Red Post Collection: Amumu, Sivir, and Skarner stories, Warwick added to Champion Update schedule, and more!

Posted on at 10:55 PM by Moobeat
[NEWS: Ascension goes live Friday in the RGM Queue!]

Tonight's red post collection includes  new introductions and stories for Sivir, Skarner, and Amumu, Warwick added to the champion update schedule, a reminder on the return of Ascension this weekend and the updated RGM schedule, a note on the Taliyah and Shurima Q&A, and more!

Shurima Stories: Sivir, Skarner, Amumu

The Shurima story page has been updated with new introductions and stories for Sivir, Skarner, and Amumu!

SIVIR: THE BATTLE MISTRESS 

“I don't care what face is on your coin, as long as it pays.” 
Sivir is a renowned fortune hunter and mercenary captain who plies her trade in the deserts of Shurima. Armed with her legendary jeweled crossblade, she has fought and won countless battles for those who can afford her exorbitant price. Known for her fearless resolve and endless ambition, she prides herself on recovering buried treasures from the perilous tombs of Shurima – for a generous bounty. With ancient forces stirring the very bones of Shurima, Sivir finds herself torn between conflicting destinies. 
Sivir learned firsthand the harsh lessons of desert life when her entire family was killed by marauding Kthaons, one of Shurima’s most feared raider tribes. In the weeks and months after the massacre, she survived by stealing food from local markets and exploring deserted ruins in search of trinkets to sell. 
Most of the ruins had long since been picked clean by thieves, but Sivir excelled at unearthing treasures others had missed. With her keen eye and relentless determination, she exposed secret passageways, solved ancient puzzles to reveal hidden catacombs, and dodged perilous traps. 
Occasionally, she persuaded other children to help her plunder tombs that would be impossible to loot alone. Armed with no more than coils of rope and candles, the malnourished waifs would descend into the cramped tunnels beneath the ruins in search of anything worth selling. 
One day, Sivir and her compatriots ventured deep into a secret tomb she swore was filled with riches beyond imagining. After many hours of exploration, they finally discovered a hidden doorway, but were crushed to find nothing more than an empty chamber. Enraged at their wasted effort, Mhyra, Sivir’s oldest companion, demanded she forfeit her role as leader. Sivir refused, and a vicious fight ensued. Mhyra was larger and stronger, and quickly overpowered Sivir before pushing her off a ledge. Hours later, Sivir awoke alone in the dark. Fighting back panic, she retraced her steps, blind and feeling her way slowly back to daylight. Once she returned to her lair, she found her traitorous friend had fled, taking everything Sivir owned with her. 
Sivir swore she would never allow herself to be betrayed again. Determined to learn to defend herself, she joined a band of sellswords led by the legendary Iha Ziharo, serving as a weapon carrier, navigator, and dogsbody for the belligerent mercenaries. 
For years, Sivir slept with a dagger tucked under her blanket. She placed no trust in Ziharo’s warriors, knowing their only loyalty was to coin, but she strived to learn all she could. Sivir trained to fight, practicing with staunch determination and sparring against the younger sellswords daily. 
Sivir’s unwavering dedication and swift-growing skill caught the eye of Iha Ziharo herself, who took Sivir under her wing - an honor few received. Over the years, Sivir became a formidable warrior, and as Iha’s sergeant, she fought against numerous armies, raiders and warring tribes. When the wars ended and the mercenaries struggled to find paying work, Sivir led expeditions into the ruins in search of Shurima’s lost treasures. 
Eventually, Sivir tired of living in Ziharo’s shadow. The domineering leader took the greatest share of the gold, and all the glory - though it was Sivir’s knowledge of Shuriman tombs that brought them much of their wealth. Worse, Ziharo refused to fight for warlords whose reputations for cruelty were at odds with her martial code of honor. But to Sivir, gold was gold, no matter how bloody the hands that paid it - morals played no part in the transaction. 
