|The Master Tactician|
|Release Date:||October 5th, 2010|
|Real Name:||Jericho Swain|
|Health:||525 (+ 90)|
|Health Regen:||7 (+ 0.65)|
|Mana:||468 (+ 28.5)|
|Mana Regen:||8 (+ 0.8)|
|Attack Damage:||58 (+ 2.7)|
|Attack Speed:||0.625 (+ 2.11%)|
|Armor:||22.72 (+ 4)|
|Magic Resist:||30 (+ 0.5)|
- Previous Bio
- League Judgement
|Born into a patrician family, one of many to exist since the first walls were raised around Noxus, Jericho Swain seemed destined for a life of privilege. The noble houses had played a key role in Boram Darkwill’s rise to power, stoking rhetoric that their proud heritage was the nation’s greatest strength.
However, many hungered for greater influence, plotting against Darkwill in a secret cabal united by nothing more than the symbol of a black rose. Uncovering their intrigue, Swain personally executed the most prominent conspirators. Among them were his own parents, whose whispers of a “pale woman” had first alerted him of the danger to Noxus, which he valued more than house or kin.
They sought a power, a shapeless voice cackling in the darkness of the Immortal Bastion. Something like a raven’s caw…
For exposing the cabal, Swain was granted a commission in the Noxian army, far from anything he had ever known. There, he learned firsthand that the empire was not strong because of Noxians, as he had believed, but because of the way it could unite all men in spite of their origins. On the front lines, a foreign slave could be the equal of a highborn noble.
But still, Swain found only darkness in the wake of each battle. Clouds of carrion crows…
After securing the western borders, Swain’s own reputation was secured in Shurima, where his forces raised countless noxtoraa above the desert sands. Yet, in time, it became clear that greed was the sole purpose driving the empire forward. Fighting wars on too many fronts, lusting over magical relics, the aging Boram Darkwill was clearly growing unhinged.
When Noxus invaded Ionia, Darkwill began to move even more brazenly, retasking entire warbands to scour the land for anything rumored to extend a mortal lifespan. With Swain’s forces depleted, it became nearly impossible to engage the enemy. Finally, at the Battle of the Placidium, after luring the local militia into what should have been a trap, Swain’s warhost was overrun. His veterans were routed, and Swain was gravely wounded, his knee shattered, Ionian blades cleaving through his left arm.
As he lay on the verge of death, a raven approached to feed, and Swain felt an old, familiar darkness press upon him again. But he would not let it take him. He could not. Staring into the the bird’s eye, he saw reflections of the evil strangling the heart of Noxus. A black rose. The pale woman... and her puppet emperor. Swain realized that he had not defeated the hidden cabal, and they had betrayed him to what should have been his death, after seducing Darkwill, the man they failed to overthrow.
All this was glimpsed, not in the mind of a raven, but something more. The power his parents had been seeking, the demonic eyes blazing in the dark…
Cast out of the military for his “failure,” considered nothing more than a cripple, Swain set about uncovering what truly lay within the Immortal Bastion—an ancient entity, preying upon the dying and consuming their secrets, as it had attempted to consume his own. Swain stared into that darkness, seeing what even it could not: a way to wield it.
Though his meticulous preparations took many years, Swain and his remaining allies seized control of Noxus in a single night. Physically restored by the demon, he crushed Darkwill in full view of his followers, leaving the throne shattered and empty.
Swain’s vision for the future of Noxus is one of strength through unity. He has pulled back the warhosts from Darkwill’s unwinnable campaigns and, with the establishment of the Trifarix, ensured that no individual can rule unopposed. He embraces any who will pledge themselves to the empire—even the Black Rose, though he knows, in secret, they still plot against him.
Gathering knowledge as the demon did before him, Swain has foreseen far greater dangers lurking just beyond. However, many Noxians secretly wonder if the darkness they face will pale in comparison to the dark things Swain has done…
The sacrifices are only beginning, for the good of Noxus.
| "I have learned enough to detest all men. Only nations may be revered."
|THE BLACK POWDER PLOT
He arrived at the camp only moments before the strategy council was to begin, flanked by a small honor guard, each handpicked from the Trifarian Legion. They remained at the entrance as I watched him approach.
