-Motivations-

Part 1: "Mix mix swirl mix."

"ONE HOUR UNTIL SUMMONING."

The loud boom of the speakers drowns for an instant the constant bubbling sound that fills the room. In it's center, standing by three tables covered in beakers, vials and other implements of alchemy, a bandage-wrapped man looks up for the barest of moments before returning to his work.

"… -two-hundred milligrams of- … -three parts night-bane powder to two parts whisper-seed extract- … -heat until just below boiling- …"

His mind ran over the complex formula time and again as his fingers deftly prepared it from the ingredients on the tables before him. It was one of his first mixtures, taught by a great master of the craft. Focusing on the original recipe was one of the ways he had found to relax while working, even though often the work he prepared was nothing like that original, simple brew of death…

/"You will do well to remember, boy, the effects of whisper-seed extract on the lungs. As a staple ingredient in the killing-gases we prepare, you'll be working with it often."

"Yes, master."

"Now, can you tell me what properties whisper-seed has, while still unrefined?"

The young boy, barely in his teens, doesn't hesitate for even a moment.

"None, master."

The grizzled old man, face pockmarked by the effects of working for years with dangerous chemicals, allows himself to smile.

"And why is that?"

"Because only when refined and extracted does the essence of whisper-seed reveal it's true potential, master."

"And that potential is?"

"Rapid and extensive scarification of the lungs when inhaled in a vaporous state, in small quantities. In larger quantities a process of active carbonification of the lung-tissue occurs. Victims are often described as having had their lungs turn to ash."

"Very good, boy. Keep at it and you'll be taking over my position in no time."

"Yes, master."/

That things had changed soon after, revealing his former master's words to be somewhat prophetic was a fact that no longer crossed the alchemist's mind.

"… -amplify the effect though distillation- …"

That years working for the armies of Noxus, supplying them with the finest and deadliest chemicals and poisons had left him a scarred and bandaged wreck, far worse off then his former master, was another fact that troubled him not in the slightest.

"… -prepare a heating mechanism to vaporize the mixture at a moment's notice, strapping it to the bottom of the receptacle and then- …"

That his original desires of wealth and security had long since eroded, to be replaced with the pure thrill of seeing his work in action; of seeing how quickly or slowly his potions and mists took hold, how widely or selectively they could kill, was the last fact that had long since led to a simple truth.

/ "And this, boy, is something we supply to our own troops. A mixture from the far north, used by the warriors of those lands to lend themselves the strength of a dozen men at the cost of their own sanity. You would do well to remember, however, to treat it with the utmost caution. Our benefactors know all too well to only equip expendable soldiers with it, and our minds are far too valuable to risk with self-experimentation. You understand?"

The boy eyes the red-tinted bottles with a different expression to the craftsman's respect with which he had treated all the other works he undertook under his master's guidance. It was almost like finally understanding a hunger he had always experienced but had never really been able to put a name to. Until now.

"Of course, master."/

"FIVE MINUTES UNTIL SUMMONING."

"… mix mix…"

The boy who had watched attentively as he was taught the art of death had, in his own way, died.

"… swirl, mix…"

"FOUR MINUTES UNTIL SUMMONING."

And what had remained, surviving even though it's body was laced with enough venom to slay a dozen lesser men, was something that in it's own turn lived off of death.

/The first time he had seen his work in action he had laughed, delighted in the death and destruction. His alchemical creations, works that sometimes took only days to prepare could eradicate what had taken decades to grow and mature. The young, the old, the strong and the weak. They were all equally vulnerable to his works.

The boy laughed as the master watched with thinly veiled dissatisfaction./

"THREE MINUTES UNTIL SUMMONING."

"I hear you…"

The man secures a large glass jar filled with a green substance to his own back, then picks up several smaller bottles filled with the red mixture he had been working on and ties them to his belt.

/ "We don't do this because we enjoy it, boy. We do this because there is a need for it to be done, and we are the best at it. Everything else is secondary to that. Money, power, influence. All of it is secondary to the simple need for the work to be done. I hope you understand that"

Perhaps for the first time, the boy looks at his master with something approaching contempt.

"Of course, master Warwick."/

"TWO MINUTES UNTIL SUMMONING."

"It's nearly time…"

He walks over to a one of the tiny room's walls, where a massive tower-shield, worn and battle-scarred, lay propped-up near a grime-encrusted window. With no small amount of effort, he manages to strap it to his right arm. The weight of it and the large jar almost tips him over, and after a small pause to regain his balance, he uncorks one of the red bottles and takes the smallest sip he can from it. Almost instantly he seems to change, the weight forgotten in an instant.

"ONE MINUTE UNTIL SUMMONING. ALL NOXIAN CHAMPIONS, PREPARE FOR DEPLOYMENT."

The man lets out a roar of laughter as his mind clouds under the effect of the berserker-brew. He scarcely feels the magic of the Summoning filling his begin, nor the telltale rush of air as space itself is displaced. The faintest glimmer of conscious thought surfaces, and he has time to utter one final sentence.

"How about a drink?"