Many of the mercenaries agreed with Sivir and plotted with her to replace Ziharo as leader. The night before their coup, Ziharo learned of the plan. Outraged, she struck first, planning to turn her blade on her former student as she slept. Sivir had expected such an attack, and defeated Ziharo in a vicious knife brawl. Nevertheless, she was surprised to find she couldn’t kill her former mentor, remembering how Ziharo had taken her in when she was no more than a bitter girl with nothing to her name. Instead, she left Ziharo alone in the desert with a half-filled waterskin, a single coin and a hollow offer of good luck. 
Sivir’s warband quickly earned a fearsome reputation as warriors of renown and explorers who could find relics that had passed into legend. Desert barons, wealthy merchants and collectors of the arcane commissioned Sivir to fight their wars or recover rare, hidden treasures. Explorers willingly paid Sivir’s high price for her skill in traversing dangerous territories and navigating the ancient ruins of Shurima. Ruling chieftains hired her company to defend their lands against raiding Noxians, while warlords procured their services early in their campaigns to ensure a swift victory. 
In the Year of a Thousand Storms, the lord of an ancient Shuriman city known as Nashramae hired Sivir to seek a unique cross-shaped blade he claimed was a lost heirloom. He sent his personal guards along with her to guarantee its retrieval, and after a search that lasted many months, Sivir finally located the weapon. She pried it from the sarcophagus of a long-forgotten hero buried beneath tons of collapsed rubble with a strange sense that her entire life had been leading up to this moment. The weapon shone with gold and emeralds, and though it was ancient, its edge was as sharp as if it had been forged that day. 
Sivir was transfixed by the crossblade, feeling as if it had been waiting for her. When the captain of the Nashramae guard demanded they return to their lord with his prize, Sivir knew she could never give it up. Sivir threw the crossblade in a curved arc, and marveled as it decapitated not only the captain, but the three men behind him before returning to her hand. Never had a weapon felt so natural in her grip, so powerful to throw. She fought her way from the tomb to emerge triumphant with the Lord of Nashramae’s men dead behind her. 
Tales of Sivir’s exploits and ferocity in battle were already well-known within Shurima, but as her legend grew, her reputation spread beyond even the desert lands. In Noxus, stories of her deeds reached the ears of Cassiopeia, an ambitious noblewoman who desired a relic she believed was hidden in the heart of the desert. Cassiopeia had no shortage of coin, and hired Sivir as her guide to plunder the depths of the long lost capital of Shurima. 
Though she instinctively distrusted Cassiopeia, Sivir was not about to dismiss such a profitable expedition. As they plunged deeper into the twisting catacombs of the buried city, many of Sivir’s mercenaries were killed by a slew of deadly traps, but Cassiopeia refused to turn back. After days of endless descent into darkness, Sivir and Cassiopeia finally reached a great bas-relief depicting ancient emperors and Ascended warriors with bestial heads. Most of the buried structures they had seen were shattered from millennia spent beneath the sands, but this wall was uncannily intact. Sivir felt her blood stir as she gazed at the carvings, mesmerized by a creeping sense of recognition. In that moment of inattention, her fate was sealed. 
Taking advantage of Sivir’s distraction, Cassiopeia stepped in close and rammed a blade through her back. Sivir collapsed in agony, her lifeblood soaking into the sand. 
Cassiopeia pried Sivir’s crossblade from her grasp as her senses dimmed like a guttering candle. As warmth faded from her body, death closed in. 
But fate was not yet done with Sivir. As her lifeblood drained, her ancestor, the long-dead emperor Azir, was resurrected by the echoes of royalty within her blood. He carried her body to the Oasis of the Dawn, a sacred pool once brimming with healing waters. 
Bone-dry for thousands of years, it now overflowed with crystal water at Azir’s presence. The healing waters enveloped Sivir’s body, miraculously undoing the fatal wound dealt to her by Cassiopeia. 
