Jhin

I've been writing new champion lore for League Of Legends, and this is one of my first attempts at a character. He is a relatively new champion, Jhin, and i somewhat connected with him.

Oh, what a beautiful night. The moon was low in the sky; it had not risen far enough yet. The pale moon cast a deep gray light onto the darkened city, the people inside were quiet, sleeping by their beds in a choir of innocence and ignorance.

The stage was set, but the time was not correct. I maneuvered into the city, dipping through the shadows, my cape flowing from the gentle breeze of the night. I passed into the heart of the city unseen, and set up my residence within an abandoned building. This would be my theatre: the place where my next glorious act will take place. Now, all I could do was wait.

I placed my traps at every entrance, and stood patiently in the upper window of the building. The night was glorious, and the picture that laid before me was like a work of art, waiting to be perfect. All was silent; all was peaceful; all waiting for something, anything to paint a new picture. A picture full of beauty and chaos, bliss and death, the perfect combination of all that I held dear.

I heard one of my traps go off downstairs, accompanied by a scream of a man. They had discovered me. The show must begin. There were four men in the floor below me, oblivious to my presence. They were ugly and insignificant: their puny lives have lived for nothing but greed, sadness and despair. They were without art, without character, and without a means of achieving greatness. I was the gateway. I was their door to perfection. I will make them become beautiful. I will make them perfect.

The first man, who hit a trap, was injured but still walking. His red blood tainted his gowns, giving his plain character a new splash of perfection. He shall be my first victim.

I had to control my breath: I was becoming anxious. The first act was dawning upon me,  it was now that I should enter. I revealed myself, and the injured man’s face turned to a look of pure terror. I readied my pistol, and with one smooth motion, destroyed the man’s existence. He became a painting against a the wall, a work of art. The audience cheered me on.

The death of the first man attracted the other three, but I shot one as soon as he entered the room, creating another splatter of blood on the opposite wall. The painting was not yet complete. “Two.” I said under my breath.

The third and fourth men were more cautious. They hid from me, using the wall between them and I as a shield. “Come!” I taunted them, “Come and be made perfect! Now is your entrance: the glorious stage has been set for you! Come and act in my production!”

They did not respond to me. That made me furious, “Fine.” I told them, walking towards the doorway, “If you will not act, I will force your hand.” I reached through the doorway and grabbed the shirt of one of the men, pulling him into the room. I disarmed him with ease, and tossed him against the right wall. The fourth man did not reveal himself.

“Act!” I said to the third man, cowering against the wall, “Show me your greatest performance!” The man stood and tried to run, but I was too quick for him. He, too, became a painting on the wall. “Three.” I smiled under my mask.

The fourth man would not show himself. He was either too afraid of too astounded by my brilliance. I pitied him and his dirty mind, the mind of the lesser and of a minion, driven to do nothing but life plainly and die. He must be made perfect. Only he can complete the glorious painting I have began.

“Face me, minion!” I said to him, “Face your director! Face your fellow actor, and complete your performance. Show me your perfection!”

“I’m not afraid of you!” The fourth man said feebly. “You’re a psychopath, but I’m not afraid.”

“I’m afraid you mispronounced your line.” My tone was darker now. “You were supposed to say ‘genius.” I stepped forward through the doorway, and the man swung at me with his blade. I parried it with my arm, and hit him in his head with the butt of my pistol. I spun, tearing the blade out of his hands, and flipped him back into the bloodied room. He let out a grunt of pain, but that was only music to my ears.

“Center stage!” I laughed, kicking him up, “The spotlight shines on you!” I readied the fourth shot, and with a look of terror, the man witnessed his end. His final moment of perfection and bliss. The shot that fired was music, and the audience’s applause blotted out all other sounds. Thus, my painting was complete. It’ wonder and magnificence brought tears to my eyes, and I kneeled down in the center of the room, laughing, observing the rose petal of blood and body that surrounded me. Their deaths were made perfect, and in the final breath of their lives, they ascended into eternal art.

But my job was not yet done. That was but act one of my performance, and the moon was barely halfway up in the sky. The night was not over.

The city did not stir from the commotion I created, so I set back up my traps and again looked out over the now more colorful painting of the city. That’s when I caught sight of my target: the true lead of the play. He is the one that must die to immortalize my performance.

I set up my weapon, and waited for the perfect moment to extinguish his life. He was simply walking along the streets, with no direction, no inspiration, no directive but to live and survive. He was an open canvas, an actor whose potential was just waiting to burst forth from his heart. I watched him for a long time, and it wasn’t until the moon was high in the sky before the stage was perfect. I set up my rifle for the perfect curtain call. He was in my vision, and completely vulnerable. He was ignorant to his impending destruction. Ignorant to the rest of the world, and caught up in a life so worthless and so boring that his soul was begging to be released. It called to me.

As I aimed, I could hear the symphony rising in my ears. Such music that matched perfectly with his death, perfectly with the setting, and the stage, and my glorious genius that would ascend my target’s life to a new platform of art. He would be my masterpiece. The stage was set, the music was ringing in my ears, and the audience was in a gasping silence of held breath and suspense. I held my hand close to the trigger, the audience following my every move, and fired.

The sound of the bullet sang into the heavens, and the audience cheered, crying in happiness at his perfection. The bullet rang true, and and a splash of blood, my target crumpled to the floor. I could see his spirit glowing, his true potential released, and his death completing the painting of the plain city. He had ascended and became art.

My work here was done. The applause had rung, and the death was perfect. I had given the people of this city a beautiful painting to behold.

How generous of me.

Author's Note

Just a concept. Take it as you will.