to put them in harm’s way. Whether or not either of them liked to admit it. When his only blood was involved, Darius’ zealotry took on the best traits of leadership instead of his usual and demanding bloodthirst.

But that was maybe working too well. While not too accustomed to the Freljordian ways, Swain wasn’t sure that the deal they were looking for involved something as binding than what equated to bending the knee, from his understanding: Darius, usually, had too much bite to be useful in diplomacy, but Darius with no bark was not useful at all... Still, the current flow seemed favorable to them. If only for the novelty of undertaking a successful diplomatic approach with the Winter’s Claw, whatever happened next.

And what was happening next was his meeting with the Avarosian Queen. (And not a princess, should know Draven) The queen Ashe had received his own missive and entertained the idea of a discussion, but only on her grounds.
Yes; Swain was not reading this missive from within the walls of the Immortal Bastion, which was the only reason why he kept his amusement to a smile instead of an open laughter: He hadn’t been that far from home since Ionia. And, to be honest, Freljord’s vast iceland's paled in front of the resplendent nature of the Eastern country. But, unless it would prove necessary, at least Jaricho was not here to lead an invasion.
Yet.

He led there an discomfitingly small delegation, deep west, too deep, behind the Demacian lines: He traded cordial messages to the Avarosan leader, which must have been surprised to receive such a proposition: But she proved prudent, what Darius had done out of an utter lack of self-preservation, Swain had been forced into: They were in enemy territory. But, similarly to Darius, Swain was confident in the word of the Freljord leader. 

Ashe had offered no fealty to Demacia. But she seemed more inclined to their… image, so her decision to entertain a discussion was a rare opportunity for Noxus.
Therefore, Swain had to make a good impression.
It was not going to be easy, as the Avarosians had a poor relationship with Noxus beforehand, and Demacia, while not an ally to them yet, certainly looked like a better country to start a conversation with. Or they would be, if they were not so hellbent on their ridiculous ideals.

Swain, patient, blew hot-air between his hands, keeping his fingers warm. He could see among his men the same discomfort: it was just too cold. And it’ll likely stay that way forever, they were close to Rakelstäke, but he knew they were not supposed to tread upon this land. It was a sacred place to the Avarosans, close to the heart of their forces: They were less nomadic than the usual tribes of the Freljord, agrarian where it was sustainable. But their leader rarely remained too long in the same place, always looking to defend their weakest or to convince more to join them. But the Rakelstäke was a place where they would regroup when needed. And, supposed Swain, pray.

The Grand General hesitated, while his delegation organized camp, he considered sending a crow. Not just for recon, but maybe to at least make his presence known to the Avarosian leader. But the temptation to give a glance deeper into these sacred lands was brewing…: Who knew? Curiosity was a risk often worth the rewards… And while the cold bothered him, it did nothing to tame his curiosity. But keeping watch was more important, the last thing they needed was to be surprised by Demacian Scouts, which would end this meeting before it could even start.

__________________________________

Frostbite was threatening to set in when they finally met. He’d been pleasantly surprised to have his raven be met by a bird of her own: or at least its trail. A path of ice amidst the snow. Deeply unnatural, but not so obvious. Maybe this trail hadn’t been left for him, but he saw it nonetheless. A test and an invitation all the same.

“We’re moving.” He’d just said then, able to recognize a challenge when he was given one. And his troops knew better than to discuss the direction the Grand general pointed towards. Minutes later, silhouettes started to emerge from the snow. In greeter numbers, sending colder glances in the direction of the iron troops.

“Steady.” he’d warned his soldiers, who were growing restless: No noxian liked to be surrounded. “Those are our hosts.” 

Soon enough, and it was a tent that appeared into view. Larger than to be destined for something else than a meeting. From a wave of his hand, Swain ordered his delegation to stop and wait. And they did, while more and more silhouettes kept shifting into view from the higher ground. Sliding in vision from behind trees and atop of snowy hills. Not enemy soldiers, but an army of people. Understood Swain: the whole of the Avarosan were travellers, and while not all of them were warriors, they all were ready to fight. So was the way of the Freljord.

Pushing apart the sails, Swain slowly stepped inside with a certain step. Fear was not an useless emotion to have, but he found it hard to muster any, despite how deep they were in enemy territory:  The pitfalls of having lived for too long, he assumed.

A woman sat inside, on a ground refurnished with dry hay and patches of swatted leather. She was eating, and most of her was hidden behind a large fire that crackled in the middle of the tent. Swain barely discerned her eyes, dark behind strands of white hair and a hood she kept on,even in the warmth inside.

