|Release Date:||August 24, 2010|
|Health:||585 (+ 88)|
|Health Regen:||7.5 (+ 0.7)|
|Mana:||300 (+ 45)|
|Mana Regen:||7.25 (+ 0.6)|
|Attack Damage:||63 (+ 4)|
|Attack Speed:||0.625 (+ 3.75%)|
|Armor:||39 (+ 4.25)|
|Magic Resist:||32.1 (+ 1.25)|
- 2nd bio
- 1st bio
- League Judgement
|Once a powerful Noxian headsman, Urgot was betrayed by the empire for which he had killed so many. Bound in iron chains, he was forced to learn the true meaning of strength in the Dredge—a prison mine deep beneath Zaun. Emerging in a disaster that spread chaos throughout the city, he now casts an imposing shadow over its criminal underworld. Raising his victims on the very chains that once enslaved him, he will purge his new home of the unworthy, making it a crucible of pain.
Urgot always believed that he was worthy. As a headsman, an executioner of the weak, he was a living embodiment of the Noxian ideal that strength should rule, making it a reality with every swing of his axe. His pride swelled as the bodies piled ever higher behind him, and his intimidating presence kept countless warbands in line.
Even so, a single word was all it took to seal his fate. Sent to distant Zaun to eliminate a supposed conspiracy against the ruler of Noxus, Urgot realized too late the mission was a setup, removing him from the capital even as the usurper Swain seized control of it. Surrounded by agents of the chem-barons, and enraged that everything he believed was a lie, Urgot was dragged down into the chemtech mines beneath Zaun. He was defeated. He was enslaved. He was not worthy after all. He endured the mine’s hellish conditions in grim silence, waiting for death.
In the Dredge, death came in many forms…
The mine’s warden, Baron Voss, would sometimes offer freedom in return for a prisoner’s tortured confession—granting it with the edge of her blade. From the screams that echoed through the tunnels, Urgot learned about the wonders of Zaun. There was something special about the city, something marvelous and evident even in the secrets that spilled from slit throats. Urgot didn’t know what it was until he was finally brought before Voss, fearing that she would break him.
But as the baron’s blade cut into his flesh, Urgot realized that his body was already wracked with agony, far beyond anything Voss could inflict. The Dredge had made him stronger than he’d ever been as a headsman.
Pain was Zaun’s secret. His laughter drove Voss back to the surface, and a reign of anarchy began in the depths.
Seizing control of the prison, Urgot reveled in new trials of survival. He found the parts of his body that were weakest, and replaced them with scavenged machinery, technology created by those who would die without it—necessity being the mother of pain.
The guards could no longer enter the areas Urgot had carved out of Voss’ grasp. The prisoners themselves were more afraid of their new master than they were of her. Many even grew to hold a fanatical respect for Urgot, as they were forced to hear his feverish sermons on the nature of power, his grip tightening around the necks of those who would not listen.
Only when a Noxian agent arrived in the Dredge was Urgot was finally forced to confront his own past. Though the spy recognized him and sought his aid in escaping, Urgot beat him mercilessly, and hurled his broken body into the darkness.
It was not strength that ruled Noxus, Urgot now realized, but men… and men were weak. There should be no rulers, no lies, nothing to interfere with the pure chaos of survival. Starting a riot that ignited a chemtech vein within the mine, Urgot shook the city above, and cracked the prison open in an explosion that rivaled the birth of Zaun itself. Many prisoners died, and thousands more disappeared into the Sump beneath the city. But the worthy, as ever, survived.
Since then, Urgot’s reign of terror has only grown. A hideous fusion of industrial machinery and Noxian brutality, he slaughters chem-barons and their lackeys one by one, gathering his own following among Zaun’s downtrodden masses. To any who find themselves spared in his murderous rampages, he delivers a message: he is not here to lead, but to survive. If you are worthy, you will survive too.
And the trials… they are only just beginning.
| "There is only one way to measure a man. Tear him… into… pieces."
|SON OF UR
We were running through the streets of Zaun. The pipes and stained glass were blurred, smeared colors against the Gray, and the fog that hung in every chem-soaked alley. Zori was to my left, all matted hair and rusty knives—her smile was the only sign that she was beautiful beneath the grime. Blenk was behind her, with a spray-philter full of glowing paint and a head dripping with ideas. Scuzz brought up the rear, every bit the kind of lug you’d expect to be called Scuzz. But he was our Scuzz, every scuzzy bit of him.
He yelled our gang’s name into the billowing smoke, marking the night as ours.