With a labored gasp, Sivir opened her eyes, dazed and uncomprehending, as if dragged from a dream. A vaguely familiar face looked down at her with kindness, and Sivir blinked, unsure if she was alive or dead. All around her, spirals of dust whirled hundreds of feet in the air forming towering palaces, ornate temples, and expansive plazas. The ancient city of Shurima rose from its sandy grave in all its glory and splendor, crowned by an enormous golden disc shining brighter than the noonday sun. With Azir’s return, the ancient city was restored to its former majesty. 
Sivir had grown up hearing tales of the legendary Ascended, but thought only children and fools believed in such fantasy. Surrounded by a city that, stone by stone, restored itself from nothing, and confronted by a long-dead Emperor who spoke of his enduring bloodline and vision of a reborn kingdom, Sivir was shaken to her core. Everything she had ever believed in was cast into doubt. 
With his words still ringing in her ears, she retreated to her life as a mercenary, taking solace in the everyday realities of fighting for coin. She struggled to accept she might be the heir to a forgotten empire, and tried to put such thoughts out of her mind. Even if everything Azir said were true, she was sure no one could unite the disparate tribes of Shurima. The most powerful warlords could command small territories for a time with enough gold and warriors, but the land would never rally beneath a single banner, let alone bow to one man - even if he truly was an ancient emperor. 
As Azir strives to reestablish his once-mighty empire, Sivir is tormented by increasing doubts as to whether she can fully return to her former life. Looming forces encroach upon her world, and for better or worse, fate has given her a second chance at life. 
Sivir's throat felt like it was coated in a layer of broken glass. The cracked flesh of her lips burned. Her eyes refused to focus. I've given them more than enough time to move on. 
She leaned around the edge of the boulder. The caravan was still at the spring and showing no signs of moving on. 
Why did they have to be Kthaons? Of the many, many tribes that want her dead, the Kthaons stood out in their persistence. 
Sivir scanned the tribesmen again, looking for any sign the caravan might climb out of the old riverbed and continue its journey. She rolled her shoulders trying to judge if her muscles were up to fighting a half-dozen men. She'd have to take them by surprise to stand a chance. 
That prissy Noxian got the drop on me... 
Sivir shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Now wasn't the time for those thoughts. 
I'm becoming scattered from the lack of water. Why didn't I bring more water? 
The city had been bursting with it. Huge streams poured from statues, all at the command of an Ancient. He healed my wound and saved my life. Then he returned to rebuilding the temples around him, calling out strange words in an old dialect she could barely make sense of. Talking to himself in a dead city filled only with sand. I had to get out before that sorcerer decided to sink it all back beneath the dust – or that I owed him. 
Swallowing brought fresh agony to Sivir's throat. She looked at the spring again, a simple puddle of brown water in the center of the caravan. 
I've given them a day, she reasoned. I will die, or they will die. For a few drops of water or a few slivers of gold. That is the way of the desert. 
Sprinting toward the first guard, she readied her crossblade. Would there be enough time to reach him before he turned back around? She counted the distance. Fourteen strides. 
Twelve. Ten. He can't make a sound. Two strides. She jumped. Her blade sank completely through his neck, down into his shoulder. 
Blood erupted as she crashed down on him. Her momentum drove them behind the line of rocks on which he'd been standing. Sivir grabbed his arms. He struggled against her, refusing to accept he was already dead. The guard's blood drenched Sivir as he took a final gurgling breath. This man didn't need to die. 
Sivir thought again of Cassiopeia’s blade. That Noxian bitch sunk a blade in my back. I died. That should mean something. 
A distant rumble sounded. Horses? A sandwall collapsing? There wasn't time to wonder what it meant. Sivir crawled across the hard stones. It won't take the rest of the caravan long to notice the guard's absence. The next target was moving high along the ridge line. 
