Frejlord: Avarosan

Aatrox

Heavy snow pummeled the mountains for days ever since the last leaf has fallen. Not today. For today the skies are clear and the wind is crisp. Sounds of clamoring fills the air coming form the clearing near the edge of the mountain. A camp of bandits is setting up for another day. Rugged and restless looks are painted in their faces brought by the recent snow fall. A man stands in the center of the camp giving commands to the the other bandits. His face is aged but his posture although weathered looks strong.

"We must move now if we want to reach Winter's Claw" the man commanded. "We can rest after we pledged our allegiance to their leader Sejuani."

"But Khor, are we even sure that she will welcome us?" asked one of the bandits.

"We have no other choice." Khor sighed. "Frejlord is falling to pieces and her tribe is the only chance we have if we want to survive."

He closed his eyes as he try to imagine a place of peace. His mind wanders to a place where its cold and warm at the same time.

Serenity.

Silent. Too Silent.

He opened his eyes confused of the sudden lost of sound. He saw the whole camp frozen in time. They stood there like statues. Alive but still as the snow they are perched on. Before he could even move himself, a shadowy figure formed in front of him. Bathe in reddish sparks, eyes glowing eerily  and a wing that seems to span in a way he has never seen before.

"W-who are you?" he asked as he felt every inch of his body shiver.

"That wouldn't be necessary, I am here to offer glory," the phantom announced. "Glory of Battle!"

"I don't understand a-and what happened to my camp?" he asked.

"They are under my spell," said the phantom slightly grinning. "You and your men must attack the barbarian camp near the clearing over the next mountain."

"My men are not attacking anyone!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I am not requesting it," said the phantom with his grin with holding.

Khor reached the hilt of his sword. Pulled it from his waste in an agile effort to ward of the dangerous looking guess.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the phantom exclaimed.

Khor did not speak. He perched his legs. His sole sinking a little in the snow covered ground. He separated them just enough so he can lunge to his intended target. He has done it before, battle after battle. He knows what he had to do.

Now.

The wind crackled and before he could see what happen, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. It's as if he is burning from the inside out. He looked down a blade protruding out of his chest except, there is no blood. His vision is slowly being engulf by darkness.

"W-what!?" Khor exclaimed followed by a gasp for air.

  A second pass by and his pierced body stands there as if it's just a corpse. The wind from the top of the taller mountains howl, taunting the silence that engulf the camp.

"You and your men will attack the barbarian camp," whispered the creature from behind his ears.

"As you command, Master Aatrox," replied Khor without any hesitation.

Not for long, a long shout was heard all over the camp. Every head turned. All of them looking at the source of the sound. Khor is standing there with eyes glowing red and his body surrounded by an ominous aura.

"Are you alright, Khor?" asked one of his men.

"We must attack the barbarian camp by the next mountain," he commanded loudly.

"But, we would not stand against them, and it is at the opposite direction to the Winter Claw's camp," explained one of his men.

The camp was filled with murmur of disagreement. Their faces show doubt with this decision.

"That is an order!" he shouted. 

"But Kho-" one of his men didn't even finished his words before his head rolls down the snow.

"Any other suggestions?" Khor angrily asked the camp.

The camp was dead silent by what they have witnessed. Fear drenched their bodies.

"Then prepare to march!"