We laughed, and yelled it too. We were young, we were alive. Nothing could stop us. It would have to catch us first, and we were still running.
The city itself seemed to carry us forward as we slid down into its depths, farther and farther from the sump-scrapper we’d just robbed and left bleeding in the gutter. His cogs still jangled in our pockets. More than enough for a bit of fun. We were on our way to the Black Lanes, the market at the heart of Zaun.
“Think they’ll sell us any shimmerwine?” Zori asked. “Bleedin’ that sumper made me a mite parched.”
Blenk scoffed. “They’d sell shimmer to a child in the Lanes. And then they’d sell the child.”
“Gob it, both of you,” Scuzz growled, catching up. His face showed a kind of concern that I’d never seen before, a frown slowly forming. “Can’t you hear that?”
I squinted my eyes and peered into the night—since you can’t squint with ears, you ken? Not without a few augments. “I can’t hear nothin’,” I said with a shrug. “Not even a plague rat’s brown cough.”
“That’s what I mean,” Scuzz muttered.
And the silence after… It weighed heavier even than Piltover, glittering above us.
Pushing slowly into the market through the fog, we found dram-carts overturned, their wheels spinning lazily. Stalls abandoned, still full of exotic wares. There was a stench in the air that reminded me of the sump-scrapper—a stench strong enough to make my eyes water, when even seeing him bleed had not.
And there were bodies here, too. Many of them were wearing a chem-baron’s emblem. They’d been torn to pieces, the cobbles red beneath them.
It was a massacre.
“Nasty bit of work, eh?” Blenk grinned, rooting through one of the dead men’s pockets, carefully picking away giblets of flesh. “Guess that means we’re gettin’ a discount.”
Zori only shuddered. “There’s someone… in there,” she whispered, pointing into a cloud of raw chemtech that was spewing from a pipe in the clearing beyond. It was the source of the stench that was only growing stronger, crushing my senses, somehow making my ears hum. “It’s… It’s a man.”
“That’s not a man,” I murmured, following her gaze into the growing green veil. “Not anymore…”
It was a hulking shape, with mechanical legs and many guns, fused savagely to its flesh the way a mechanician would fuse two pipes. Burning and searing. Just looking at it made me wince. In one hand, it held a much smaller figure aloft. A man, choking in the chemtech cloud. As he writhed, the monster taunted him, its voice a mechanical buzz vibrating deep in my gut, threatening to loose the bowels within.
“This is what you want,” it almost cooed, cruelly forcing the man’s face into a rent in the pipe, the chemtech gas gushing out around them. “Breathe it. Make it yours.”
But the man only writhed, kicking uselessly, growing weaker and weaker—until finally, only his augmented arm still jittered, echoing his last, desperate thoughts. Even after they ceased.
And with that flash of brass, it hit me. The dangling corpse, he was a chem-baron, the only kind of person who could afford newfangled kit. Baron Crimson, or somesuch. These were his men, scattered around us.
Were his men. And now…
“We have to get out of here,” I gasped, turning from the carnage to my friends behind me. But I couldn’t see them. The gas from the pipe, it was spreading, a toxic green cloud making it harder to breathe… Harder to… to…
Run. We had to run.
I could hear Zori, Blenk and Scuzz panicking and coughing somewhere nearby. I reached out into the swirl for anyone, anything, to pull along with me as I made my escape. But there was only the sound of a body slumping softly to the ground, a spray-philter rattling across the cobbles.
Blenk. I stumbled as the truth hit me. He was gone.
And the worst was still to come.
The monster pushed itself through the cloud, a massive, armored leg slamming down beside me, and then another, and another—all revealed chemtech-filled tubing, and protruding gun muzzles that smoked with the very same heat still smoldering in the bodies around us.
I could taste it at the back of my throat, a truth as bitter as the acrid air. I was going to die here.
The monster grabbed me by my ragged scruff, lifting me close enough to see its face. It was a visage of terror, all the more horrifying because it was human. More human than the rest of him, at least. His tox-mask glowed as it vented pure alchemy, but his eyes were somehow even brighter. Intelligent. Almost seeming to smile as they took my fear in.
“A son of Zaun. What is your name?” he growled as he brought me closer. His accent was sharp, but I couldn’t place it. His words battered my resolve, each one hitting with the force of his hate.
I couldn’t even stammer an answer.
He laughed. “The baron, you recognize him? Like many, he tried to rule this city, casting countless people into the depths, to mine this…” He breathed in deeply as the gases swirled. “…this misery. Now he is no more, killed by that which gave him power over others. It is you, the gutter rat, at home in the squalor, who survives. So, tell me, which of you is stronger? Which of you deserves to live?”
