By the pricking of my thumbs/something wicked this way comes
Тут расширенные истории про Рек'Саи и Амуму, в обещанном Риотами новом формате бэка. Под катом на английском, кто может - переведите ибо я раздавлен нахрен.
Рек'Саи
My Dearest Merina,
Arriving in Bel’zhun at last! Though it pains me to leave our beloved country, I am certain Shurima will make my fortune. Uncle Velius left word that, in addition to cartography, I’m to draw “anything and everything of value or interest, especially wildlife.” For this meager service, I’m to be paid an additional three gold securi a day! You need only avoid your mother’s matchmaking for a little while longer. I will soon be able to return to you as a worthy suitor. There are no obstacles that could divert or slow me from that pursuit.
Below is a picture of the view from my window. I couldn’t help but laugh when our innkeeper called his home “a luxurious city!” Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.
Though his payments arrive regularly, I still have yet to catch up with Uncle. It is disconcerting that all I remember of him was his unrelenting mantra that “the lifeblood of the empire is our bureaucracy.”
I find myself employed as part of our nation’s endless clerical staff; ironically, not within its borders, but operating in these uncivilized lands.
My cartographic mission received an unexpected boon after I purchased an ancient stone map. The unsavory dealer was obviously a tomb raider or thief (like most Shurimans), but the item was too precious to pass by.
Today, the caravan hired teams of elujrav’i’, or “bell riders.”
These old men and boys will scout ahead to warn us of any approaching threats. The caravan master also purchased a few dozen saih’kharash’i, or “sand walkers.” These peasants — poor, even by this country’s miserable standards — will trot beside the caravan for their meals. If we find ourselves pursued, we will quickly outpace these unfortunates, leaving them behind as fodder.
In the southern desert, a great deal of suffering is endured to avoid the xer’sai and the other outerbeasts. That my unseen benefactor continues to lead me deeper into this strange and primitive land is unsettling.
A dead xer’sai.
The average-sized specimen was killed a few days ago after annihilating a herd of Eka’Sul goats. Its repulsive flesh oozes and bubbles, while decomposing at an abnormally rapid rate. Not surprisingly, the creatures are inedible. Xer’sai apparently burst from their small burrows and savage anything nearby. That this unimpressive beast should inspire such terror in the caravan’s guards speaks to their ignorance and weakness.
With fifty securi, we purchased a ralsiji. The belligerent giant will make for an impressive display in the arena, but it lacks the ferocity of the xer’sai. Uncle Velius sent word the team is to concentrate on searching for live xer’sai. He has promised me three hundred securi for each good-sized specimen we procure! At that price, I could return home in a month with all of the fortune needed to proceed with our nuptials! I pray your cousin has stopped pestering you to meet that idiot, Genden Belgaunt.
We have entered the “sai,” the rolling plains of sand and sharp stones that define the harsh, southern desert. This is where I will finally be able to catch these mysterious creatures Uncle has fixated on. Within a fortnight, I hope to escape this hateful country’s grinding poverty and the unending silence that defines this land. There is no unnecessary noise permitted in the southland. No laughter. No idle conversation. Natives wait silently by their caravans, listening for the bells that warn of raiders or beasts. How I long to talk openly and to hear your sweet voice again.
A xer’sai the size of your pet hound attacked us yesterday.
Thankfully, our spotters saw it, and our spearmen were able to deploy in time. After it took down one of our guards, his fellows were rightfully enraged, and killed it. Though I could have sold the beast for two hundred securi, I cannot, and will not, blame my guards for taking their vengeance. The deceased wasn’t a man in our noble arenas, chasing fortune and fame; he was butchered by a vile thing without any hope for glory or wealth.
So much of Shurima seems a hateful place, determined to punish any who visit it and grind its inhabitants into submission. I am ashamed to think I once derided the people who live here.
For weeks, I’ve been hearing stories about Rek’Sai — an infamous xer’sai of unmatched size, ferocity, and speed.