She needed to hit him before he walked away from the ledge. The shot has to be perfect. She threw the crossblade. 
It hit the second guard, cutting him in half. The flying blade arced upward, but as it reached its apex, it slowed before reversing its direction. As it flew back toward her, it clipped the neck of the third man. There wouldn't be time for another throw now – the blade completed its arc, flying down toward the center of the water. She only had to reach it in time. The maneuver was an old standby. She would catch the weapon and kill the three remaining men in a single, spinning summersault. 
But as she ran, her feet became heavy, and it seemed impossible to draw enough air into her pained lungs. Thirty strides. She had to make the distance before the second man's body hit the ground. Twenty strides. The muscles in her legs cramped, refusing to obey her commands. Fifteen strides. She found herself sliding, stumbling. No. Not yet. 
Then, sooner than she had expected, the second man's body completed its fall and impacted the rocks. The sound was impossible to miss. 
One mistake was enough. The Kthaons were a desert people. The remaining guards had weapons drawn before she took another step. 
Her crossblade hit the water between the men and her. Five strides in front of them. Ten strides from her. 
I could make it. Every reflex in Sivir's body willed her forward. Instead, she slid to a halt, nearly falling forward. 
Failing to bring enough water. Waiting too long to attack. Misjudging distances. I don't make these mistakes. Why? Some other part of Sivir's mind answered. She remembered the moment after Cassiopeia’s dagger had pierced her back – she couldn't feel the blade itself. Instead, she felt a sudden, unexpected weight that seemed to steal her breath and crush her lungs. 
"I killed three of you before you heard me," Sivir coughed. 
"You don't have a weapon," the largest of the Kthaons said. 
"Only because I didn't want your blood in the water," she lied. 
The three remaining men exchanged glances. They've recognized me. 
"A year ago, I killed your chieftain and two dozen of your finest for a bag of thin gold. It was a cheap price for their lives." She met the three men's eyes. They were spreading out from the water, attempting to flank her. 
"The gold I earned from killing your chieftain and kinsmen?" she asked. "I gambled it away in a single evening." 
"We will avenge them and your insult," the largest man responded. 
"I shouldn't have killed them," she said, "not for that gold. Don't make me kill you for a few cups of water." 
The Kthaons’ leader nervously adjusted the grip on his weapon. 
"I'm telling you I can make it to the blade before you can act," Sivir explained. "And if I run for my blade. You will die." She indicated the foul brown water. "Your lives are worth more than that." 
"Then we will die with honor," the largest man decided, though his fellows seemed less certain. 
"Did I need that weapon to kill the twenty men you want to avenge?" Sivir warned. "You are too few." 
The three men hesitated. They knew Sivir's reputation. The other two pulled the largest man away, before backing to their mounts. 
Sivir edged toward the water. 
"We will return with our tribesmen for vengeance." 
"Lots of people have tried that," she said. "Never worked out for them." 
Sivir rolled her swollen tongue against the top of her mouth, desperate for relief. Every part of her wanted to kneel down to the water and drink. I have to wait until they cross the far dune. 
As the men climbed into their saddles and rode away, the strange rumbling sounded again. It was loud and growing louder. It’s not horses or shifting sands. Sivir turned to its source and watched as a three foot wall of blue water rushed down the ancient riverbed. 
The water from the city. 
The moment before the water hit Sivir, she felt the rush of cold, damp air in front of the flood. It shocked her like an unexpected kiss. 
The first wave nearly took out her knees. The impact stung with cold, but as it enveloped her waist and legs, it became soothingly cool. Sivir laid in the water, letting it wash over her. She could feel the painful grit of the desert washing away as her hair floated weightless and free. 
I was dead. I must make that mean something."

