The Story of Sigil

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My people once had a history. Our creed soaked in the wetlands twixt the Ironspikes and Demacia. I had always believed that we would live and die with the marshes. I had always believed until that day, the ones with glittering skin came to us.

We knew they were ill in body and in mind. They ought to have been cast out on the ends of our staves, but our elders begged their pardon. The Creed of Rohda which governed us resounded in their command, "Compassion. Healing. Knowledge. Your path is Service. Your virtue is Forgiveness." We were to give the rejuvinating waters of our skin for their wounds and their sores.

It was the young men and young women who vanished first, followed by the children, then the infants and their mothers. The once vibrant dams no longer rang with the antics of our young ones. The deepwater became quiet, the sand devoid of footprints. Our home had become as silent as our elders. My brothers could no longer stay their hands.

I was the youngest so I was given the shortest staff and asked to protect my home. It was not shod with iron knobs like the grown men's and it did not have the bones and tassles that I loved to listen to, strung around the handles. I knew then that I had been left behind. Thrown away. Cursed.... and saved.

The ones with glittering skin took us to a cold shelter and crammed us into clammy pools of dirty water behind feezing, metal doors. Every few days, metal-robed men took one of us. That one would become like my brothers. They never came back. Some of us did not live to be taken. I once stepped upon the back of my creed-sister's corpse so I could catch a glimpse through the bars near the roof of our confines

"Creed-brother, what do you see?" A feeble voice implored me. I pondered a long while before I finally stepped back down.

"Emptiness. A long, long road of emptiness."

I could not bring myself to tell that I had seen stretched across walls the spotted skin of a mother, the mottled skin of her child, or the honored, speckled skin of our elder. We were not alive, not to the glittering-skin snatchers, not to the iron-robe-skinned takers. We were merely skins.

Compassion. Healing. Knowledge. Compassion. Healing. Knowledge. Compassion. Healing...

Every passing moment told me to rebel against my creed and my honor. What path was service to the wicked? What virtue lay in forgiving those who murdered? Every creed-brother or sister that was taken became another cycle of these questions. I was afraid. Afraid. Afraid.

I could not face my fear until the day I realized how quiet our prison became. The once cramped corners no longer wailed with the tears of children. The ledges became empty, the water devoid of ripples. The thin light that shone through the bars cast across the still surface. There were only two of us now. Him. and I. I decided that when the door opened next, it would be me.

The doors opened only moments later. They dragged me from the water and past the narrow door for my legs had become too weak and rancid to walk. Light bathed me for the first time in what felt like years. It told me that I had accomplished my duty. I had followed through the Creed of the Rohda and I would join my creed-brothers and sisters so that He could live another day.

Then, I heard a squall behind me. They had taken him too. A metal-robed man held him by the waist with his arms and webs pinned to his sides. I struggled. I fought with more might than I thought my feeble limbs contained. I fought to reach him before they took him to the knives. Still they slammed us effortlessly onto the floor, groveling before a table overflowing with glass vials and noxious fluids.

A metal-robed hand produced glass vial of green slime which he dangled before our noses. I thought this was to become the instrument of our demise, when almost comically, the slime rolled into a ball... and bounced.

"Your people have been of great assistance. Synthesizing the extract from your skins, we have traveled leaps and bounds in a short period of time." I could not see him but I could feel the dry, unclean way he formed his words. His voice grated against my rotting bones. "You are no longer needed now, so rejoice! You are free to go. Take them."

They threw us into an unknown city with only the moldy clothes on our backs. I gripped him tightly to my chest as we ran and ran and ran with eyes closed, not knowing where to go or what to do or even who we are. We knew then that we had been left behind. Thrown away. Cursed... and saved.

My people once had a history. Our creed soaked in the wetlands twixt the Ironspikes and Demacia. I had always believed that we would live and die with the marshes. The marshes are still here but my people's history lie in ashes.

Compassion. Healing. Knowledge. My path is Service... but I can never, never forgive Zaun.

Ediso Interactive Agency