Legends of Runeterra

Long before Illaoi rose to prominence as a revered Truth-Bearer, she served as a novice priestess at a seaside temple of Baru. Every morning, she would descend to the beach for her morning exercises, bathed in the rising sun. She silently recited the three principles most cherished by her teachers: Discipline. Movement. Strength.

One morning, she was alone on the beach when she noticed the tide had suddenly receded, lower than the low tide. The sentries on the Serpentcaller's tower rang their alarm bells, pointing to the distant sea.

A huge wave was rushing towards them with the power to break bones, shatter rocks, and roar souls.

Alarm bells echoed through the heavens and earth, and Illaoi's heart was filled with fear. The teachings of her teachers had all deserted her. Is it too late for me to run now? She asked herself. Or should I just stand here?

She glanced at the waves, then at the waterline. Beneath her feet, a school of pink crabs. The waves had already sucked the water away. The crabs lay motionless among the wet rocks, frozen in place by the sun, fear, and hesitation.

Tiny creatures, with their limited minds, couldn't even comprehend the fear they felt. A crab, facing such a massive wave, was powerless.

But Illaoi was no crab. She shuddered, regaining consciousness and sprinting toward the temple gates, barely managing to squeeze through before the other priests could close them. Illaoi crouched over the temple railing, watching the waves crash over the beach, recalling her own stunned, frozen state.

I almost died. This was the closest she had ever been to death in her sixteen years.

"I won't have a second chance," she told her teachers. Nagakabouros, the Snake Mother, showed mercy only to those who grew and changed. She had no sympathy for the weak who remained static, allowing themselves to be dragged into the abyss by the waves.

There was something about the streets of Bilgewater these days that reminded her of those petrified crabs.

It was midday, the sun blazing brightly. Any other day, the streets would have been packed with sailors on leave or sea-beast hunters spending lavishly. But today, the streets were filled with people hurrying by, heads bowed, and silent.

A civil war brews in Bilgewater, threatening to erupt. But this struggle isn't driven by some fleeting desire. It's the unresolved settlement of scores between Miss Fortune, Sarah, and Gangplank. They're willing to fight this battle a hundred times over, given the circumstances. Gangplank craves power, but Sarah wants him dead. The city reeks of mud, simmering with the deepest malice. Victory, both men believe, will restore what they've lost. Perhaps it's respect. Perhaps it's justice for the dead. Perhaps it's a balm to soothe the pain of defeat.

If only I could harden even one of them, things would be much easier, Illaoi thought. But Sarah was her closest friend—and Gangplank was her former lover. Never before had either of them been so consumed by past grudges, so degraded.

Illaoi glanced down at the tin box tucked under her arm. "This is your fault, too," she whispered.

The tin box screamed back at her.

Its scream was so quiet, almost inaudible unless one listened closely, but whenever Illaoi turned her attention to it, she could feel a hateful presence probing every corner of her mind.

The guy in the iron box - the one who screamed vicious curses at Illaoi day and night - was the culprit of all this.

It was he who cast a shadow over Sarah's soul.

Just then, several of Sarah's crewmen strode around the corner. Each had a machete and a pistol hanging from their belts, and their hands were covered in brass knuckles. Their bodies were stained with the residue of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. They looked like they had just fought a fierce battle.

Following behind, predictably, was Miss Fortune Sarah herself. She looked exhausted. The entire right sleeve of her ornate captain's coat was stained with blood. Her shoulders slumped, her hat pulled low, as if she had been doused by a torrential downpour aimed just at her.

“Ah, Illaoi,” Sarah said, her voice flat and raspy. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Are you alright?” Illaoi asked. “You look miserable.”

"I've been tracking Gangplank for a week." Sarah pointed at the tin box that was screaming silently. "And it's still on this island. Come on, let's get this done."

They turned a corner and came to an antique shop. Sarah's men, weapons drawn, stood guard outside the door. Illaoi went in first.

As they entered, the shopkeeper's magnifying glasses flashed. "Illaoi!" he called out. "Long time no see!"

Jordan Irox was a skinny, slender man whose knees and elbows seemed to have minds of their own. He was the only antique dealer in the city with both a pink face and Ba'ru ancestry. Illaoi often sought his help in identifying ancient artifacts she couldn't identify.

“I have a problem for you, Jordan.” Illaoi put the tin box on the counter.

"Two," he said, glancing at Sarah. "Captain Doom himself has visited my shop!"

"Don't try to be so rude." Sarah said with a sullen look on her face. "Just get it done."

The moment Illaoi's key unlocked the iron box, Sarah shuddered. A dim light cast a green hue on the wall.

Inside the iron box was a pendant. Three curved stone pieces interlocked and fastened with metal wires, the design clearly inspired by the Baru style. The pendant shone brightly, reflecting the soul trapped within.

"Oh, that's fierce." Jordan could also hear the scream. "Goddess, please have mercy on me, could that be...?"

Illaoi nodded and said, "Viago of Kamavia."

Just a week ago, the vengeful spirit of this ancient king had attempted to turn Bilgewater into a crater. Now everyone in the city knew his name and hated him with all their might. If he were allowed to escape this pendant, he would surely do it again.

"This is just a temporary solution," Sarah said, giving a short, bitter laugh. "We don't know how to kill him completely. If he escapes, who knows what he'll do."

Illaoi nodded. “Our historians say this stone is called sea-serpent amber… but we don’t know whether breaking it would release the spirit within or kill it.”

"Tears of the Goddess? I'm not surprised." Jordan was referring to the Baru people's unique name for sea serpent amber. "This thing is too precious. Only a fool would want to smash it." He leaned in closer and adjusted the eyepiece. "It's the work of a Baru artisan. The style is unmistakable. But there's a mark on the back... Where did this treasure come from?"

Illaoi smiled. "The Shadow Isles. Our ancestors once conducted research with scholars there, and the archipelago was not what it is today." If Viego escaped, he would turn Bilgewater into a horrific graveyard.

"I'm going to look for something." Jordan jumped off the stool and ran into the room behind the store.

There was a delicate half-second of silence... Sarah turned to Illaoi. "I know what you're going to say," she said, her voice hoarse but sharp. "So don't say anything."

"I don't intend to do that." After their last argument, Illaoi knew there was no point in repeatedly insisting on a fact Sarah refused to accept. "I don't want to discuss your futile pursuit and its impact on this city. I actually intend to just stand here in awkward silence."

Sarah glared at her. "I've had enough trouble this week. Don't make it worse."

Jordan suddenly rushed back to the front desk, and they both fell silent. He brought back a scroll with unfamiliar writing, even Illaoi didn't recognize it. And besides, it showed... a tower?

"Look," Jordan said, pointing to a symbol identical to the one on the back of the pendant. "This represents its origin. The Twilight Brotherhood."

"No," Sarah said. "It's an unlucky name."

"It was a cult on the Isle of Blessed Light. It died out long ago."

“Damn it.” Sarah shook her head. “Then the line is broken.”

Jordan seemed to suddenly remember something. "Wait a minute—I remember. There was this reclusive lunatic who claimed to be a member of this fraternity. But... you know what happens to people who stay in places like that for too long."

The once-blessed people of the Blessed Isles are now a horrific collection of misshapen spirits, unwelcoming to outsiders. Trapped in the shadows of the Black Mist for millennia, the island is now overrun with monsters—wraiths, ghosts, and mistwalkers, twisted into horrific reflections of mortal weakness. Any living being who chooses to live among these remnants must be unusually powerful and peculiar. Other mortals choose to dwell on the island out of a reverence for death and disease. Some, for some reason, worship spiders.