SKARNER: THE CRYSTAL VANGUARD

“We are one. We cannot be shattered.” 
Skarner is an immense crystalline scorpion from a hidden valley in Shurima. Part of the ancient Brackern race, Skarner and his kin are known for their great wisdom and deep connection to the land, as their souls are fused with powerful life crystals which hold the living thoughts and memories of their ancestors. In an age long past, the Brackern entered hibernation to avoid untold magical destruction, but recent, threatening events have roused Skarner. As the only Brackern awake, he strives to protect his kind from those who seek to harm them. 
Long before men traversed the scorched deserts of Shurima, the very sand itself shone with primal, unchained magic. In a remote valley surrounded by steep cliffs and jagged rock formations, the age-old race of Brackern unearthed raw crystals from deep within the sand. Each of these noble creatures fused with a single stone, which retained their consciousness long after their death. 
The demise of a Brackern was a rare occurrence, as their worldly lives stretched across millennia, but even death did not signify an ending. When a creature’s mortal form perished, its life stone was buried in the valley for safekeeping until a new Brackern could uncover it. This practice protected the vulnerable crystals while preserving the wisdom of the ones who came before. 
With a finite number of stones, the young Brackern searched for the crystal meant for them, just as the consciousness within the stone beckoned to the Brackern it had chosen to inherit its magic and memories. In a sacred rite, the rock fused with crystalline flesh, imbuing the creature’s mind with memories and knowledge and flooding them with primal magic. A Brackern without a crystal would not long survive, for they lacked the strength, longevity, and power instilled by the stones. 
The young creature named Skarner spent many years searching for the crystal meant for him. Afraid he would die before finding it, he grew more persistent in his search with each passing moon. Day and night, he delved deep into the ground, digging in a methodical pattern that covered the entire valley and neighboring hills with intricate spirals. 
Skarner had all but given up when he finally felt an ancient consciousness tugging at his mind. He burrowed down, venturing ever deeper until the world’s heart warmed his shell. Days passed, but the consciousness grew ever more insistent as it urged him onward. Skarner’s pincers closed on a well-worn stone, and he heard a rasping whisper at the back of his mind. Though the voice was faint, he already felt intimately connected to its awareness, and he knew he had found his stone. 
The crystal was larger than any he had seen, and so timeworn that its glow had faded to a soft glimmer. Its surface was cracked in several places and dulled from eons buried under the ground. Skarner examined the rock with the tenderest touch, afraid of further damaging something so ancient. The dim glow within pulsed as though breathing in response to Skarner’s presence. 
Skarner began the bonding ritual, burying himself deep underground with the crystal for weeks without sustenance. Though he ached with fatigue and his limbs atrophied in starvation, he was not afraid, for the voice within the stone comforted him. When the crystal finally fused with his body, he was overwhelmed with emotion as ancient memories and wisdom permeated his thoughts. He witnessed moments of incredible joy and crushing sorrow from generations long deceased. He felt magic all around him, suffusing his body with a deep connection to the world through a low constant hum, and sensed his kind communicating in a wordless meeting of minds. 
When the cataclysmic forces of the Rune Wars began to devastate the world, the Brackern feared the turmoil would soon mark the end of their species. They resolved to hide in hibernation until humans wiped themselves out, as it seemed certain they would. Only then would it be safe to emerge from the sands once more. 
The crystalline scorpions buried themselves deep in the Shuriman desert with the youngest and most ferocious positioned closest to the surface, ready to awaken first and defend the others in case of danger. The strength Skarner gained from his ancient life stone made him more powerful than almost all of his kin, so he was one of the last of his kind to enter the long slumber. 
They slept in peaceful isolation as centuries passed before Skarner awoke from his shallow burrow in a panic. Deafening explosions shattered the ground, targeting the Brackern where they lay sleeping and stunning those closest to the surface. A band of robbers had discovered the dormant creatures and were prying crystals from crystalline flesh. Skarner, protected from the brunt of the attack by his crystal, erupted from the sand in a terrible frenzy of sharp pincers and poisonous stabs. Though their numbers all but overwhelmed him, he killed many of the thieves, and the rest fled in terror. Skarner was horrified to learn he was the only one awake, and that many of his people’s crystals had already been stolen. 
Skarner tried to revive his dormant companions, but the men had broken so many life stones in their thoughtless theft that several Brackern with damaged crystals died moments after Skarner woke them, while others would not wake at all. For weeks Skarner paced the sand above his sleeping brethren in sorrowful mourning. He was certain the crystals would quickly perish in the hands of men, and mourned their loss too. 
Yet as the sun broke over the horizon many weeks later, Skarner heard distant echoes calling in his mind. The cries were faint, but rang clear over the land. These voices of the lost stones reached out to him in terror, imploring Skarner to reconnect them with their kind. Skarner hesitated, torn as to whether he should rescue the lost crystals or continue guarding the still-living Brackern. After weeks spent erasing all traces of the excavation, he could not stand to hear the minds of his kin suffering at the hands of the violent humans, and resolved to set out to save the missing crystals. 
Skarner began the arduous task of tracking the stones, hoping no others would discover his kin beneath the sand. Though his search is lonely, he occasionally hears a lost crystal calling to him, a feeling that brings joy and anguish in equal measure. He focuses his sorrow into unshakable determination, and refuses to rest until he has recovered every last life stone. 
