Tales From the Shadow Isles

Shadows

A simple name for a simple place. The Shadow Isles not being somewhere anyone would wish to linger, nor any mariner or pirate to stumble across, I have seen many things where the shadows of the Isles will conduct me to, but that is not the focus of this tale. No, the focus of this tale is on the shadows that speak.

The shadows converse constantly, continuously bombarding eardrums with their whispering, some say to kill and to make others bleed, others beg for mercy from whichever god they believe in. Clearly the realm claims all, I have heard prayers cried to gods and men, in ascents and languages known all over the realm. Have you guessed yet? These shadows are no mere simple creatures, but the souls of the dammed unfortunate to have ever passed into the black mist. Here they are in their true form, a thick mist full of howling screams of agony and fear. These spirits shall never know the eternal peace of rest, as I shall soon forget the agony of hearing the dammed. 

In order to describe the nature of these spirits, I shall attempt to paint before you a picture in words. Although I doubt such a mere description could ever do such a spectacle justice. The best place to begin, I should think, is the fact that such spirits are no longer separated nor do they have a human form anymore, just a mist thicker than the eye can see through. The mist almost seems to contract and expand depending on the mood of the spirits included, sometimes there are sections of the Isle that are visible, and I can truly see why some used to call this place beautiful. You could never truly understand unless you were here on these acursed Isles yourself, which I pray to any and all that will listen, that such an event never befalls you, dear reader. 

Listening to creatures come and gone and the speak of spirits who seem older than time, I have learnt somewhat of the old condition of the Isles. It used to be spoke of as being a beautiful jewel, someplace that all would come to see from all corners of Runeterra. A peaceful place partaking in no war, a safe house for those in need of aid, and a friend to all. But alas, as it always appears to be, such a beauty cannot last. 

Some say it was a man desperate for power, and others say it was something not of this World but looking for a new home, other whisper that it was something the Void itself spat back out, but I suppose the true reason will not be known unless it presents itself. But whatever caused it, someone (or thing) warped this land and used the magic flowing beneath the soil for evil. Upon leaching the magic from the ground, it appeared to have taken with it all traces of life, for now only the dead can find a home here. 

But that is all the information I have gathered, the dead don't tend to speak in coherent sentences, I presume no-one would after centuries here. But now all I can do is wait for the day when I am no longer me and I become a creature claimed by the Isles to do it's biding. I can only pray that I lose sense of myself and feeling so that I never see the monster I will become. Or maybe this is the price to pay for the magic I learned to weave here.

Greed is not worth the price paid dear reader. Don't ever come looking for greed, it brings nothing but death.