“Perfect for the arena!” I laughed, grimly mocking Uncle’s repeated missives. Ridiculing my benefactor to our Shuriman trackers and guards must seem like madness to you, but I find myself feeling more connected to them than to our Noxian traditions. The desert has changed me. It is the absence of everything, and as such, it brings that which is important into sharp relief. Why should a man care for the amusements of the arena? What cherished memory is made there? It is the subtle curve of your cheek and the hint of a smile at your mouth’s edge that keeps the dread of this place at bay. I loathe the thought of Genden Belgaunt courting you and that your family considers him a worthy suitor.
Despite its bleakness, this empty outpost still possessed the only drinking water for leagues, and even spending a few hours in the shade of its ruins was a sweet relief from the unrelenting sun. Supposedly, Rek’Sai annihilated it decades ago. A few weeks past, I would have shrugged this off as yet another ignorant superstition of the desert folk. But I’ve seen too much death. I have walked past the bones of thousands. What sort of monster is capable of inflicting such horror?
Even with the supposed expertise of our Noxian trappers, I find myself doubting we have the means to capture this beast.
A burrow of Rek’Sai.
What possessed me to follow Uncle’s Noxian trappers there? And on the threshold of this beast’s realm, with the evidence right before us, why didn’t we turn back? It was as if we were standing on the edge of a great cliff and were seized by some primal instinct to lean against that emptiness until we plummeted to our deaths.
Thankfully, my Shuriman friends convinced me to turn back before it was too late. I wish I had heeded their advice to look away from the events that followed.
Truly, I cannot even explain what I saw. No violence in the arena could begin to describe this creature’s unspeakable horror. What I witnessed, within the blink of an eye, returns to me endlessly. I do not sleep for fear of seeing it again, and its memory seems always on the edge of my vision. The outerbeasts are a plague, which destroyed these lands, but Rek’Sai is death incarnate.
I hope I never see this unforgiving desert again, and yet, I know now I could never return to Noxus. I do not see our nation as strong. We are as arrogant and foolish as children.
I am seeking a position near the Demacian border or in the southern jungles – anywhere that takes me far from the devastation this creature has wrought. Would it be possible for you to live outside of our capital? Sadly, I know your answer. I must accept that long ago you moved on from my failed courtship, while I was trapped in a limbo of my own design.
I have enclosed the stone artifact I acquired and based my maps on. It is a wedding gift. I truly hope you will find happiness with Genden Belgaunt, but I pray you will not end our correspondence.
And in hope and love, I will always wait for your letters at the edge of our empire’s domain.
Yours,
Aelon
Амуму
"The gods were angry, and shook the land. Cracks rent the earth," said old Khaldun, his crag-featured face lit by firelight. "It was into one of these fissures that a young man ventured. He found an opening; the entrance to a tomb, hidden for the Jackal knows how long. The man had little ones to feed and a wife to please, and so he ventured in, lured by opportunity."
Adults and children alike crowded in close to hear the old storyteller's words. They were all weary - they had traveled far that day, and the Shuriman sun had been unrelenting - but Khaldun's tales were a rare treat. They drew their cloaks tight around their shoulders against the chill of the night and leaned in.
"The air was cool in the tomb, a merciful relief from the scorching heat outside. The young man lit a torch. Its light made shadows dance before him. He stepped cautiously, wary of traps. He was poor, but he was no fool.
"The walls inside were smooth obsidian and carved with ancient writings and images. He could not read - he was a simple man - but he studied the images.
"He saw a boy prince, sitting cross-legged upon a sun disk borne by a team of servants, a beaming smile upon his face. Chests of coins and riches were piled before him, the offerings of strangely garbed, bowing emissaries.
"He saw other carvings, again showing the smiling prince, this time walking among his people. Their heads were pressed to the ground before him. Stylized rays of sunshine radiated from the boy's crown.
"Before one of these images was a small, gold statue. It alone was worth more than he could have hoped to earn in ten lifetimes. The young man took it, slipping it into his satchel.
"He did not intend to linger. He knew it would not be long before others came upon this place. When they did, he wanted to be gone. Greed makes fools of even the greatest men, and he knew that others would willingly spill his blood to claim that golden statue - and the other riches that were surely further in. Avarice was not one of the young man's faults, however. He felt no need to delve further. The other treasures hidden here were someone else's to claim.
