text: Quinn dozed off in front of her brother’s grave. Her seated posture swayed closer and closer until her helmet bumped into the headstone with a clatter. She jerked awake, looking around the forest glade with a frantic expression, before slumping her shoulders with relief. “Sorry, Caleb,” she said, wiping imaginary dirt off the stone. “The council’s been running me ragged. Everyone’s pushing their limits to catch Sylas and his mages.” Her body felt slow when she got up, like the caked mud on her legs was concrete and gravel ground her joints. She could feel the roots and stones under her boots, the soles weathered flimsy thin from her nonstop marching through the hinterlands of northern Demacia. By the distance Valor was sitting, she didn’t smell the best either. She pointed a finger up the sky, twirling it clockwise, and watched as a giant eagle, perched atop the tallest tree, stretched its large blue wings and flew up in the air. While Valor scouted the vicinity, Quinn limbered up her body for the last march. She’d been combing west to east of the hinterlands in search of the mages’ whereabouts but nothing crucial had been discovered. She’d found nobles and their aides dead on the roads but when it came to magic she wasn’t sure what clues she could rely on. Some of the dead had their throats cut, others seemed to have been executed by suffocation with no rope marks around their necks. There were no trails of footprints on the grounds to track, no broken twigs or blood on leaves. The whole thing was more of a ghost hunt than chasing rebels. The villagers weren’t any help either. Each settlement had been tight-lipped and too scared to share anything. The worst was that Quinn didn’t know whether it was the mages or the mageseekers the villagers feared. There were quite a few mage-sympathizers, oblivious to how terrifying magic was. Quinn adjusted her leather tunic, tightened her greaves and spaulders. Her last spot to check was a remote farm town bordering the foreign nations of Freljord and Skaggornland. A place she hadn’t visited in almost a decade, her hometown Uwendale. Her gaze lingered over the dirt and cracks on her repeating crossbow as she refilled it with bolts. Her father’s handcrafted weapon had been through a lot. She wasn’t sure how to meet her parents without feeling guilty for not writing enough over the years. There was also the difficulty of her position as a ranger-knight of Demacia. Would the town welcome her as a returning daughter or greet her like an official knight on duty? The screech of Valor snapped her back to the present. Her partner had found something and was circling near the towering mountain walls separating Demacia and the snow-covered region of Freljord. “Talk to you later, Caleb,” she said to the headstone and jogged towards the mountain base. The greens of the forest faded as the elevation rose. Dark tree trunks paled to white as linden and oak transitioned to birch and aspen. Quinn trudged on, glancing up at the foothills and following the shadow of Valor. Leaves rustled and a faint wind brushed past. Quinn stopped in her tracks. During spring, the wind normally carried with it scents of budding pomes and fresh sprouts, not the sickening-sweet odor of death. She raised a hand and clenched her fist, signaling Valor the change of plans. The scent had been close, brushing up the slopes towards the mountains due to the warm noon air. A movement lumbered through the line of trees, crossing her left periphery. Quinn sensed the growl more than heard it. She pulled out her crossbow, finger ready at the trigger when a large wolf stumbled into vision. Nasty gashes covered its body, open wounds festered and putrid. The wolf must’ve been in intense pain, yet it growled and raised its hackles at Quinn. Its glare had a wild look and froth dripped out of its bared fangs. Two bolts pierced its skull and the wolf dropped to the ground. When only the hushed wind replied, Quinn stepped closer. She’d done her best to make it a quick death for the rabid wolf and the bolts had struck true, killing the beast in an instant. The wounds in the body were the opposite of swift, deep gouges by talons bigger than any bird Quinn knew of. Valor plunged from the sky, a blue blur diving towards a bush. The bush shrieked and hissed. A boy jumped out, waving his hands in an attempt to fend off the bird. A raccoon scuttled away, its striped tail brushing past Quinn’s ankles. “Get’ im off! Get’ im off!” the boy shouted. “It’s killing me!” Quinn shook her head in disbelief. The lack of sleep must’ve really taken its toll on her if she couldn’t even detect a kid. “Valor would’ve already cut your throat if he deemed you a threat,” she said and held out her right arm. “He’s just messing with you.” The azurite eagle flew to Quinn, landing on the horn-adorned bracer covering the arm. The boy was a mess on the ground, struggling against his cloak. On a closer look, the emblem of a hawk was sewn on the hood. “You’re a ranger-in-training?” Quinn asked. “Huh? Yes, how do you...” His gaze flickered between the giant eagle, Quinn’s helmet, back to the eagle, the repeating crossbow. “You’re Quinn!” he burst out. “Wow, can I shake --” Quinn aimed the crossbow at the boy. “What’s the first rule of survival?” Color disappeared from the boy’s face. “Wha...?” “The first rule of survival. Three seconds.” “I don’t...” “Three. Two.” “*Always assume someone’s after you!