There was a man behind, at the other end of the tent, seemingly focused on tending to wounds of his own, wrapping bandages around his arms and legs, and a humongous sword dropped at his feet. Neither of them reacted to the noxian’s entrance. And Swain stopped, bringing both of his hands atop his cane, coldy examining the scene before him.
Only after the teeth of the woman ripped back another slab of meat did she speak.

“Sit, noxian.”

Swain glanced down. But did not move further in. “I’d rather not. Miss. I do not mean to be here for long.”

She raised her eyes at him, blue, almost white. And incredibly cold. “You have travelled a long way for this discussion.” She hummed, a tad curious. “Do you not need rest?”

Was she offering? Swain felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “I am a man of few words. This’ll be over quickly.”

“So am I, but I’d rather discuss sat around a meal instead of standing, weapon at bay.” She mumbled, her teeth ripping into another bite of lamb. She ate with her hands, and took the time to suck over one of her fingers, still staring intently at him amidst her meal. 

“I’ve come to talk, not to eat.” He snapped sharply. “Besides, I am unarmed.” He made a show of his exposure, showing an empty palm before wrapping it back around the tip of his cane. The barbarian behind Ashe glanced at the noxian, finishing up on his bandaging. He made only an unimpressed grunt.

“Talk. Then.” He exhaled.

Swain obliged with a nod. “I assume you remember the gist of what I am proposing to trade with Avarosians.”

“Wheat and food.” Ashe summed up.

“For weapons of True Ice.” Swain confirmed.

“T’is not exactly a good trade for us.” Pointed the larger barbarian; Swain knew Ashes in detail, but this man eluded most of his information network. Although his ravens spoke of a lone bloodsworn alongside the Avorasan leader. He knew of his name, Tryndamere, last king to a dying breed of warriors… And there wasn’t much more than that about this man. If not about a curious incident behind the lack of number of his kin.

“Quite the contrary.” As opposed to Darius, Swain was rather fond of negotiation, he liked verbal jousting quite more than actual ones. Not so because they were more “civilized”. But because victories achieved through reasoning were far more complete than most achieved through simple violence. To vanquish an enemy merely delays its return. A foe only stopped being one, once it was dead, or once it was turned to your ways entirely. “Perenity is your edge over the rivaling tribes. With our support, you will starve them out.” 

“More food also means more reasons to attack us.” Mentioned Ashe. “Besides, I do not intend to let any of my people go hungry.” She extended a hand, in a gesture of patience. “But do not get me wrong, I am more interested in your proposal than my bloodsworn imply, but I do think it would draw a target onto our backs. Maybe one too large at the moment.” Ah, a mediator in essence, then. She was a nuanced leader, that one. And, quickly understood Swain, she was not weak in her Vision, but lacking in Guile instead. 

And clearly, the man that side besides her was well versed in terms of Might. He frowned seemingly permanently, something that quite reminded him of Darius. She was surrounding herself well, so that was where he’d have to start shredding resistances, if she was to be an enemy. And Noxus only had enemies.

Swain continued, feeling his curiosity shimmer in his guts, he tilted his chin just a tad, insistent. “Wealth draws attention by design. Miss. But if you want to remain safe and unremarked, you ought not to covet the Freljord.”

Her eyes shot up at him, disconcertingly light, of a blue that almost looked white. Her iceborn heritage was obscenely pure; They said she was a direct descendant of Avarosa, a claim anyone with a functioning brain would doubt. As the blood could only be diluted by the time that separated from the old Legends… But the Grand General could see how such rumors could spread now.

“I do not covet a throne, Noxian. My simple aim is the prosperity of my people.”

“Prosperity demands Wealth." He pointed out. “And so, it gathers enemies.”

“Hah!”

Both Ashe and Swain did not resist the urge to glance at Tryndamere, who had risen to his feets and stood right in front of the Noxian. Still separated with the fire, Jericho knew then that this man would not hesitate to reach through it for his throat.

“It attracts scavengers, yes. Such as your kind!” Growled the barbarian king, the flame dancing in front of him looked dim in comparison to those that flared in his eyes. He was large, stupendously so, matching the Trifarian leader in size, immediately, Swain wondered if his weaknesses were the same: He played a similar role, so did he have a brother to protect, a heart torn by the cost of duty? 

“Tryn, do not insult our guest.” Ashe ordered, and the man snorted, but subdued, sitting next to her and grabbing his own meal. Such a body could not be sustained by whatever scarce alimentation the Freljordian had to live on, but this was a mystery for another time to ponder. The dynamics at hand were far more interesting.