The softskins broke our slumber of a thousand spins. 
For many long ages, I sensed the world’s dizzying movement. Stars exploded and died above me, though I did not see them. I felt the warmth of the sun flood the sand with life. 
When my heartpulse slowed and I curled in the dry sand to warm my body for longsleep, I thought my time below would be lonely, that the earth would not respond to my touch. 
But all around me were kin. I sensed them rustling in their slumber. I listened to their silent murmurs reaching for my mind. I heard their dreamsongs of worlds upon worlds. A place without softskins, without fear or pain or doubt. A place of great peace. 
In the sand, we were all connected; we dreamed as one. Not just the singers, but all living things; the worms curling around smooth rockgrains, the molerats burrowing tunnels to birth their young, even a family of fur-soft spiderlings who rested for a night in the deepdark. 
I thought the rocks would be immobile, cold, uncaring. But they, too, were part of us. The stones were warm, and the deeper we burrowed, the closer we got to this world’s wombfire. Each time the underground boiled in rage, I was there; its tremors shook the sand until I sang back with my own anger. We are one, we are all. Your anger is as mine. 
I heard its gratitude in the raintime when wet drops soaked the sand and the earth grew fat and full. 
When the softskins came, the ground knew only pain. Our songs became cries as we were torn and broken and scattered. I heard the sorrowsong as the softskins unearthed my kin.  
They tore crystal namestones from our bodies as we screamed, louder than earthshakes, and stole them away. I sang long into the many nights, sang until my heart was empty and cold, but they did not return. 
Today, I am alone in the aboveplace. Today, the dry wind burns my skin. With every step, the sand grinds against me in protest. I fight my urge to bury myself down, down, to go inside the earth’s deepdark. I am not apart. I am part of the one, not beyond. 
From far away, a song of painfear reaches me. The tone is faint, but I recognize the melody, and I send out a song of my sorrow. A note of hope rings back in my mind, clear and fine. Almost, almost. 
Another set of stars whirl overhead, and again. The endlessly blinking universe stares down at me. I feel moltenheavy with the weight of above. I should be down, but I am here, alone in the cold air. 
I have been above for three moons. A blink of an eye, a sliver of existence. A warming murmur passes silently underground — yet in the aboveplace, I feel the eternity of alone. 
Ahead, I hear softskins. They do not sing, they shout. Their tones scratch and clash without melody or cohesion. They burn meatflesh over a falsefire. Its fat smokes the air and I choke on the stench. Why would they do such a thing? The ground is plenty, plenty for all. 
The melody calls to me weakly. Almost. The namestone is close. 
I must explain; the softskins do not understand. Their race is but three turns young; they have only begun to dig; they have barely uncoiled the beginnings of underneath. They speak, but I have not yet heard them sing. They will learn. 
I sing in their minds a song of the calmland, so they feel the great beauty that awaits us when we sleep. I sing for my dead kin, so they know what they stole. 
The softskins do not sing back. They do not seem to hear me so my voice grows louder in their heads. I sing for our namestones, wrongfully taken. Bring them back, they are ours. 
You murdered one cluster already. Do not deny our future also. I sing a plea. Let me carry the crystals to the deepdark, so they can bind with us again. I sing to heal this tearing wound. 
The softskins are still shouting to each other. One of them releases a rhythmic sound… a laugh? I feel as though my body is being crushed by the air, so I burrow. I am comforted by the weight around me. 
How can they not see the ruin they’ve caused? You are heartless, you are crude. How could you sever us like this? 
My husk glows skywhite with rage. I will not let these softskins destroy us. 
I hear them scream as I erupt from the sand. I summon energy from the ground and store the power in my namestone. A softskin throws a splinterblade and it hits my leg, shattering on my lucent shell. You sing only death. I, too, can sing this song. I release sunbright energy and sharp crystals burst from the ground, impaling flesh and cracking spines. 
The falsefire spreads in their panic. Their crude structures of twig and hide burn through the darkness, carrying softskins into the flames. Smoke rises in an offering to the blinking stars. Softskins run from the chaos, but I am faster. I circle around them and lash out at a straggler, slicing his middle apart with my claw. I crush another underfoot. Lifeblood stains the sand. I roar in grief, not a song but a cry. Your blood is not worthy to touch the one and the all. 
My tail lashes left and right and I knock the softskins down. I summon the sunbright once again, and more crystals spike from the sand to pierce flesh. So you can hear my song, after all... 
I am crude like them. I am violence. I am death. 
When I dream I see only rage. I am no longer worthy of the deepdark. But I cannot stop. 
Only one remains. The softskin fumbles with a glowing thing of wood and metal. She means to kill me. A false sun blazes from the thing and punctures my hardshell, burning my insides. The light reflects inside my crystal, paralyzing me. I stagger in agonizing pain. I cannot move. I am broken. I am ended. 
A fading song rings in my mind. Almost, almost. We are one. 
She aims her weapon again and I shake with horror as I see the paling namestone strapped to it. Her weapon drains our life energy. They are wasting crystals to power their terrible song. I feeI I will burst in fury and pain, but instead I pull strength from the ground. I cry out and lash with my sting, impaling the softskin as she writhes like a worm. I grasp the weapon and crush it with a claw. It crumbles to dust, leaving only the skywhite namestone. 
I hold the crystal in my mouth where it will be safe. I am here, we are one. 
I curl my stinger and she falls. Do not return. Do not take our namestones. We are not yours. We are all. We belong only to the deepdark. 
I leave her alive and she runs. She lives not with my mercy, but because I know she has heard my dreamsong, and she has no choice but to sing."

