LRSL Finals Preview

LRSL eSports

20 Posts

August 30 2017 18:15 GMT

Danse Avec le Diable

The air was thick. Smoke billowed across the crack stone floor, rich with the scents of cinnamon, cloves and lavender. Durn dared not look up as he prostrated himself amid the haze. He could sense their eyes upon him. It was in their name that he had spilled blood. For they alone held the key to his ascendancy.

The first task was simple. Bringing him the braid of a Protoss. They told him the next foe would be a challenge, but with their magic on his side the fates aligned in his favor. The third barely troubled him. He returned victorious bearing the heart of Koreaboo. Next were the fingers of a writer and finally the femur of a countrymen. He had collected all the ingredients and now stood on the threshold of greatness. He had done what they said. The moment was nigh. Only one battle remained.

“Durn,” a voice like acid melting metal hissed. He winced, suppressing a shudder. He waited for the speaker to continue. “You have done well. You have killed in our name. Much discord has been sown.”

“Your journey is nearly complete,” the second added. This one grumbled like thunder. He had seen only silhouettes. A massive form cloaked in shadows. “You have proven to be a worthy servant.”

“I only wish for greatness,” Durn replied obsequiously.

“Yes, that has always been clear.” The final voice was accompanied by the swish of a robe. Durn dared not raise his face, not even as the footsteps approached. “You have earned our trust. You have betrayed all those you hold dear and spilled blood from all over the world. You have earned one final privilege. To learn the identity of the men you serve." Le Conseil des Trois, most deadly of all fate’s agents. Capable of manipulating the present and weaving the ideal future. They were said to be demons. Devils. Not gods. But their power was absolute and it was power he craved. Durn raised his gaze. Slowly. Inching higher towards the weak glow of the torches lining the crypt. Just to speak with le Conseil des Trois was a fatal pact. To look upon them invited death. As the trio of faces came into view, his breath caught in his throat. To the left, a thin man, his back hunched, face littered with scars. Mvp himself. The greatest ever. At his side, MC, smirking from behind glasses that glinted a flickering orange. And finally, sOs, standing tall before him. The ultimate incarnation of chaos.

“Now you know our faces,” sOs intoned. A smile flashed. Durn felt chills run down the base of his spine. “You have done all we asked. Now we will grant you one final wish.” Durn swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. He straightened his back, staring up into sOs’ dark eyes.

“I want to take the form of a Protoss so that I may vanquish my foe,” he declared.

“And so you shall. Nothing will deny you the victory you seek.” Durn grinned as the smoke billowed. It rose higher and higher until it had eclipsed his vision. His throat burned and his eyes teared, but all he could do would cackle madly. Everything he ever wanted would come true. Nothing could stop him.

An End to the Madness

Red. It’s all he saw. All he remembered. Blood. The coppery taste. The dizzying smell. It was slick on his skin. Hot. It’s all he saw. All he remembered.

Luolis clambered over the final corpse. An American. He had fought. Not well. He had not died well either. He had made sure of it. The trail of death stretched miles long. A haze of calculated slaughter. In his mind he saw tanks, flying transports and legions of marines. In truth there was only him. A maelstrom of madness. Driven for a single purpose. Revenge.

He had taken it all from him. The damned Frenchman. Fortune was on his side. What man could oppose the very universe? He had no choice. He pushed onward.

Ahead an arena. All metal. Glistening. It was pristine. The perfect grounds to claim vengeance. He waited there. Demanding challenge. Durn. A despot among despots. Fiend among fiends. He had slaved himself to chance. Tossing aside all vestiges of humanity in the pursuit of power. He had taken so much. It could not stand.

Luolis mounted the path. Walking slowly. In his head his footfalls were just one of millions as marines paraded forth. The ground shook with the tread of tanks. Above the sky hummed with rotors and engines. They were with him.

He was alone. All he had was revenge.

The gates loomed. He had done much to reach this point. A pair of victories from which he had emerged completely unscathed. Durn would be a much sterner test. He reveled in the opportunity. Blood would be spilled. His and his opponent’s.

He was standing tall. The battlefield lay arrayed before him. It was here the tale would be written. He looked up, braving the harsh sunlight. There he was. At the peak of the staircase. Lord of his domain. A smirk. So that’s what Durn thought of him. Another lamb to the slaughter. Durn descended.

Luolis looked back. He was alone. He was alone, but he was prepared. He knew what he was up against and he would not be caught off guard a second time. He drew his blade. He set its point into the sand of the arena.
They stood on level ground. Ready to do battle once more. This was it. It was time.

“We both knew it would come to this,” Durn said calmly. “Didn’t we, Luolis?”

Luolis charged.

Prediction:

Durn 4-3 Luolis

Writer: Mizenhauer
Editor: The Spirit of Tzuyu
Graphics: Hexhaven

See you next season, boys