“It is him who insults us!" Tryndamere insisted. “First, this old man does not share bread with you, and now, he implies we fear danger?” He gestured with his hand, shoving his partly full bowl at the general as if he was guilty of tripping him in front of the class. Hmm.

With a huff, Swain, not without an exaggerated difficulty, sat over the cold ground, his knees screaming. It brought the barbarian to silence, as he eyed him with a strange mix of disgust and worry. While a tentative smile seemed to seep over Ashe’s face:

“I meant no insult.” Lied Swain. “ But it is your leader that mentioned the risk. When it is the cost of ambition.”

“True.” Ashe nodded. “And I’m ready to face it, but I will not ignore it: You offer us wheat and meat, and I know my enemies will covet them. Scavengers. Eager to steal in bulk what we intend to share with all.”

Where was this going? Swain only eyed her with open curiosity. Waiting. So what? Are you not ready to fight?

“So it is far more than I seek.”

“More food?” He stupidly wondered, but his eyes thinned as he gathered, oh, ambitious indeed.

“More allies.” She clarified.

-  —----------------- -

“Oh, for, FUCK SAKE! It is cold as balls out there!”

Neither Darius nor his entourage reacted to the wails of his brother: all members of the legion were hardened by the weather there already, only Draven was still used to silk and comfort. 

That he was not forced into silence was both due to his parentage with their leader and the fact, if for his apparent laziness, Draven was no less skilled than the best among them: Talent, wasted on one too easily pleased. That he came here of his own volition was still a mystery, and maybe the sign of a change, hoped his brother.

But if he had to bear with his complaining all year long, maybe the snowy landscape would just serve as his grave. Besides, Darius doubted that the Freljodians would be as patient as he was with his brother. Hell, he’d have to find some kind of way to make him palatable to them, too. Complaining about the cold was an easy way to get on their nerves…

“You sure we're going the good way, D? I’m not looking to end up as an icecube cause we took a wrong turn between the other big piles of snow back then!”

Erzsi snorted quite too audibly. Which only brought out more of the permanent grin that Draven wore at all time; the gladiator took the time to twirl his moustache, although the gesture lost a lot of its class, since he wore overfilled mittens. Already regretting her moment of weakness, the Trifarian gloryseeker was rolling her eyes as Draven hopped just a tad closer to her.

“I am sure.” Simply grumbled Darius. “It happens that I did that trip more than once already. It is a long one, that’s all.”

“Commander.” Farron started, pointing out a shape further out in the large cloak of white that surrounded them.

Darius’s eyes zero-ed out on what his soldier had spotted. And all of their hands reached for their weapons. Even Draven, who still had jokes to say, only chuckled lowly at the opportunity to let his bloodlust play out. All but the general, who did not wield his axe noncommittally. 

He gave a single order. “Hold.” Stepping further in front, Darius’s hands remained empty: These lands were dangerous, trolls and beasts alike roared it. But this area was claimed by the Winter’s Claw, so it was likely these were her troops.

The shape took form, two forms. Three, quickly noticed the Noxians, one on foot and another on thing. Too small to be Sejuani on her Drüvask, too sharp to be some travellers on a horse. Who would travel there, anyways.

“Lower weapons.” He simply stated, Draven immediately rolled his eyes, groaning as if he’d been stabbed.

“Come on, let us at least kill something. Get some heat going!”

Darius pointedly ignored him. “State yourself.” His voice boomed instead, leaving the intruders to freeze in their advance, before the larger one voiced an opinion.

“You’re late.” It was a man’s voice, the shape suggested it, through the snow, his trait remained hard to recognize. But he was sure this was a new one.

“Do I know you?”

“No. But we all know you, Hand.”

“So you’re with the Claw.” Grunted Darius. “Late for what?” He went to the point with no further delay. Sejuani had given him a day, and no other place than her current camp, but they were moving quickly. It seemed counter-productive for them not to wait for the people they called, but he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Late for the pledge you promised.” 

He huffed. “I’m not late, the warmother will have her new bloodworm before long.”

“And mooore!” Added Draven, walking up to lean outrageously over his brother’s shoulders. “Where’s the party at, huh?” With a gruff, Darius shoved him off, snarling at him:

“This is not one of your parties, Draven. Keep-”

“It is further West, the Warmother left us to get you.”

Draven made some sort of nasal, barely contained laugh, looking way past his shoulders as he advanced toward their escort to the “party”, wagging his eyebrows at his brother. 

“Knew we were lost, Ha!” He grinned, leaving Darius to roll his eyes.