"He looked upon one last image before he left the tomb. It showed the boy prince dead, lying upon a bier. Those closest to him were wailing... but further back, people were celebrating. Had the boy prince been beloved, or had he been a tyrant? There was no way of knowing.
"That was when he heard it: a sound in the darkness that made his skin crawl.
"He looked around, wide eyed, holding his torch up before him. Nothing.
"'Who's there?' he said. Silence was his only answer.
"The young man shook his head. 'It is just the wind, you fool,' he thought. 'Nothing but the wind.'
"Then he heard it again, more distinctly this time. A child was crying in the darkness further into the tomb.
"Heard anywhere else, his paternal instinct would have been to go to the sound. But here, in the darkness of a funereal tomb?
"He wanted to run... but he did not. The sobbing touched his heart. It was filled with such misery and grief.
"Was it possible there was another entrance to this tomb? Had a young boy found his way down here and become lost?
"Torch held high, he crept forward. The weeping continued, echoing faintly through the gloom.
"A wide chamber opened before him, its floor black and highly reflective. Golden artifacts and jewel-inlaid walls glinted within. Gingerly, he entered the room.
"He stepped back sharply as his heel sent ripples spreading out across the floor. Water. The floor was not made of reflective obsidian - it was covered in water.
"Kneeling, he scooped a handful of it to his lips. He spat it out immediately. It was salt water! Here, in the heart of Shurima, a thousand leagues from the nearest sea!
"He heard the sound of the boy weeping once more, closer now.
"Holding his torch before him, the young man glimpsed a shape at the edge of its light. It appeared to be the child, sitting with his back to the man.
"Carefully, he stepped into the room. The water upon the floor was not deep. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and fear clutched at his chest, yet he did not turn to run.
"'Are you lost?' he asked, as he stepped closer. 'How did you get here?'
"The shadowed figure did not turn... but he did speak.
"'I... I don't remember,' he said. The sound swam around the young man, echoing off the walls. The boy spoke in an old dialect. His words were strange... but understandable. 'I don't remember who I am.'
"'Be calm, child,' said the man. 'All will be well.'
"He stepped closer, and the figure resolved itself before him. His eyes widened.
"The shape before him was a god-statue carved in onyx, nothing more. It was not the source of the crying, nor of the child's voice.
"That was when a small, dry hand grabbed him."
The youngest of the listeners gasped, his eyes wide. The other children laughed in false bravado. Old Khaldun smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the firelight. Then, he continued.
"The young man looked down. The linen-wrapped corpse of the tiny prince stood beside the man. Dull, ghostly light emanated from the deathly boy's eye sockets, though his entire face was bound in burial wrappings. The corpse-child held the man's hand.
"'Will you be my friend?' the boy asked, his voice muffled by linen.
"The young man lurched backward, breaking free of the child's grasp. The young man looked down at his arm in horror; his hand was shriveling, turning black and withered. The wasting touch then began to climb up his arm.
"He turned and ran. In his shock and haste, he dropped his lantern. It hissed as it fell into the lake of tears, and darkness descended. Still, he could just make out the glow of daylight up ahead. He ran toward it, scrambling desperately, even as the wasting death crept up his arm towards his heart.
"At any moment, he expected to feel the deathly boy's grasp upon him... but did not. After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a matter of heartbeats, he burst from the darkness into the desert heat once more.
"'I'm sorry,' echoed a mournful voice from the gloom behind him. 'I didn’t mean to.'
"And thus, the Tomb of Amumu was unearthed," said old Khaldun, "and the deathly child released into the world."
"But everyone knows he isn't real!" cried one of the children, the oldest of them, after a moment of silence.
"Amumu is real!" said the youngest. "He's wandering the land trying to find a friend!"
"He's real, but he isn't a boy," said another. "He's a yordle!"
Khaldun laughed, and pushed himself to his feet with the aid of a gnarled walking stick.
"I am old, and we have far to travel tomorrow," he said. "It is past time I was abed."
His audience began to dissipate, smiling and talking in low, familial voices, but one child did not move. She stared at Khaldun, unblinking.
"Grandfather," she said. "How did you lose your arm?"
Old Khaldun looked down at the empty sleeve pinned at his shoulder, then flashed the girl a grin.