AMUMU: THE SAD MUMMY 

“Solitude can be lonelier than death.”

A lonely and melancholy soul from ancient Shurima, Amumu roams the world in search of a friend. Cursed by an ancient spell, he is doomed to remain alone forever, as his touch is death and his affection ruin. Those who claim to have seen him describe Amumu as a living cadaver, small in stature and covered in bandages the color of lichen. Amumu has inspired myths, folklore, and legends told and retold for generations – such that it is impossible to separate truth from fiction. 
The hardy folk of Shurima agree upon certain things: the wind always blows from the west in the morning; a full belly on a new moon is an ill omen; buried treasure hides under the heaviest of rocks. They do not agree, however, about the tale of Amumu. 
One oft-told story links Amumu to the first great ruling family of Shurima who succumbed to a disease that corrupted flesh with hideous speed. The youngest child, Amumu, was quarantined in his chambers and befriended a servant girl who heard his cries through the walls. She regaled the lonely heir with courtly news and stories of her grandmother’s mystic powers. 
One morning, the girl brought word that Amumu’s last remaining brother had passed away, making him Emperor of Shurima. Saddened that he had to bear this news alone, she unlocked his door and ran inside to comfort him face to face. Amumu threw his arms around her, but as they touched, he fell back, realizing he had condemned her to the same terrible fate as his family. 
Upon the girl’s death, her grandmother placed a twisted blight on the young emperor. In her mind, Amumu had as good as murdered her kin. As the curse took effect, Amumu was trapped in his moment of suffering like a locust ensnared in honeyed amber. 
A second tale whispers of another crown prince, one given to bouts of petulance, cruelty, and murderous vanity. In this telling, Amumu was crowned Emperor of Shurima at a young age, and convinced he was blessed by the sun, he forced his subjects to worship him as a god. 
Amumu sought the fabled Eye of Angor, an ancient relic entombed in a gilded crypt, said to grant eternal life to whoever looked upon it with an unflinching heart. He hunted the treasure for years with a host of slaves who carried him through labyrinthine catacombs, sacrificing themselves to traps so the emperor could continue without hindrance. Amumu finally reached the cyclopean golden archway, where upon dozens of his stonemasons labored to breach the sealed door. 
As the young emperor rushed within, determined to look into the Eye of Angor, his slaves seized their chance and sealed the stone doorway behind him. Some say the child emperor endured in the darkness for years, his loneliness driving him to insanity and causing him to claw at his own skin, which he was forced to wrap in bandages. His life was extended by the power of the Eye as he meditated on his past transgressions, but the gift was a double edged sword, for he was cursed to remain forever alone. 
When a series of devastating earthquakes shattered the foundations of his tomb, the emperor escaped with no knowledge of how much time had passed, seeking to undo the suffering he had caused in life. 
Yet another story of Amumu tells of the first and last Yordle ruler of Shurima, who believed in the innate goodness of the human heart. To prove his detractors wrong, he swore an oath to live as a beggar until he made one true friend, convinced his people would rally to help their fellow Shuriman. 
Though thousands walked by the disheveled Yordle, not one stopped to offer a helping hand. Amumu’s sadness grew until he eventually died of a broken heart. But his death was not the end, for some swear the Yordle still wanders the desert, forever searching for someone who might restore his faith in humanity. 
These stories, despite their differences, are woven with parallels. Whatever the circumstances, Amumu is doomed to exist in a broken state of emptiness, eternally alone and friendless. Fated to forever search for a companion, his presence is cursed and his touch is death. On long winter nights when the fire is never allowed to burn low, the sad mummy can sometimes be heard weeping in the desert, despairing that he’ll never know the solace of friendship. 
Whatever Amumu searches for – atonement, kinship, or a single act of kindness – one thing is as certain as the western wind at dawn: he has yet to find it. 
“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.

