League of Legends
12-11-2014, 02:09 AM
It is dawn. The five of us have gathered together for our own reasons, which are as varied as the champions we have chosen to represent us. The one who will be playing Tristana in the bot lane is a hardened masochist who wishes to pleasure himself vicariously through the suffering of his champion. Our jungler, playing Nocturne, is a devout diabolist who seeks to heighten his rage and internal suffering to call upon the power of the devils that he worships in his dark rituals. Our top laner, playing Maokai, is perhaps the best natured of us all. Blind and deaf, he seeks to prove to the world that League of Legends can be played with braille alone as one’s guide. Our mid lane will be occupied by an Orianna player that suffers from cripplingly low self esteem and feels the overwhelming need to prove themselves in the online arena to make up for their tragic lack of self worth. This leaves me, your humble narrator, who was allowed by fate to choose his champion last. As the objective center of the universe, I cannot call it luck that I was able to play the role of commander and logistician this game. Rather, it was simply another manifestation of the fact that the world itself exists to guide me on my quest to greatness in spite of my own apathy towards it. My messianic vision directed me to choose Blitzcrank, known by many to wield God’s own hand. Each of us bearing our own burdens, we load onto the rift to do battle.
It is five minutes into the game. Maokai proves to be a suitable selection for his player, and has allowed him to survive in spite of his disability preventing him from utilizing the minimap that those of us with fewer skills and more senses rely on to determine when enemies are approaching. The masochist is flustered by the fact that he cannot revel in the suffering he seeks because I have killed both of our opponents in lane. The diabolist, bereft of a suitable source of the rage he craves, has begun to feel the link between himself and his masters weaken. His champion wanders the map in a manner as passive and aimless as the player feels in his soul. Orianna has killed the most creeps in the game, and her player informs us of his success in the hopes that our warm words will do more than echo uselessly in the void he feels inside. They do not.
It is ten minutes into the game. With our opponents finally having managed to beg, borrow, or steal sufficient gold to acquire damage items, the masochist’s aggressively sensual leap onto their weapons finally give his champion the pain he craves. His mood is bolstered noticeably, and he speaks for the first time to ensure us that everything is okay. Everything is not okay, however, as I have begun to suspect his true nature. Well on my way towards a Face of the Mountain, I have already begun to take steps to ensure that his future attempts will be more difficult. Maokai’s inability to receive the pings or read the messages of our midlaner, jungler, and myself, combined with his lack of a minimap, lead to his first death as well, followed shortly by a second. Whether due to the time he spent dead or on account of his limited ability to strike the killing blow against minions, he does not have very many items. Nocturne’s player is emboldened with purpose and begins the first of his expletive filled chants. Orianna’s player insists that we try to focus on the game to improve his chances of acquiring another of the victories which he relies on so heavily, but the rest of us are too focused on our own concerns to pay him any heed.
It is fifteen minutes into the game. My attempts at preventing Tristana’s gleeful suicides have failed, in spite of my item purchase, and with my failure evident in her player’s score, I have begun to drink heavily. The masochist’s words of encouragement for my play when Orianna and my Blitzcrank take advantage of his champion’s sacrifice feel as hollow as the simplistic curses the dark sorcerer utters. The opposing top laner, having succeeded in destroying our top turret, has abandoned their lane to pursue a career in dragonslaying with his team. Maokai remains blissfully unaware of our combat. His creep score will soon pass that of Nocturne, but even without any typed response from the ent’s player, our jungler’s litany of swearing continues unabated.
It is twenty minutes into the game. Maokai has managed to keep his opponent’s tower alive with no assistance from the enemy team on account of his expert wave management and efficient clearing of our golem camp. His skill has earned him the fifth highest creep score in the game. With his connection to his dark lords growing stronger from the rage which he spews in iambic vitriol, Nocturne’s player has become empowered with the reflexes to steal dragon away from our opponents. This success dupes Orianna’s player into believing we have a chance at earning our victory, but I know better. It is only by the powers of hell that Nocturne is able to fight so well, and the fiends therein are capricious and cruel. Their presence would be welcomed by Tristana’s player, however, who makes his champion once again leap into our enemies after the objective has already been secured. This earns the bemoaning of our victory focused mid laner and the furious approval of our jungler, who feeds the masochist’s desire for chastisement with enthusiastic encouragement to apply his seemingly suicidal impulses outside of the game.