Suddenly, I was falling back to the ground, landing on top of my friends. They were shuddering, choking as the chem-baron had. Scuzz, his mouth was foaming. And Zori… I closed my eyes against the tears before I could see what had happened to her.
“Run,” the monster said. “Tell the city how you survived and a baron did not. You will be my witness. The first of many.”
“Run!” he bellowed. I saw Zori then, sobbing, reaching out for help with the last of her strength. I didn’t want this to be the way I would remember her. I wanted to remember her smile. I still do.
But I was running again, through the streets of Zaun.
And can you imagine how it felt to realize, with burning lungs and heaving breaths, that my screams were the message I was to bear?
I was alive. My friends were not.
I was worthy.
|There are warriors who become great for their strength, cunning, or skill with arms. Others simply refuse to die. Urgot, once a great soldier of Noxus, may constitute a case in support of the latter. Prone to diving headlong into enemy battle lines, Urgot sowed chaos throughout the enemy ranks, often sustaining grievous injuries in the process.
When his body was unable to weather further abuse, the crippled Urgot was delegated to the position of High Executioner of Noxus. By this time, his hands had been ruined and he could barely walk. Scythe-like grafts affixed to his maimed limbs served to carry out his bloody work.
Urgot finally met his end at what should have been his finest hour. Because of his military background, he often accompanied detachments into foreign territory to carry out judgment. After ambushing an enemy force, Jarvan IV, Crown Prince of Demacia, fell into the clutches of Urgot's division. Too far from Noxus to risk transporting their prize for ransom, Urgot prepared to dispose of their captive. At the final moment, however, Garen led the Dauntless Vanguard to intervene, and Urgot was cut in two by the zealous warrior as he scrambled to free his Prince.
In recognition of his service, the executioner's remains were remanded to the Bleak Academy for reanimation. However, a lifetime of abuse had left his body in a catastrophic state, proving problematic to the necromancers' craft. Professor Stanwick Pididly, the prevailing scholar of Zaun, offered a solution. Within Pididly's laboratories, a nightmarish new body was forged for Urgot.
Now, as much machine as man, with necromantic energies coursing through his metal veins, Urgot searches for the man who ended his life.
| "Eternal life... endless torture."
|There are warriors who become great for their strength, cunning, or skill with arms. Others simply refuse to die. Urgot, once a great soldier of Noxus, may constitute a case in support of the latter. Prone to diving headlong into enemy battle lines, Urgot sowed chaos throughout the enemy ranks, often sustaining grievous injuries in the process. When his body was unable to weather further abuse, the crippled Urgot was delegated the position of High Executioner of Noxus. By this time, his hands had been ruined and he could barely walk. Scythe-like grafts affixed to his maimed limbs served to carry out his bloody work.
Urgot finally met his end at what should have been his finest hour. Because of his military background, he often accompanied detachments into foreign territory to carry out judgment. After ambushing an enemy force, Jarvan IV, Crown Prince of Demacia, fell into the clutches of Urgot's division. Too far from Noxus to risk transporting their prize for ransom, Urgot prepared to dispose of their captive. At the final moment, however, the Dauntless Vanguard, led by Garen, the Might of Demacia, intervened, and Urgot was cut in two by the zealous warrior as he scrambled to free his Prince. In recognition of his service, the executioner's remains were remanded to the Bleak Academy for reanimation. A lifetime of abuse, however, had left his body in a catastrophic state; proving problematic to the necromancers' craft. Professor Stanwick Pididly, the prevailing scholar of Zaun, offered a solution. Within Pididly's laboratories, a nightmarish new body was forged for Urgot. Now as much machine as man, Urgot arrived at the League of Legends in search of the man who ended his life; necromantic energies coursing through his metal veins.
| "We can rebuild him. We have the techmaturgy."
- Professor Stanwick Pididly
Date: 24 August, 20 CLE
Urgot shambles along the great hall of the Institute of War, spider-like legs ferrying his bloated, bulbous body towards his ultimate goal. The scrape of metal against marble and the dull crackle of energy mark his passage as he moves with deceptive agility. His horrid emotionless visage belies the conviction in his gaze.
From his right arm swings a wicked-looking blade, beginning where the hand should have been. His left arm terminates in a cannon, a similarly poor replacement for the extremity. He creaks to a halt before a pair of ornate marble doors. He lifts one of his segmented metal legs, extending it forward to deal with the blocking portal, which slides open easily at his touch. His scarred, patchwork skin - blanched in the eerie glow of the techmaturgical engine that sustains him - glistens with beads of sweat as he scuttles inside.