Some men cast a shadow greater than themselves, but few could bring a darkness such as this, one that circled above us and hungrily cawed. In a way, the ravens that seemed to follow him around the camp were a grim reminder of every warrior’s fate, the tattered cloth in their beaks a match for the state of our own banners. Yet, as he strode into the remains of the war tent, I realized I had not prepared myself for how truly mortal he looked.
There was grey in his hair, framed by a crimson sky choking on ash. His battle-worn armor gave way to a functional coat, and he kept his arms tightly within its folds—as I imagined one of his lineage might. I smiled, for he was still, at his heart, a gentleman. He wore no signs of rank beyond the telltale scars of a soldier who had seen his share of bloodshed. There were many gathered now for the council who demanded more fear and respect, swaying their warhosts with powerful displays of strength. Each of them seemed more than capable of breaking the man before us.
But, somehow, this was the man who led us all. The Grand General of Noxus.
Looking at him, I could feel there was something I could not place, no matter how closely I looked. Something truly unknowable, perhaps? Perhaps it was because there was something unknowable about this man, that so many flocked to his side. Whatever the draw, Jericho Swain stood before us now, and it was far too late for me to turn back.
Five warhosts had marched onto the Rokrund Plain, but it had been only a matter of weeks before the locals had shattered our positions. They blasted through our hastily-constructed berms with explosive powder, mined from hills that seemed even more barren than those of home. Disaster had built upon disaster, until Swain himself had no choice but to intervene. I had made sure of that.
For months, I had prepared. I had sent warmasons deep into the mines. I had mapped every detail, every conceivable twist of the land… and the fates upon which Noxus now balanced, the whispers that gave each moment shape…
My ear itched at the memory of the pale woman’s words. Of the moment she first commanded me, and gave voice to our plot.
Everything was in place. I had accounted for it all. Here, where the earth opened into a maze of canyons impossible to escape, I and I alone would determine the future of the empire.
After all, was that not what Swain had called upon this council to do?
“My trusted generals,” Swain said finally. The power in his voice rang out like the drawing of a blade. He paused, as if giving us a moment to test ourselves against its keen edge. “Tell me how Noxus may prevail.”
“There are twelve war-barques here, in the hills,” Leto began, pointing to a spot on the map already worn white by his attention, “each drawn by a basilisk. Send them before the warbands, and we’ll be marching over the enemy dead. Those beasts would rut with a hedge of rusty spears if we let them.”
He smiled, pleased at his own cunning, but Swain was more concerned with the wine being poured into his glass.
Will it be poison? his eyes seemed to ask, as he peered around the table. I stared at my reflection in his armor. I would betray nothing of my intent.
“We can scarcely control the basilisks ourselves,” Swain finally murmured, carefully regarding the fine Ionian vintage. “Imagine even a single explosive, dropped by a sapper within earshot of the beasts. And then tell me, in your imagination, who runs first—the basilisks with their tails between their legs? Or your vaunted warhost?”
“We scorch the earth then,” Maela petitioned before Leto could respond, the words flying wildly from her mouth. “Set fire to the pitch they’ve laid to burn on our advance. Drive them out of those damn mines.”
Swain sighed. “We came here for the very earth you would burn. Though I suppose it is too much to expect you to know the uses of saltpetre.” He swirled the wine in his glass, betraying a hint of disappointment. “All you have done so far is bury your own men with it.”
“The redblades are still sharp,” Jonat spat impatiently from the shadows where he lurked, the darkness seeming almost bright against his Shuriman skin. “We’ll enter the mines after dusk, take out their leaders. Clean or messy. Doesn’t matter.”
“An admirable strategy,” Swain laughed. “But those leaders are not soldiers. Not yet. Our enemy here merely follows whomever bellows the loudest. Kill one, and there will be three bellowing by morning.”
I laughed, nodding to the frowning leader of the redblades. “For a moment, I was afraid you’d find a way for us to actually win, Jonat.”
Silence fell around the table. The candles were burning low beside the maps.
This was my moment. The pale woman would be pleased. I would say her name as I sent our Grand General to oblivion.
“The truth is, you cannot win this battle,” I continued. “No one can fight death. Not even the ruler of Noxus. Darkwill showed us that.”
Swain and the others watched as I carefully drew the flint striker from my tunic. The fuse line was already in my other hand. Leto, aging hero of the Siege of Fenrath, bristled.