It is thirty minutes into the game. The pain that our opponents are capable of applying has finally proven to be insufficient to fulfill our masochistic ally’s cravings. He begs us to peel his flesh to provide fresh, strong pain for him to experience. Misunderstanding his request, our Orianna player devotedly keeps Tristana alive in our subsequent fight, sacrificing his own champion’s life in the process. Blessed with a new source to fuel his fury, the jungler’s incantations grow loud enough to be shared with our opponents as well. They, of course, had their own bleak struggles, some of which they saw the need to share with us, but while my divine vision and the wards which are its physical embodiment bathed the map in warm light, they were insufficient to determine the true nature of their side’s arguments. I will leave you, whose experiences in this terrible game have surely mirrored my own, to imagine the sort of struggle which occurred. Perhaps one of you even saw it for yourself. But this is not their story, and so we can safely leave the full scope of their struggle to another teller. Maokai now has the fourth highest creep score in the game.
It is thirty five minutes into the game. Tristana seems to scarcely move at all in fights, simply remaining in place and attacking the nearest target as her player fervently enjoys the abuse which Nocturne’s player heaps upon him. Maokai made a minor mistake in his magnificent minion management, and the opposing top tower has been destroyed. Mistaking this for success, the cinder of our mid laner’s hope receives an iota of kindling and he encourages me (for whom else could be be speaking to) to not give up. It is far too late for that, however, and with my whiskey depleted and my absinthe unstoppered, I am all too willing to give in to despair’s sweet embrace.
It is forty minutes into the game. With his lust now sated, Tristana’s player is only casually enamored by the virtual and emotional pain available to him. Even our Orianna, by now, has accepted that victory is impossible, and the five of us are unified by the call of the void, that singular longing not of victory, but of our own deaths to end our shared suffering. At least two of us (and in the haze of my memory, I must confess that this may have included myself) fail to click the correct button to agree to the surrender, however, and so our ordeal carries on. Following the fall of our first inhibitor, the speech of our jungler moves from mere profanity to words truly profane, and with my substance enhanced vision, I see the characters that he types lose their form to adopt the shape of the incomprehensible sigils of the Seven Tongues of Blasphemy. The dark speech pervades our team with its unholy enhancement, and though he does not read the words, their diabolical influence forces our innocent Maokai to abandon his dream of acquiring enough money to feed his saplings and instead indenture himself to the violence that defines this game. Through no fault of his own, he is killed in the ensuing conflict, but his ultimate helped to both keep himself alive for far longer than his modest statistics would suggest as he bears the brunt of the assault of our foes, and also provided a measure of protection to the now laconic and still Tristana.
It is forty five minutes into the game. All five of our enemies are dead for the first time, and our mid laner dares to type out the ‘C word’ - that singular utterance that should mean recovery, but in practice serves only as a jinx to ensure one’s defeat. I look to Shiva at my left and the ghost of von Clausewitz at my right and assure the two gods of war that he did not mean it, but they both direct my attention back to my screen where I see that Nocturne has already died to baron as punishment for our hubris. With two of our foes soon to be upon us, his player attempts to help us from his grey screen. His acerbic verbal assault now divided between the laggardly Tristana and the Maokai that nobly saved our minions in the top lane from those of our opponents, Nocturne manages to spew out hatred at twice his previous speed, savagely whipping additional DPS out of our unwilling bodies with his words. My champion secures Baron with one fist, and a kill on the opposing marksman with the other before Blitzcrank begins to multiply before my eyes until his dancing sprites fill more than just the screen and obscure my vision entirely. Blinking away this prophetic glory, I see that we are in our opponent’s base and the Curse of the War Gods has been lifted from our team by the superiority of my own indomitable will. With our enemies rising to fight once again, we retreat after securing an inhibitor.