Be sure to check out the Shurima page for Azir, Xerath, Nasus, and Renekton stories and check back in the future as Rammus and Taliyah still have champion introduction and stories to be released!

Warwick Added to Champion Update Schedule 

The champion update schedule has been updated to include Warwick for a visual and gameplay update!
Over on the boards, Reav3 noted:
"CertainlyT is the Designer on it. Bravo Ray is the Concept Artist."
He also commented that Warwick's update will be the same level as Poppy, Sion, and Taric:
"It's a full Sion/Poppy/Taric level VGU"

While we don't have a time estimate for Warwick yet, we've previously heard both Ryze and Yorick's champion updates should be released in 2016

RGM Queue - Ascension on Friday!

ASCENSION return this weekend in the rotating game more queue! Look for things to start up around NOON (12:00) on your local server's time

The updated rotating game mode schedule is out! Following this week's return to Ascension, we have Ultra Rapid Fire next weekend then  the newly revealed Definitely Not Dominion making it's debut  the week after that and Legend of the Poro King returning at the start of June!


Taliyah Q&A on boards

With Taliyah currently testing on the PBE, several Rioters who worked on her are over on the boards answering questions on gameplay, art, story, and more!

Here's ADillonMostDirty with an introduction to the Taliyah Q&A:
"Hey everyone!

We've gathered a bunch of Rioters from the Taliyah team for some Q&A about the Stoneweaver! Whether you're interested in Taliyah's gameplay, story, or art, ask away and we'll be happy to answer!

On hand for questions today we have:

Daniel "ZenonTheStoic" Klein - Designer
Ariel "Thermal Kitten" Lawrence - Writer
Curtis "C3Sound" Chrun - Sound Designer
Jeremy "Riot Shadowstorm" Dempster - Dev Manager
Hing "Hdot" Chui - Concept Artist
Nick "nickstravaganza" Matthews - Animator
Jason"Riot Keyserito" Keyser - VFX Artist
Kacee "Iniquitee" Granke - Producer
Janelle "Riot Stellari" Jimenez - Promotion

Check out these links if you need to get up to speed:

 [At the time of posting, this Q&A is currently in progress so check back in to our next red post collection for a round up of the answers!] 

 To hold you over, here's a few interesting answer from the Q&A:

Shurima Story Q&A #2 on boards

With the new Sivir, Skarner, and Amumu stories out, the team is back on the boards for another Q&A!

Here's ADillonMostDirty with an introduction to the second Shurima story Q&A:
"Hey folks!

We've nabbed a few members of the Narrative and Foundations teams for some Q&A about all the new champion stories that have hit the Shurima story page! Whether you're interested in Shurima, its champions, or the latest thinking behind League's background, ask away and they'll be happy to answer!

On hand for questions today we have:
  • Anthony "Ant in Oz" Reynolds - Foundations Lead
  • Ryan "Riot Rubinio" Rubin - Foundations Dev Manager
  • Scott "Jaredan" Hawkes - Narrative Lead
  • Graham "Dinopawz" McNeil - Senior Writer
  • Chanel "Riot Tiger Lily" Dawnee - Writer / Editor
  • Rayla "Jellbug" Heide - Writer
[At the time of posting, this Q&A is currently in progress so check back in to our next red post collection for a round up of the answers!] 

REMINDERS

Last up we have a few reminders on current and upcoming promotions!

1 comment

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