“Granth, what are you doing?” he growled, glancing down at the crude demolition charge I had carefully positioned under the table, barely an hour before. “You would threaten the Grand General? This is treason.”
Still, none of them dared approach me. I held the striker over the fuse, ready.
Except… someone was laughing. It took me a moment to realize who it was.
“And there, General Granth is the only one who has the right of it,” Swain chuckled, smoothing this wrinkles from his coat. “He alone understands. The rest of you, you see a battle and ask what you must do to avoid defeat. But some battles cannot be won. Sometimes, the only strategy is to burn. To charge into the flames, knowing full well you will die, but that twenty thousand march behind you. And that behind them, there is a greater power.”
He let his coat fall open, to reveal… To… reveal…
“Granth and I,” he said with a cruel smile, “we always look for what must be sacrificed in order to win.”
Maela lunged for my trembling hands. Leto too. But it was Swain’s inhuman grip that clamped around my throat, hefting me from the ground, the unlit fuse forgotten.
“If only you could tell her yourself how you failed,” the Grand General whispered, his voice rumbling with the wrath of eons. “If only she, too, could heed the wisdom of the dead.”
I tried to scream then, to confess it all. To somehow beg for forgiveness.
But there is nothing now, save for the soft murmur of whispers. I spill my secrets, this tale, into your ears. Fading like the rustling of wings, as the raven cries its carrion caw…
|The earliest account of Swain's existence comes from a Noxian infirmary doctor's notes. According to them, Swain limped into the ward without cry or complaint; his right leg was snapped in half, with bone protruding from the skin. A small, scowling bird seemed affixed to his shoulder. The doctor gawked in horror as the young adolescent answered questions about his health and age with a calm, even stare. Even behind the echoing crack as the sand counterweights reset his tibia, Swain's measuring gaze never flickered, nor did his eyes twitch from the pop of his fibula. He refused the doctor's recommendation of magical treatment for the leg's inoperable damage, requesting only a spare crutch before shuffling away. He next surfaced in documents from the Noxian military, although it is evident that they are incomplete. Normally a crippled boy would be turned away in shame from Noxus' proud legion, but the records indicate his first designation was that of a ranking officer.
The men who've served under him (and survived) have remained in his charge with unshakable faith and loyalty. He leapt through the High Command's hierarchy, often ascending when superiors requested demotions to join his unit. A cunning strategist, Swain was decorated after every battle he fought, regularly hobbling in contemplation at the front of the assault. His rise to power seemed unceasing until he was suddenly removed from the order of battle prior to the Ionian Invasion - a bewildering decision which reeked of bureaucratic subversion. If Swain was upset by the events which unfolded, he never revealed it. His face was so implacable that it was popularly rumored to be a mask, disguising something utterly inhuman beneath. More controversy surrounded the bird that never left his shoulder, whose name he whispered only to it.
| "If you haven't yet lost the ability to ask, you may not yet ask for relief."
Date: 4 October, 20 CLE
Swain arches his neck toward the words that hang over the massive double doors. “The truest opponent lies within.”
Swain’s voice sounds surprisingly robust for such a seemingly frail figure. His uniform – more robe than military dress – is wrapped tightly about him, especially around his face. He stands crookedly; he leans on a cane to support himself, but not overly so. It does not seem out of place to see a strange-looking raven perched on his shoulder. Perhaps this is to whom Swain is speaking.
“Let’s see who the League believes my truest opponent is – shall we?”
The raven nods its head in affirmation.
Swain deftly raps on the double doors with the head of his cane. They split, revealing blackness within. The engraved panthers along either side of the double doors point inward.
There is a slight smirk on his face as he enters.
The ink on the Noxian and Demacian armistice had been but a few years dry before the first “incident” took place between the powerful city-states. It was right in the midst of that botched mission, at the moment of execution, where Swain now found himself at. He could see the platform where the young prince was standing, his back turned, oblivious to his plight. The poison-bolted hexbow felt heavy in Swain’s hands.
“I am impressed. I didn’t expect it to be so real.”
He scanned the darkened balcony overlooking where the Demacian royals were standing. The cold night air was brisk. Swain breathed, inhaling deeply. “And accurate. This is nearly intoxicating.”
“What is, Swine?” A commanding voice mocked the Noxian. Jarvan IV, the Exemplar of Demacia, Crown Prince of the same, now stood on the balcony. His presence lorded over Swain. Jarvan was no longer the thirteen-year old child prince that Swain had been sent to dispatch. “How’s the leg?”