*” The boy shouted, hands over his head, eyes pinched shut. Quinn gave a nod and put the safety on her crossbow and latched it to her belt. She caught the glare of Valor. “Of course, I trust your judgment,” she said to her partner, “but it’s always good to double-check.” She then turned her attention back to the boy. “What’s your name? “Adam.” The boy slowly stumbled out of his cloak and stood up, his gaze locked warily on Quinn. He seemed to have had his growth spurt, matching Quinn in height, although his face had yet to catch up. Hair like tumbleweed framed round cheeks and bombardment of freckles. “And your companion?” Quinn nodded towards a tree root where a striped tail could be seen. “Dash,” the boy said gloomily. Hearing its name, the raccoon crawled out of its hiding place and ran up the boy’s cloak, nestling itself by the scruff of his neck. “What a good partner you are,” Adam muttered. “Aren’t you a little bit far from Uwendale for a trainee?” Quinn asked, “And why are you alone?” “I’m watching the western perimeter alone because warden Mealla trusts in my abilities.” Adam jutted out his chest. “Was tracking the rabid wolf when I heard it growl and decided to hide.” That was strange, Quinn had sent the majority of Uwendale’s rangers east, to watch the borders by the Greenfang Mountains, but there should still be a handful left in the town. At least enough to not need to send a single rookie to scout. “Do all knights scowl?” Adam asked. He flinched by Quinn’s expression and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.” “What about the town watch?” she asked, “Two guards could’ve been stationed with you.” “Busy with the festival,” Adam said. He walked to the dead wolf, grimacing over the wounds. “This is horrible.” Dash, the raccoon, peeked out from under the cowl and ran down to the wolf’s head. Its small fingers grabbed one of the bolts and waggled it free. “What festival?” Quinn asked. “The Slayer’s festival, what else?” Her head throbbed under the helmet. Her feet ached and the rotten smell made Quinn nauseous. There were so many things she needed answered, then there was the thing Valor had spotted. “Adam and Dash, was it?” she asked, “You’ll have to come with me. There’s something I need to check on. I’ll also need you to update me on the current situation of Uwendale and this festival.” She let Valor fly again and began to ascend the foothills. When no sounds of steps trailed behind, she turned around with a questioning look. “Why up the Rocky Mountains?” he asked with an unsure voice, “Are the Freljordians going to attack us?” “Hardly,” Quinn said, “climbing straight through the mountains is suicidal. We’re just going to the base to check on something.” “I think I’ll stay here,” Adam insisted, “The warden told me to keep watch of the western forest and the mountain is not included.” “You know my name,” Quinn said, raising her voice, “then you must know that I’m a ranger-knight of Demacia and the highest ranked out of all the rangers. My order overrules the warden of Uwendale. I’m ordering you to follow.” The boy looked like he was caught between a boar and a bull. His eyes flickered between Quinn and to the east, where the town of Uwendale would appear after two hours of marching. Finally, he seemed to prioritize the closest threat and joined next to the ranger-knight. A bitter taste spread over Quinn’s tongue. She hated using her rank to bully people into submission but the exhaustion dragged out her ugly side. She thought about apologizing but dismissed the idea. She had pulled the rank-card, might as well stick with her draw. A small noise made her look down. Dash extended a bloody bolt towards her as an offering. &#x200B; \*\*\*\*\* &#x200B; The hinterlands of Demacia had been Quinn and Caleb’s playground when they were young. While they had explored the foothills and the forests, they had seldom climbed up the mountains. Past the craggy walls lay nests of wyverns and those beasts were not something the siblings had wanted to encounter. The flying reptiles were troublesome enough for Uwendale when they attacked the village during harvest season. What Valor had found was a dead wyvern, splayed on a rocky surface. They were at an overhang, made of mostly rock and some stubborn patches of grass. thirty feet above ground. The wyvern’s wings dangled over the mountainside, the membrane torn. Its talons were bent, neck and belly punctured and maimed. The wounds on the neck indicated fanged beasts, and the smudges of dried blood on the stones had a few paw marks. Most likely a pack of wolves. Quinn