It is fifty five minutes into the game. The worthless cowards opposing us will not leave the safety of their base for the rewards in their jungle and the ambushes crafted by my numerous strokes of tactical genius fail to capture them. My team has finally come to recognize me for the commander that I am, so I know that victory is assured, but at what cost? The taint of our jungler’s foul prayers has surely corrupted my immortal soul, and from the bitterness that I can sense from our mid laner, I know that he too has seen the worthlessness of the victory our sacrifices have earned. Under my able command, we secure baron as a unit and march into their base for our final battle. Having finally recovered the energy he was once characterized by, Tristana’s player leaps into them, but the fog of negativity that permeated this game thanks to the directed and foul words which Nocturne’s player has continued to post into all chat has made them as blind as our top laner. They ignore the midget to chase Blitzcrank, a mistake which costs them dearly and the game is finally ours. As the blue sigil of a victory undeniably earned and yet ill deserved obfuscates the field of battle, I fall from my chair and curl up into a fetal position on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
It takes me an hour of hemorrhaging tears before I manage to rise shakily to my feet. I wipe my face and queue up for another game.
It is five minutes into the game. Maokai proves to be a suitable selection for his player, and has allowed him to survive in spite of his disability preventing him from utilizing the minimap that those of us with fewer skills and more senses rely on to determine when enemies are approaching. The masochist is flustered by the fact that he cannot revel in the suffering he seeks because I have killed both of our opponents in lane. The diabolist, bereft of a suitable source of the rage he craves, has begun to feel the link between himself and his masters weaken. His champion wanders the map in a manner as passive and aimless as the player feels in his soul. Orianna has killed the most creeps in the game, and her player informs us of his success in the hopes that our warm words will do more than echo uselessly in the void he feels inside. They do not.
It is ten minutes into the game. With our opponents finally having managed to beg, borrow, or steal sufficient gold to acquire damage items, the masochist’s aggressively sensual leap onto their weapons finally give his champion the pain he craves. His mood is bolstered noticeably, and he speaks for the first time to ensure us that everything is okay. Everything is not okay, however, as I have begun to suspect his true nature. Well on my way towards a Face of the Mountain, I have already begun to take steps to ensure that his future attempts will be more difficult. Maokai’s inability to receive the pings or read the messages of our midlaner, jungler, and myself, combined with his lack of a minimap, lead to his first death as well, followed shortly by a second. Whether due to the time he spent dead or on account of his limited ability to strike the killing blow against minions, he does not have very many items. Nocturne’s player is emboldened with purpose and begins the first of his expletive filled chants. Orianna’s player insists that we try to focus on the game to improve his chances of acquiring another of the victories which he relies on so heavily, but the rest of us are too focused on our own concerns to pay him any heed.
It is fifteen minutes into the game. My attempts at preventing Tristana’s gleeful suicides have failed, in spite of my item purchase, and with my failure evident in her player’s score, I have begun to drink heavily. The masochist’s words of encouragement for my play when Orianna and my Blitzcrank take advantage of his champion’s sacrifice feel as hollow as the simplistic curses the dark sorcerer utters. The opposing top laner, having succeeded in destroying our top turret, has abandoned their lane to pursue a career in dragonslaying with his team. Maokai remains blissfully unaware of our combat. His creep score will soon pass that of Nocturne, but even without any typed response from the ent’s player, our jungler’s litany of swearing continues unabated.
It is twenty minutes into the game. Maokai has managed to keep his opponent’s tower alive with no assistance from the enemy team on account of his expert wave management and efficient clearing of our golem camp. His skill has earned him the fifth highest creep score in the game. With his connection to his dark lords growing stronger from the rage which he spews in iambic vitriol, Nocturne’s player has become empowered with the reflexes to steal dragon away from our opponents. This success dupes Orianna’s player into believing we have a chance at earning our victory, but I know better. It is only by the powers of hell that Nocturne is able to fight so well, and the fiends therein are capricious and cruel. Their presence would be welcomed by Tristana’s player, however, who makes his champion once again leap into our enemies after the objective has already been secured. This earns the bemoaning of our victory focused mid laner and the furious approval of our jungler, who feeds the masochist’s desire for chastisement with enthusiastic encouragement to apply his seemingly suicidal impulses outside of the game.
It is thirty minutes into the game. The pain that our opponents are capable of applying has finally proven to be insufficient to fulfill our masochistic ally’s cravings. He begs us to peel his flesh to provide fresh, strong pain for him to experience. Misunderstanding his request, our Orianna player devotedly keeps Tristana alive in our subsequent fight, sacrificing his own champion’s life in the process. Blessed with a new source to fuel his fury, the jungler’s incantations grow loud enough to be shared with our opponents as well. They, of course, had their own bleak struggles, some of which they saw the need to share with us, but while my divine vision and the wards which are its physical embodiment bathed the map in warm light, they were insufficient to determine the true nature of their side’s arguments. I will leave you, whose experiences in this terrible game have surely mirrored my own, to imagine the sort of struggle which occurred. Perhaps one of you even saw it for yourself. But this is not their story, and so we can safely leave the full scope of their struggle to another teller. Maokai now has the fourth highest creep score in the game.