“You even know about that. Powerful,” Swain commented, raising his cane to his chin, “but, alas, not powerful enough for me, summoner. Enough.”
Jarvan looked stunned, and just a little bit confused.
“I do not play games – I make them. We are both aware of what I think happened during the mission you’re recreating here. You know how I truly feel about my weaknesses. You clearly know who I am, seeing as how you’re so blatantly ransacking my memories.” Swain happily leered at Jarvan. “Unless I am mistaken, this should satisfy half of your prerequisite needs for a champion’s entry into the League.”
“It does?” a less-commanding Jarvan asked. His countenance was considerably less Demacian now. He paused for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, perhaps it does. We acknowledge your power, Swain of Noxus.”
The Demacian prince was no longer standing before Swain. Where he had stood there was now an older, strikingly beautiful woman in a purple summoner’s robe. The robe was highly ornate, unlike most of the other robes Swain had seen in his time. The female summoner bowed. “We would ask, however, that you please honor the League with a formal acknowledgement.”
Swain chuckled and nodded. “High Councilor Vessaria Kolminye – I am honored. I was not aware that someone of your stature conducted screenings personally. Is there a chance I could expect you to personally summon me into a battle arena?” Swain was clearly enjoying this exchange.
“Charming, as always, Master Tactician.” The High Councilor smiled thinly. “Your formal acknowledgement, if you would be so kind.”
Swain bowed deeply, kicking his cane out with a flourish. “Of course. With all due respect.”
The Noxian clutched his cane to stand straight. “You would ask of me how it feels to share my mind with a summoner. As you can see, I face little challenge in managing such a relationship. While my secrets are laid bare to the summoner that calls upon me, I know that they would not be used against me by the League. Such a violation of trust is against everything the League stands for... especially in these most tense of times when the League needs the cooperation of its client city-states.”
High Councilor Kolminye nodded approvingly. “Thank you, and yes – the knowledge exchanged in the bond is private between champion and summoner. You have nothing to fear.”
“Nor do you.” Swain bowed again, keeping his eyes locked on the High Councilor.
A tense pause was broken by the High Councilor. “Why do you want to join the League, Jericho Swain?”
Swain took the question in. The slight smug look that he had worn throughout the entire Judgment was gone. He stared straight into High Councilor Kolminye’s eyes. “To become the next ruler of Noxus, of course.” Swain pointed the head of his cane at the High Councilor. “The League will help me accomplish this.”
“The League does not arbitrarily choose sides in the matters of the city-states of Valoran, nor does it –”
Swain put his index finger to his lips. “You know what I mean... don’t you, Vessaria?”
The High Councilor paused once more. “Yes, I do. But you’ll have to earn the influence you need. It won’t come easily.” The High Councilor permitted herself the slightest of sneers. “Especially for you.” Her eyes were as two red embers, flickering intensely. “But that is not all, is it, Master Tactician?”
Swain nodded. “Indeed, it is not. Your Judgment... it is quite the ritual. It is more powerful than I had given you credit for.” He leaned in to the High Councilor’s left ear, a breath’s distance away.
Swain’s voice was soft, but every word hung on the air as he spoke. “I want to kill Jarvan IV, the ‘Exemplar’ of Demacia.” He smiled at the High Councilor, still close to her ear. “I will kill him too, Vessaria.”
High Councilor Kolminye locked eyes with Swain for one last time. She raised her right hand to his cheek. “We shall see, Jericho.”
A flood of light washed over them both, and Swain found himself alone in the chamber. A new set of double doors were in front of him, already opened. The League had found its latest champion.
- Swain's Champion Page
- Universe of League of Legends Page
- Champion Insights: Swain, the Noxian Grand General
- Champion Update: Swain, the Noxian Grand General
- Mid-Season Magic
- Champion Sneak Peak: Swain, the Master Tactician
Journal of Justice
- General Du Couteau Vanishes
- Kalamanda in Chaos
- Reinforcements Arrive in Kalamanda
- Boram Darkwill Assassinated
- War in Kalamanda & Noxian High Command in Turmoil
- Kalamanda to Become Field of Justice & Our Forward March
- Swain returns to Noxian High Command
- Swain Seizes Power in Noxus