The darkness around him grew heavy and familiar. He could feel the dew on his scalp as a stiff breeze crossed over him. His whole body trembled, but there was no fear in it. Only the anticipation of what was to come. Urgot wrung his fingers around the shaft of his axe. His fingers! He lifted a hand in front of his face. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he stared in disbelief at the sight of his own, unspoiled digits. Just beyond them he recognized the dour face of Sion, his commanding officer, a whistle pinched between his lips.
An arc of lightning lit the sky, its brilliance revealing a distant silhouette. Thunder followed a few seconds later. Could it be? Could he be here, now?
The shrill squeal of his commander's whistle wrenched him from his contemplations. Almost involuntarily, he broke into a charge, dashing headlong towards his distant adversary.
"Gatecrashers!" he heard someone cry. "Form up, men!"
Ahead, he could see the soldiers forming ranks, a wall of Demacian shields waiting to meet the charge. Something was wrong. There were too many.
Without breaking stride be brought his greataxe around, sundering the lead enemy's shield and toppling him backward. Urgot waded in - oblivious to the danger - swinging the weapon in wide arcs to broaden the hole in his enemy's defenses. The sounds of combat filled the air as chaos erupted about him. For an instant, the Demacians were staggered, offering him a moment's reprieve.
A fresh wound leaked blood into his eyes, and he smeared it away as he peered through the havoc. Another bolt of lightning revealed a resolute, armored form to the rear of the vanguard who was shouting orders while steadying himself against an ancient oak. Urgot began moving once more, battleaxe leading the way.
He hacked his way to the back of the enemy force, the cries of his fellows lending urgency to his attack. The Demacians were rallying. His comrades were being overwhelmed. He lunged forward to intercept the enemy commander, axe held high, as he moved to rejoin the fray.
His opponent darted to the side and the axeblade bit firmly into the trunk of the tree. Urgot wrenched wildly, struggling to free the stubborn weapon. But it was too late. There was a flash of silver, and everything fell silent. His vision blurred as he stumbled backward, arms extended before him. The ruined appendages - ending just below the wrist - burned white hot agony as they issued forth a torrent of gore.
"Do you remember, Urgot?" asked a familiar voice. Urgot turned to face who addressed him. The carnage around him had vanished, and it was daybreak now. He was standing at a clearing in the woods. He could hear the birds chirping in the brisk morning air. Garen, the Might of Demacia, stood a few paces away, idly wiping the blood from his sword.
"I remember, Demacian," croaked the maimed warrior, stoically, "I remember what you have done to me."
A wicked smile curled at the edge of Garen's lips. "It is not over," he mocked.
In the blink of an eye he was gone, replaced by a cheering crowd of Noxian warriors. Urgot's mutilated right arm now ended in a vicious looking glaive, a gift from a field surgeon. He looked down. At his feet, bound prostrate in the dirt, was a handsome, blonde haired youth. Jarvan IV, the Crown Prince of Demacia stared up at him, piercing blue eyes locked on his executioner without fear. Though he was defeated, the air of pride and dignity about him could not be tempered.
Urgot wore a self-satisfied grin as he raised his arm to strike the fatal stroke. An arrow caught him in the chest, staying his hand. He gasped in pain, looking up just in time to catch a glimpse of that same armored figure closing in on him with uncanny speed, weapon raised menacingly.
He plummeted to the earth, a warm puddle spreading rapidly beneath him with each slow, deafening beat of his heart. He felt to scream, but could not find his breath. This could not be the end! Not like this! This was his moment. Not like this! Blackness closed in around him, leaving him alone with his killer.
"Why do you want to join the League, Urgot?" asked Garen, leaning heavily on his sword.
Urgot's labored gasps ceased. He was whole once more, his metal legs creaking as he quivered with rage. Necromantic energy raced along his metallic spine. "Revenge!" he roared, eyes ablaze with hatred.
Garen nodded, taking a step closer. "How does it feel, exposing your mind?"
In response, Urgot raised his mighty glaive over his head and brought it down furiously on the image of his nemesis. He found only the open air as the phantom dissolved into the dark. The great doors before him flew open. The League was waiting.
- April 13th, It Lives: Urgot Mid with xPeke and Innox from LoL Esports
- Urgot's Champion Page
- Universe of League of Legends Page
- Champion Insights: Urgot, the Terror of Zaun
- Champions Reveal: Urgot, the Dreadnought
- Champion Sneak Peek: Urgot, the Headsman's Pride
Journal of Justice