The snow dissipated enough for them to appear fully. It was a raider, of impressive build, riding a wildcat. An Iceborn, assumed Darius, from his lack of warm clothing. He could tell this one was from a sub-tribe subjugated to Sejuani’s. By his amount of scars: he was one of Vrynna’s people. And the person following on foot was a youngling, blond, stereotypically freljordian as far features went. But clearly unscarred, she could not have been more than sixteen. So she was of age to wield a weapon, but had no raid to her name? Clothed lightly too, although she was shivering. Tough little thing.

The raider’s mount observed him with quite too much attention. Darius did not know why he had that effect on animals: he assumed they felt threatened, despite his lack of aggressivity. Whether it were pups, or here this larger than life, six-legged feline, all fauna gazed at him with waryness, their fur flaring and flashing their fang. Its rider kept silent, but the noxian could see how his grip nervously tightened over the reins. Struggling to stiffen his mount’s worries.

“Are you of her Bloodsworn? Is she?” Darius let his question hang, pointing a finger to the child, who dragged behind her a club of a respectable size.

The girl pointed at herself in confusion, looking up and down at her visible mentor and the scariest man she’ll ever meet. She was obviously too young, but it wasn’t unheard of.

“No.” He scoffed. “I swore an oath to her, but I’m not of her pack.”

“Vrynna, then.” He mused, curious and willing to test his first guess.

“Is my Scarmother. yes. I am Stefan, her Scarthane. And this is Moonfang.” He nodded, pointing to his mount with his chin: apparently, the animal was worthy of a name more than the girl. The warrior cast down a surprised glance over the noxian. Which had gathered enough about him already: if he was of Vrynna’s, then he likely hated him; Darius must have killed many of his brothers. But that meant…

“You’re no Iceborn. A warmblood and a child. It is what amounts to an escort, in Sejuani’s eyes?”

Behind the general, Erzsi keep carefully silent, eyeing not the freljordians, but her leader instead, while a low rumble escaped from Farron’s throat: Darius wasn’t one to be vexed by petty, political acts, but disrespect was usually met with retribution nonetheless: The child was spared the chill that Steffen felt going up his spine: The noxian eyes were strange, his question barely inquisitive, yet the implications clear:

If he was no Bloodsworn, therefore, he was not important enough for Sejuani to be protected from retaliation. If Darius walked into camp with only his head, he’d only need to remark on that he’d been insulted and righted this slight, and it’ll be the end of it. To let them live could be seen as weakness, or at least, this is what Darius implied. The Noxian required an explanation. And not for his sake.

“...I obey, and she learns.” Simply blurted out Stefan, he could have screamed the unscarred is innocent ! and Darius would have heard the same noise out of his mouth. But that was enough. Darius only gave him a nod, and with a simple wave of the hand, gave the order to Erzsi and Farron to follow suit behind Draven, leaving Darius to close their delegation. “Just following orders” will do, for this time. Heard Stefan. 

“She got a name?” Draven's voice snapped Stefan out of his trance. As he was taking a slow lead. His mount relaxing more each meter it got further away from the Hand.

The girl acted as if she’d answer, but simply puffed her cheeks when Stefan growled at her to stay put: “She’ll have one when she’ll earn it. The scarless are nameless.”

“Fuck, that’s sad as hell.” Laughed out Draven. Oh, this one is not gonna make the night. Thought Stefan. “You bozos really ain’t Iceborne? Why the spectacle, then?”

“True Freljordians do not complain about the cold.”

“I’m not complaining. That ass looks better that way!” Oh, Seal Sisters, so this one is an idiot. Thought Stefan.

“Draven.” Just grumbled Darius. Too far behind to act on the threat in his tone.

“What? If he is not inviting me to ride on his cat, I’m at least gonna enjoy the sights!” Shouted back Draven.

Erzsi, again, huffed out a laugh despite her best efforts, one that was slightly echoed by the unscarred reaver, although she stared doubtfully back over her shoulder: She was here to learn, but what, exactly? That southerners are lame and nasty with their mouth? 

Well, she reconsidered lame, as each of Farron’s steps threatened to cause an avalanche, one of his steps was three of hers! This one was a giant, he must have had troll blood! She tried to hurry: She could not end lagging behind, especially if that would put her closer to the Hand! But her club…

“Lift with your back.”

The young freljordian almost tripped trying to see who gave her the advice, it wasn’t the Noxian woman, that had already passed them to listen in to Draven’s perverted remarks toward the Scarthane. And Farron already looked like a building disappearing into the distance.

That left only one, that she did not dare to look back at. She hauled her club correctly, straining only for a while, and walked faster. Darius still closing the march behind her.