"Goodnight, little one," he said with a wink."
Рек'Саи
My Dearest Merina,
Arriving in Bel’zhun at last! Though it pains me to leave our beloved country, I am certain Shurima will make my fortune. Uncle Velius left word that, in addition to cartography, I’m to draw “anything and everything of value or interest, especially wildlife.” For this meager service, I’m to be paid an additional three gold securi a day! You need only avoid your mother’s matchmaking for a little while longer. I will soon be able to return to you as a worthy suitor. There are no obstacles that could divert or slow me from that pursuit.
Below is a picture of the view from my window. I couldn’t help but laugh when our innkeeper called his home “a luxurious city!” Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.
Though his payments arrive regularly, I still have yet to catch up with Uncle. It is disconcerting that all I remember of him was his unrelenting mantra that “the lifeblood of the empire is our bureaucracy.”
I find myself employed as part of our nation’s endless clerical staff; ironically, not within its borders, but operating in these uncivilized lands.
My cartographic mission received an unexpected boon after I purchased an ancient stone map. The unsavory dealer was obviously a tomb raider or thief (like most Shurimans), but the item was too precious to pass by.
Today, the caravan hired teams of elujrav’i’, or “bell riders.”
These old men and boys will scout ahead to warn us of any approaching threats. The caravan master also purchased a few dozen saih’kharash’i, or “sand walkers.” These peasants — poor, even by this country’s miserable standards — will trot beside the caravan for their meals. If we find ourselves pursued, we will quickly outpace these unfortunates, leaving them behind as fodder.
In the southern desert, a great deal of suffering is endured to avoid the xer’sai and the other outerbeasts. That my unseen benefactor continues to lead me deeper into this strange and primitive land is unsettling.
A dead xer’sai.
The average-sized specimen was killed a few days ago after annihilating a herd of Eka’Sul goats. Its repulsive flesh oozes and bubbles, while decomposing at an abnormally rapid rate. Not surprisingly, the creatures are inedible. Xer’sai apparently burst from their small burrows and savage anything nearby. That this unimpressive beast should inspire such terror in the caravan’s guards speaks to their ignorance and weakness.
With fifty securi, we purchased a ralsiji. The belligerent giant will make for an impressive display in the arena, but it lacks the ferocity of the xer’sai. Uncle Velius sent word the team is to concentrate on searching for live xer’sai. He has promised me three hundred securi for each good-sized specimen we procure! At that price, I could return home in a month with all of the fortune needed to proceed with our nuptials! I pray your cousin has stopped pestering you to meet that idiot, Genden Belgaunt.
We have entered the “sai,” the rolling plains of sand and sharp stones that define the harsh, southern desert. This is where I will finally be able to catch these mysterious creatures Uncle has fixated on. Within a fortnight, I hope to escape this hateful country’s grinding poverty and the unending silence that defines this land. There is no unnecessary noise permitted in the southland. No laughter. No idle conversation. Natives wait silently by their caravans, listening for the bells that warn of raiders or beasts. How I long to talk openly and to hear your sweet voice again.
A xer’sai the size of your pet hound attacked us yesterday.
Thankfully, our spotters saw it, and our spearmen were able to deploy in time. After it took down one of our guards, his fellows were rightfully enraged, and killed it. Though I could have sold the beast for two hundred securi, I cannot, and will not, blame my guards for taking their vengeance. The deceased wasn’t a man in our noble arenas, chasing fortune and fame; he was butchered by a vile thing without any hope for glory or wealth.
So much of Shurima seems a hateful place, determined to punish any who visit it and grind its inhabitants into submission. I am ashamed to think I once derided the people who live here.
For weeks, I’ve been hearing stories about Rek’Sai — an infamous xer’sai of unmatched size, ferocity, and speed.
“Perfect for the arena!” I laughed, grimly mocking Uncle’s repeated missives. Ridiculing my benefactor to our Shuriman trackers and guards must seem like madness to you, but I find myself feeling more connected to them than to our Noxian traditions. The desert has changed me. It is the absence of everything, and as such, it brings that which is important into sharp relief. Why should a man care for the amusements of the arena? What cherished memory is made there? It is the subtle curve of your cheek and the hint of a smile at your mouth’s edge that keeps the dread of this place at bay. I loathe the thought of Genden Belgaunt courting you and that your family considers him a worthy suitor.