It is thirty five minutes into the game. Tristana seems to scarcely move at all in fights, simply remaining in place and attacking the nearest target as her player fervently enjoys the abuse which Nocturne’s player heaps upon him. Maokai made a minor mistake in his magnificent minion management, and the opposing top tower has been destroyed. Mistaking this for success, the cinder of our mid laner’s hope receives an iota of kindling and he encourages me (for whom else could be be speaking to) to not give up. It is far too late for that, however, and with my whiskey depleted and my absinthe unstoppered, I am all too willing to give in to despair’s sweet embrace.
It is forty minutes into the game. With his lust now sated, Tristana’s player is only casually enamored by the virtual and emotional pain available to him. Even our Orianna, by now, has accepted that victory is impossible, and the five of us are unified by the call of the void, that singular longing not of victory, but of our own deaths to end our shared suffering. At least two of us (and in the haze of my memory, I must confess that this may have included myself) fail to click the correct button to agree to the surrender, however, and so our ordeal carries on. Following the fall of our first inhibitor, the speech of our jungler moves from mere profanity to words truly profane, and with my substance enhanced vision, I see the characters that he types lose their form to adopt the shape of the incomprehensible sigils of the Seven Tongues of Blasphemy. The dark speech pervades our team with its unholy enhancement, and though he does not read the words, their diabolical influence forces our innocent Maokai to abandon his dream of acquiring enough money to feed his saplings and instead indenture himself to the violence that defines this game. Through no fault of his own, he is killed in the ensuing conflict, but his ultimate helped to both keep himself alive for far longer than his modest statistics would suggest as he bears the brunt of the assault of our foes, and also provided a measure of protection to the now laconic and still Tristana.
It is forty five minutes into the game. All five of our enemies are dead for the first time, and our mid laner dares to type out the ‘C word’ - that singular utterance that should mean recovery, but in practice serves only as a jinx to ensure one’s defeat. I look to Shiva at my left and the ghost of von Clausewitz at my right and assure the two gods of war that he did not mean it, but they both direct my attention back to my screen where I see that Nocturne has already died to baron as punishment for our hubris. With two of our foes soon to be upon us, his player attempts to help us from his grey screen. His acerbic verbal assault now divided between the laggardly Tristana and the Maokai that nobly saved our minions in the top lane from those of our opponents, Nocturne manages to spew out hatred at twice his previous speed, savagely whipping additional DPS out of our unwilling bodies with his words. My champion secures Baron with one fist, and a kill on the opposing marksman with the other before Blitzcrank begins to multiply before my eyes until his dancing sprites fill more than just the screen and obscure my vision entirely. Blinking away this prophetic glory, I see that we are in our opponent’s base and the Curse of the War Gods has been lifted from our team by the superiority of my own indomitable will. With our enemies rising to fight once again, we retreat after securing an inhibitor.
It is fifty five minutes into the game. The worthless cowards opposing us will not leave the safety of their base for the rewards in their jungle and the ambushes crafted by my numerous strokes of tactical genius fail to capture them. My team has finally come to recognize me for the commander that I am, so I know that victory is assured, but at what cost? The taint of our jungler’s foul prayers has surely corrupted my immortal soul, and from the bitterness that I can sense from our mid laner, I know that he too has seen the worthlessness of the victory our sacrifices have earned. Under my able command, we secure baron as a unit and march into their base for our final battle. Having finally recovered the energy he was once characterized by, Tristana’s player leaps into them, but the fog of negativity that permeated this game thanks to the directed and foul words which Nocturne’s player has continued to post into all chat has made them as blind as our top laner. They ignore the midget to chase Blitzcrank, a mistake which costs them dearly and the game is finally ours. As the blue sigil of a victory undeniably earned and yet ill deserved obfuscates the field of battle, I fall from my chair and curl up into a fetal position on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
It takes me an hour of hemorrhaging tears before I manage to rise shakily to my feet. I wipe my face and queue up for another game.
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