A dark man walks through the village's dirt paths, past the houses, storefronts, and gardens. The night is dark, only slivers of light break through the cloud cover. Most would stumble around on the dark dirt paths, tripping over odd stones, roots, and refuse. Yet, this man's purposeful stride belies that darkness.

He walks past the houses, farms and pastures, up a gently rolling hill. The clouds finally part, and the moon and stars lit the night, better than the man expects. An onlooker, if any were awake this hour, might see the man walking up the hill. He might notice the long red scarf around the man's neck, the paleness of the man's face and chest, and the way the man's eyes glowed softly in reflected moonlight, much like a cat's. But aside from those features he seemed like an ordinary Ionian soldier, bow strapped to his back, shrouded in darkness.

An onlooker, however, would fail to notice how the darkness seems to unnaturally cling to him, especially around his hands and legs. He would not notice the way glances slipped off the dark man's face like water, the way minds wander elsewhere when he starts to wonder about the dark man's skin and eyes. The onlooker, however, would surely know where the dark man is headed, where most of the village's visitors head, towards the small cottage at the top of the hill.

Despite the late hour, a yellow light glowed from the cottage's window. Upon reaching the door, the dark man hesitates unsure of what to do. Finally, he knocks.

A rustling sound. A woman opens the door, at least one wants to call her a woman. But her skin is purple, her hair white. A pale ivory horn grows seamlessly from her forehead, and her feet are not feet, but hooves. She was dressed in a simple white nightgown.

She smiles.

"Varus, I've been expecting you," she greets him. "Come in, please."

Varus nods, grunts his assent, and enters.

The cottage is simply and comfortably furnished with a wooden table, desk, pallet, and a rocking chair facing the hearth. A few stools surrounded the table. A cauldron of stew softly simmered in the hearth. Scrolls, tomes, quills, and different colored inks lay askew on the desk.

Varus stands awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments before Soraka asks, "Are you hungry? The stew I've set for tomorrow is probably ready now."

He nods dumbly, and sits on a stool. Soraka takes a bowl and ladle from the mantle, lifts the top off the pot on the hearth, and spoons the vegetarian stew of lentils, beans, and vegetables into the bowl.

She hands the bowl to Varus, hands still dredged in the strange darkness, more noticeable indoors. He begins to eat hungrily.

Soraka then reaches for the kettle, pours water from a clay jug on the table into it, and places it further into the fire.

"Would you like tea as well? I'm making some for myself, anyway."

Varus looks up and nods. Soraka takes two clay mugs from the mantle, sets them on the table, and turns to the pantry in the far right corner. She removes a bag, takes a couple spoonfuls of tea and adds them to the kettle. She then sits on a stool and waits for the water to boil.

"So, what brings you here?" Soraka asks.

Varus looks up at her, swallows, and in a raspy voice replies, "I come to speak of the war."

"I see," she says. "Are you satisfied with its progression?"

"Hmph. Not until the Noxians are expelled from Southern Ionia."

"Well, hopefully that'll happen soon enough. We must wait on the League to organize a rematch. These kinds of things take time. Hopefully then, Southern Ionia will be free of Noxians."

Varus remained silent, face stoic.

"You must be patient, Varus. I've heard whispers of the turmoil in the south. The arson of several Noxian barracks, spoiled rations,rotting gear, and a particularly nasty form of leprosy affecting only Noxians. I spoke to a few of these affected Noxians. They claim it was spread to them by a faceless man with darkened limbs."

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Varus's face suddenly lit with rage. "You didn't just speak to them," he seethed. "You healed them, undoing all my work. You betray Ionia."

Soraka sighs. "The fate of Ionia now rests in the hands of the champions of the League,” she says. "One of them being me. The Noxians will leave once we win the rematch."

"Every additional day the Noxians remain in our land is abhorrent," Varus says. "I've made my vow already. They will know regret."

"Varus," Soraka scolds. "That was not your vow to make. I healed those Noxians because their pain does not help reclaim Southern Ionia. I heed their call as I heed the call of any victim. This is my path. That much you should already know."

The kettle starts to whine. Soraka removes it from the hearth and pours the brown liquid into the two mugs.

"Sugar?" she asks.

"Not for me," Varus mutters, then takes a sip.

Soraka walks towards the pantry and pulls out a small pouch. She pours some of the brownish crystals into her mug, then takes a spoon from the mantle to stir her tea.

Silence.

"I know what you came here for Varus," Soraka finally says. "I know what you will ask of me. And you must know my response."

"I must ask you to reconsider--" Varus begins.

"No. I will not stop healing innocent Noxians. I set out the day after tomorrow on one of my doctoral pilgrimages. I will be in Southern Ionia again by next month. If I see any more signs of your work there, I will be forced to tell the League who is responsible for it."

Varus's eyes lit with rage again. For a few moments he stared murderously into the fire. Then composing himself, he smiles towards Soraka.

"I understand. But I cannot stop my war. And I cannot allow you to get in my way."

"Is that a threat?" Soraka asks hesitantly.

"Beware a man with nothing to lose," Varus snarls.

Quickly he unharnessed the straps attaching his bow to his back. He grabs the bow in his left hand, begins drawing it back, and stands in one fluid motion, knocking his stool over onto the floor and spilling his tea. A reddish glowing arrow appears; he points it at Soraka.

Soraka looks sadly at the stringless shadowed bow, and the red arrow. She had heard rumors of Varus's corruption. She believed them to be just that, rumors. She now understood that not only were they true, but that the corruption was far worse than she realized was possible.

"This corruption will spread to affect geopolitical affairs if it isn't handled immediately," Soraka thought.

Soraka slides off her stool. Varus readjusts his aim as she stands. Soraka sighs, and gestures at the ground underneath him.

The floor glows a starry blue. The red arrow disappears. Varus tries to draw another but finds that he is unable.

"Such hatred in your heart, Varus," Soraka laments. "I had no idea the extent of your corruption, or I would have sought you out earlier. I will help now to the best of my ability."

Silenced, Varus looks downward into the light of the blue constellations. He knew he was trapped there, by measures he did not understand. And he knew he must escape.

But as Varus stares into the constellations, he began to hear the stars clamor in a language both harsh and musical. He knows each word carried the weight of a thousand meanings but understood the barest fraction of them.

"He's returned!"

"Our prophecies are bearing fruit."

"Pallas. Oh, Pallas."

Then one voice bore through him. Through terrible shudders of ecstasy he hears, "Sleep now. You shall talk tomorrow with the starchild."

Varus crumples to the floor, asleep before he hits the ground.