Despite its bleakness, this empty outpost still possessed the only drinking water for leagues, and even spending a few hours in the shade of its ruins was a sweet relief from the unrelenting sun. Supposedly, Rek’Sai annihilated it decades ago. A few weeks past, I would have shrugged this off as yet another ignorant superstition of the desert folk. But I’ve seen too much death. I have walked past the bones of thousands. What sort of monster is capable of inflicting such horror?
Even with the supposed expertise of our Noxian trappers, I find myself doubting we have the means to capture this beast.
A burrow of Rek’Sai.
What possessed me to follow Uncle’s Noxian trappers there? And on the threshold of this beast’s realm, with the evidence right before us, why didn’t we turn back? It was as if we were standing on the edge of a great cliff and were seized by some primal instinct to lean against that emptiness until we plummeted to our deaths.
Thankfully, my Shuriman friends convinced me to turn back before it was too late. I wish I had heeded their advice to look away from the events that followed.
Truly, I cannot even explain what I saw. No violence in the arena could begin to describe this creature’s unspeakable horror. What I witnessed, within the blink of an eye, returns to me endlessly. I do not sleep for fear of seeing it again, and its memory seems always on the edge of my vision. The outerbeasts are a plague, which destroyed these lands, but Rek’Sai is death incarnate.
I hope I never see this unforgiving desert again, and yet, I know now I could never return to Noxus. I do not see our nation as strong. We are as arrogant and foolish as children.
I am seeking a position near the Demacian border or in the southern jungles – anywhere that takes me far from the devastation this creature has wrought. Would it be possible for you to live outside of our capital? Sadly, I know your answer. I must accept that long ago you moved on from my failed courtship, while I was trapped in a limbo of my own design.
I have enclosed the stone artifact I acquired and based my maps on. It is a wedding gift. I truly hope you will find happiness with Genden Belgaunt, but I pray you will not end our correspondence.
And in hope and love, I will always wait for your letters at the edge of our empire’s domain.
Yours,
Aelon
Амуму
"The gods were angry, and shook the land. Cracks rent the earth," said old Khaldun, his crag-featured face lit by firelight. "It was into one of these fissures that a young man ventured. He found an opening; the entrance to a tomb, hidden for the Jackal knows how long. The man had little ones to feed and a wife to please, and so he ventured in, lured by opportunity."
Adults and children alike crowded in close to hear the old storyteller's words. They were all weary - they had traveled far that day, and the Shuriman sun had been unrelenting - but Khaldun's tales were a rare treat. They drew their cloaks tight around their shoulders against the chill of the night and leaned in.
"The air was cool in the tomb, a merciful relief from the scorching heat outside. The young man lit a torch. Its light made shadows dance before him. He stepped cautiously, wary of traps. He was poor, but he was no fool.
"The walls inside were smooth obsidian and carved with ancient writings and images. He could not read - he was a simple man - but he studied the images.
"He saw a boy prince, sitting cross-legged upon a sun disk borne by a team of servants, a beaming smile upon his face. Chests of coins and riches were piled before him, the offerings of strangely garbed, bowing emissaries.
"He saw other carvings, again showing the smiling prince, this time walking among his people. Their heads were pressed to the ground before him. Stylized rays of sunshine radiated from the boy's crown.
"Before one of these images was a small, gold statue. It alone was worth more than he could have hoped to earn in ten lifetimes. The young man took it, slipping it into his satchel.
"He did not intend to linger. He knew it would not be long before others came upon this place. When they did, he wanted to be gone. Greed makes fools of even the greatest men, and he knew that others would willingly spill his blood to claim that golden statue - and the other riches that were surely further in. Avarice was not one of the young man's faults, however. He felt no need to delve further. The other treasures hidden here were someone else's to claim.
"He looked upon one last image before he left the tomb. It showed the boy prince dead, lying upon a bier. Those closest to him were wailing... but further back, people were celebrating. Had the boy prince been beloved, or had he been a tyrant? There was no way of knowing.
