Date: 24 August, 20 CLE
Urgot shambles along the great hall of the Institute of War, spider-like legs ferrying his bloated, bulbous body towards his ultimate goal. The scrape of metal against marble and the dull crackle of energy mark his passage as he moves with deceptive agility. His horrid emotionless visage belies the conviction in his gaze.
From his right arm swings a wicked-looking blade, beginning where the hand should have been. His left arm terminates in a cannon, a similarly poor replacement for the extremity. He creaks to a halt before a pair of ornate marble doors. He lifts one of his segmented metal legs, extending it forward to deal with the blocking portal, which slides open easily at his touch. His scarred, patchwork skin - blanched in the eerie glow of the techmaturgical engine that sustains him - glistens with beads of sweat as he scuttles inside.
The darkness around him grew heavy and familiar. He could feel the dew on his scalp as a stiff breeze crossed over him. His whole body trembled, but there was no fear in it. Only the anticipation of what was to come. Urgot wrung his fingers around the shaft of his axe. His fingers! He lifted a hand in front of his face. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he stared in disbelief at the sight of his own, unspoiled digits. Just beyond them he recognized the dour face of Sion, his commanding officer, a whistle pinched between his lips.
An arc of lightning lit the sky, its brilliance revealing a distant silhouette. Thunder followed a few seconds later. Could it be? Could he be here, now?
The shrill squeal of his commander's whistle wrenched him from his contemplations. Almost involuntarily, he broke into a charge, dashing headlong towards his distant adversary.
"Gatecrashers!" he heard someone cry. "Form up, men!"
Ahead, he could see the soldiers forming ranks, a wall of Demacian shields waiting to meet the charge. Something was wrong. There were too many.
Without breaking stride be brought his greataxe around, sundering the lead enemy's shield and toppling him backward. Urgot waded in - oblivious to the danger - swinging the weapon in wide arcs to broaden the hole in his enemy's defenses. The sounds of combat filled the air as chaos erupted about him. For an instant, the Demacians were staggered, offering him a moment's reprieve.
A fresh wound leaked blood into his eyes, and he smeared it away as he peered through the havoc. Another bolt of lightning revealed a resolute, armored form to the rear of the vanguard who was shouting orders while steadying himself against an ancient oak. Urgot began moving once more, battleaxe leading the way.
He hacked his way to the back of the enemy force, the cries of his fellows lending urgency to his attack. The Demacians were rallying. His comrades were being overwhelmed. He lunged forward to intercept the enemy commander, axe held high, as he moved to rejoin the fray.
His opponent darted to the side and the axeblade bit firmly into the trunk of the tree. Urgot wrenched wildly, struggling to free the stubborn weapon. But it was too late. There was a flash of silver, and everything fell silent. His vision blurred as he stumbled backward, arms extended before him. The ruined appendages - ending just below the wrist - burned white hot agony as they issued forth a torrent of gore.
"Do you remember, Urgot?" asked a familiar voice. Urgot turned to face who addressed him. The carnage around him had vanished, and it was daybreak now. He was standing at a clearing in the woods. He could hear the birds chirping in the brisk morning air. Garen, the Might of Demacia, stood a few paces away, idly wiping the blood from his sword.
"I remember, Demacian," croaked the maimed warrior, stoically, "I remember what you have done to me."
A wicked smile curled at the edge of Garen's lips. "It is not over," he mocked.
In the blink of an eye he was gone, replaced by a cheering crowd of Noxian warriors. Urgot's mutilated right arm now ended in a vicious looking glaive, a gift from a field surgeon. He looked down. At his feet, bound prostrate in the dirt, was a handsome, blonde haired youth. Jarvan IV, the Crown Prince of Demacia stared up at him, piercing blue eyes locked on his executioner without fear. Though he was defeated, the air of pride and dignity about him could not be tempered.
Urgot wore a self-satisfied grin as he raised his arm to strike the fatal stroke. An arrow caught him in the chest, staying his hand. He gasped in pain, looking up just in time to catch a glimpse of that same armored figure closing in on him with uncanny speed, weapon raised menacingly.
He plummeted to the earth, a warm puddle spreading rapidly beneath him with each slow, deafening beat of his heart. He felt to scream, but could not find his breath. This could not be the end! Not like this! This was his moment. Not like this! Blackness closed in around him, leaving him alone with his killer.
"Why do you want to join the League, Urgot?" asked Garen, leaning heavily on his sword.
Urgot's labored gasps ceased. He was whole once more, his metal legs creaking as he quivered with rage. Necromantic energy raced along his metallic spine. "Revenge!" he roared, eyes ablaze with hatred.
Garen nodded, taking a step closer. "How does it feel, exposing your mind?"
In response, Urgot raised his mighty glaive over his head and brought it down furiously on the image of his nemesis. He found only the open air as the phantom dissolved into the dark. The great doors before him flew open. The League was waiting.