Cataclysm: Dragonborn

Chapter 1: Shurima

Nearly two years have passed... Two long years.

Jarvan stood tall, looking out over the vast deserts of Shurima. With their thirst for battle quenched and their hunger sated by strider meat grilled over an open fire, his men had bedded down for the evening, Jarvan Lightsheild IV taking his customary first watch. With a belly full of Shurima Strider, Jarvan needed time to clear his mind and let the hearty meal settle before he retired for the evening. He took a deep breath of cold night air into his lungs.

One does not breath the night air... one drinks it.

 Jarvan had long ago learned a great appreciation for the cold and refreshing night air, using the time alone to think and reflect. He just let his mind roam, wandering where it pleased, not bothering to reel it back in less something undesirable came calling to his camp. A little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took another deep breath of the chilly air, holding it in his chest before he exhaled it. Not that the excitement isn't welcome. He glanced over his shoulder and looked out over his men. Though perhaps we've have enough excitement for one day already. He chuckled to himself as his mind started to wander to memories further past. He glanced up at the sky and realized that the days were already starting to get colder. The long summer days were starting to shorten.

Has it really been two years? Jarvan sighed heavily, staring down at his hand

He had been struggling with his feelings about himself and his position for every day of the two years he had been searching the vastness of Valoran. What he was exactly searching for? Well, he hadn't found it yet, but he intended to keep searching until he did find it. He had long ago left behind the feelings that tied him to Demacia. He only let himself worry about himself and his men now. He tore his eyes from the vastness of the starry night sky to look his men over. Of the twelve he had chosen to accompany him on his journey of self-discovery, only 8 remained. They lay around the smoldering remains of their cooking fire, each one sleeping silently. The day had been just a rough as each day before hand. The men greeted sleep each evening as if it were a new bride and they had just returned from a long campaign against the Noxians.

The Noxians...

Jarvan scowled, his anger flaring at the thought of that bastard, Jericho Swain. The crotchety old man was a tactical genius and a maniacal bastard to boot. Even before he had journeyed to the war front with his father, King Jarvan Lightshield III, he had heard nightmarish tales from the maids who had attended to him as a boy. He had aspired to fight and defeat the famed tactician one day, believing the stories to be tales and that there was no way one man could be so cunning and dangerous. As he had grown, he had approached each day with gusto, striving to be the best. The fastest, the strongest, the first. He had often been so, but his best friend had always been there at his side. Garen Crownguard was his best friend growing up, and the two were inseparable. Everywhere Jarvan IV went, Garen was right there with him.

I wanted to stand out, I wanted to be a hero. Jarvan yawned, lowering himself to the ground and leaning back against a rock, laying his lance upon the ground as he cracked his neck. He rested his arms upon his knee, pulling it to his chest. I was careless and made a mistake though. Jarvan let his shoulders sink as he exhaled heavily, suddenly feeling a great weight upon his back. A mistake? I got an entire company of men killed.

Jarvan closed his eyes.

 

_ _ __ _ _

 

It had been a cold morning.

Jarvan shifted from foot to foot as he dropped to a kneel next to his scout, the man pulling the heavy brown cloak closer to himself as rain continued to pour down.