"That was when he heard it: a sound in the darkness that made his skin crawl.
"He looked around, wide eyed, holding his torch up before him. Nothing.
"'Who's there?' he said. Silence was his only answer.
"The young man shook his head. 'It is just the wind, you fool,' he thought. 'Nothing but the wind.'
"Then he heard it again, more distinctly this time. A child was crying in the darkness further into the tomb.
"Heard anywhere else, his paternal instinct would have been to go to the sound. But here, in the darkness of a funereal tomb?
"He wanted to run... but he did not. The sobbing touched his heart. It was filled with such misery and grief.
"Was it possible there was another entrance to this tomb? Had a young boy found his way down here and become lost?
"Torch held high, he crept forward. The weeping continued, echoing faintly through the gloom.
"A wide chamber opened before him, its floor black and highly reflective. Golden artifacts and jewel-inlaid walls glinted within. Gingerly, he entered the room.
"He stepped back sharply as his heel sent ripples spreading out across the floor. Water. The floor was not made of reflective obsidian - it was covered in water.
"Kneeling, he scooped a handful of it to his lips. He spat it out immediately. It was salt water! Here, in the heart of Shurima, a thousand leagues from the nearest sea!
"He heard the sound of the boy weeping once more, closer now.
"Holding his torch before him, the young man glimpsed a shape at the edge of its light. It appeared to be the child, sitting with his back to the man.
"Carefully, he stepped into the room. The water upon the floor was not deep. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and fear clutched at his chest, yet he did not turn to run.
"'Are you lost?' he asked, as he stepped closer. 'How did you get here?'
"The shadowed figure did not turn... but he did speak.
"'I... I don't remember,' he said. The sound swam around the young man, echoing off the walls. The boy spoke in an old dialect. His words were strange... but understandable. 'I don't remember who I am.'
"'Be calm, child,' said the man. 'All will be well.'
"He stepped closer, and the figure resolved itself before him. His eyes widened.
"The shape before him was a god-statue carved in onyx, nothing more. It was not the source of the crying, nor of the child's voice.
"That was when a small, dry hand grabbed him."
The youngest of the listeners gasped, his eyes wide. The other children laughed in false bravado. Old Khaldun smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the firelight. Then, he continued.
"The young man looked down. The linen-wrapped corpse of the tiny prince stood beside the man. Dull, ghostly light emanated from the deathly boy's eye sockets, though his entire face was bound in burial wrappings. The corpse-child held the man's hand.
"'Will you be my friend?' the boy asked, his voice muffled by linen.
"The young man lurched backward, breaking free of the child's grasp. The young man looked down at his arm in horror; his hand was shriveling, turning black and withered. The wasting touch then began to climb up his arm.
"He turned and ran. In his shock and haste, he dropped his lantern. It hissed as it fell into the lake of tears, and darkness descended. Still, he could just make out the glow of daylight up ahead. He ran toward it, scrambling desperately, even as the wasting death crept up his arm towards his heart.
"At any moment, he expected to feel the deathly boy's grasp upon him... but did not. After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a matter of heartbeats, he burst from the darkness into the desert heat once more.
"'I'm sorry,' echoed a mournful voice from the gloom behind him. 'I didn’t mean to.'
"And thus, the Tomb of Amumu was unearthed," said old Khaldun, "and the deathly child released into the world."
"But everyone knows he isn't real!" cried one of the children, the oldest of them, after a moment of silence.
"Amumu is real!" said the youngest. "He's wandering the land trying to find a friend!"
"He's real, but he isn't a boy," said another. "He's a yordle!"
Khaldun laughed, and pushed himself to his feet with the aid of a gnarled walking stick.
"I am old, and we have far to travel tomorrow," he said. "It is past time I was abed."
His audience began to dissipate, smiling and talking in low, familial voices, but one child did not move. She stared at Khaldun, unblinking.
"Grandfather," she said. "How did you lose your arm?"
Old Khaldun looked down at the empty sleeve pinned at his shoulder, then flashed the girl a grin.
"Goodnight, little one," he said with a wink."
И да, крутые парни не смотрят на взрывы.