knelt next to the corpse, pressing her fingers against the wyvern’s soft neck and belly. “Have the wyverns moved their territories down the mountains?” Adam, standing a distance away and holding his nose, shook his head. “They might’ve even retreated further up ever since the Slayer killed four of them a few weeks ago.” “Did anyone see this ‘Slayer’ kill them?” Quinn prodded the wyvern’s leg, feeling stiffness. “It would seem a bit silly to have a festival in his honor, if he hadn’t done anything.” “No, but the wyverns’ heads were caved in, like the dead bandits on the road and the rabid wolves, so it’s probably made by the same person.” “So this one wasn’t done by the Slayer?” Quinn plucked out a dagger and pried away a few scales on the wyvern. “I guess not. What are you doing?” She sank her dagger into the wyvern’s thigh, carving a line through skin and flesh. She made a fist with her gloved hand and dug into the new wound, breathing through her mouth to lessen the foul stench. She pushed her hand upwards, feeling rock-hard muscles, sinews like steel wire, and mushed jelly. A dark, watery liquid trickled out of the cut. “Blood is thick and separated,” she concluded, retracting her arm and wiping it on the grass. “Corpse-stiffness had not yet disappeared from its legs. So between half a day to two days old, I would say.” Adam looked as if he wanted to vomit. “Was that really necessary?” “Rule number two,” Quinn said, “Survival never takes second place to dignity. Seen anything interesting over the past two days?” “Not much except for people on the roads heading towards Uwendale for the festival.” “Right, a festival celebrating an unknown hunter for presumably killing a few beasts, how does that make sense?” Adam cleared his throat and said in an exaggerated low voice, “These are trying times, so we should find reasons to celebrate, however small.” The imitation softened Quinn’s expression and the end of her lips pinched slightly upwards. “Was that Samuel?” she asked, “Is he still the mayor?” “And still selling his lamb pies. Been saying how grateful he is to the Slayer because of all the potential cattle saved.” That did sound like the mayor of Uwendale. The hefty man had a thing for finding the stars in the darkest nights. “Could it have been wolves?” Adam asked, inching closer to the wyvern’s carcass. That had been Quinn’s guess too but things didn’t add up. “So a pack of wolves climbed up the mountains, found a wyvern and decided to attack it and won with no casualties, then climbed down without leaving any footprints on the way down?” Adam had no reply, instead he squatted down next to the wyvern and stared into its dead eyes. “A corpse torn to death by jaws and claws,” he murmured, “and a swift kill by arrows. It’s like an omen isn’t it?” “What omen?” Quinn asked while walking around the rocky surface, her eyes scouring the cracks on the wall. Water trickled out from a hole and dribbled in a thin downstream no wider than a hand. “Kindred’s omen.” She turned around with a blank expression. The boy shrugged. “You know, Lamb with her bow bringing a swift death and Wolf with his crushing jaws for a violent ending. Don't these two kills remind you of the Eternal Hunters?” A memory emerged from the depths of Quinn’s mind, of her and mother, clothed in gray, watching her father shovel dirt onto Caleb’s coffin. She remembered her father stopping halfway, unable to hold the shovel steady. There was the village elder, in a mask half white and half black, comforting her father, saying in a raspy voice that Caleb had been blessed with Lamb’s arrow, a quick death. She hadn’t understood what the village elder had meant with the arrows then as she had seen with her own eyes how the tuskvore had gored her brother to death with horns. Lamb and Wolf, together they were Kindred, the Eternal Hunters. The gods of death. She had forgotten about them, the stories of Kindred had been left behind when she traveled to the Great City to become a knight. While Kindred were known among the citizens, The Winged Protector had been the more revered deity in Demacia’s capital. “Is Kindred’s omen a bad thing?” Quinn asked. “Can omens be a good thing?” Adam countered. A small bark grabbed their attention. Dash had followed the stream of water further down. He held up a wet wyvern scale. “Maybe the wolves cleaned themselves in the water,” Adam suggested. “The stream is too small for a whole pack of wolves,” Quinn said. “And there would’ve been blood on the way. Maybe if they rubbed...” Quinn paused. She took a closer look at the patch of grass she had wiped her hands on. The watery blood trickled down the blades and into the soil. The dirt was loose, not from mountain winds but as if someone had scraped claws and paws against it. Straws of grass lay crumbled and flattened. She checked the other patches and found them to be the same. “No,” she said, “I guess omens can’t be a good thing.” &#x200B; &#x200B; \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.