Within the forgotten realm of Camavor, a village of simple folk thrived far from the reach of thrones. It was here, in the rural colonies, that a humble seamstress crafted her beloved doll, Gwen.
Gwen's fragmented memories paint a picture of love. The seamstress and her doll spent their days toiling away together. While the seamstress wielded needle and thread, Gwen held still with scissors in hand. And under the candlelit kitchen table, they engaged in imaginary duels—fork against scissors—a cherished tradition.
Over time, the games ceased, and the light dimmed. Gwen couldn't comprehend why, but each attempt to recall the details brought a surge of pain, tied to a man whose name and face eluded her. As her memories ebbed away like the tide, Gwen remained dormant, silent and forgotten, for centuries.
One night, her eyes fluttered open. Gwen awoke on a dark beach, far from her home. An unknown magic had transformed her into a living girl, able to move her own hands and feet!
Greeted by this newfound existence, Gwen strolled along the sandy shores, dazzled by the vastness before her, enchanted by the texture of pebbles, intoxicated by the wind's gentle caress on her back. Along the coast, relics abandoned for millennia beckoned her attention. Amidst shattered chests, she spotted familiar tools.
Scissors. Needles. Thread.
Gwen recognized them instantly—the tools of her creator. As her fingers brushed against them, a shimmering mist of light emanated from her hands, warm and comforting, like a distant embrace from the past.
However, others were drawn to this magic.
Roaming the isles, another fog coalesced—a swirling, twisting black mist, giving shape to terrifying specters. Something within them hungered, enticed by Gwen's sudden presence. They craved the essence she possessed.
When the specters lunged, Gwen instinctively fought back, brandishing her scissors. To her delight, her mist filled the air, enchanting the size and strength of her tools, transforming their mundane steel into pure magic.
But the specters persisted, and the Black Mist only grew stronger. Gwen began to feel a tragic pain, hauntingly familiar. Amidst the specters, suppressed memories resurfaced. Images of her creator, ill and wounded, suffering in anguish. By her side, a man who eventually turned his gaze toward Gwen.
Viego.
Remembering his name was a jolt that brought Gwen to her knees. Memories of cherished moments spent with her creator flooded back—an era of simplicity and happiness. She glanced at her scissors once more...8<-8<-8<-8<-
Then, something incredible dawned upon her. Her creator, victimized by that man's vanity, had not completely vanished. The seamstress's tools, the very tools that had stitched Gwen together, now rested in her hands. Gwen knew it was no accident. Deep within, she understood that her creator still fought by her side.
This was a gift Gwen refused to squander.
With needle and thread, she spun sacred mist clouds, pushing back the specters. Her scissors cut with force and swiftness, reminiscent of the blissful battles her creator had once orchestrated beneath their kitchen table. Soon, all the specters were vanquished.
Triumphant, Gwen realized this was only the beginning. She sensed a connection between the specters and Viego—a shared responsibility for an immense, spreading pain. With no time to waste, she resolved to track down the Black Mist and stop it at any cost. Gwen expected a challenging task, but she cherished each day of her existence, uncertain of how long it would last.
Having been granted the extraordinary opportunity to experience life, Gwen chooses to serve the greater good against all odds. She traverses the realms of Runeterra, determined to restore joy to those who suffer. For Gwen, every moment is precious, every step imbued with purpose.
Gwen's fragmented memories paint a picture of love. The seamstress and her doll spent their days toiling away together. While the seamstress wielded needle and thread, Gwen held still with scissors in hand. And under the candlelit kitchen table, they engaged in imaginary duels—fork against scissors—a cherished tradition.
Over time, the games ceased, and the light dimmed. Gwen couldn't comprehend why, but each attempt to recall the details brought a surge of pain, tied to a man whose name and face eluded her. As her memories ebbed away like the tide, Gwen remained dormant, silent and forgotten, for centuries.
One night, her eyes fluttered open. Gwen awoke on a dark beach, far from her home. An unknown magic had transformed her into a living girl, able to move her own hands and feet!
Greeted by this newfound existence, Gwen strolled along the sandy shores, dazzled by the vastness before her, enchanted by the texture of pebbles, intoxicated by the wind's gentle caress on her back. Along the coast, relics abandoned for millennia beckoned her attention. Amidst shattered chests, she spotted familiar tools.
Scissors. Needles. Thread.
Gwen recognized them instantly—the tools of her creator. As her fingers brushed against them, a shimmering mist of light emanated from her hands, warm and comforting, like a distant embrace from the past.
However, others were drawn to this magic.
Roaming the isles, another fog coalesced—a swirling, twisting black mist, giving shape to terrifying specters. Something within them hungered, enticed by Gwen's sudden presence. They craved the essence she possessed.
When the specters lunged, Gwen instinctively fought back, brandishing her scissors. To her delight, her mist filled the air, enchanting the size and strength of her tools, transforming their mundane steel into pure magic.
But the specters persisted, and the Black Mist only grew stronger. Gwen began to feel a tragic pain, hauntingly familiar. Amidst the specters, suppressed memories resurfaced. Images of her creator, ill and wounded, suffering in anguish. By her side, a man who eventually turned his gaze toward Gwen.
Viego.
Remembering his name was a jolt that brought Gwen to her knees. Memories of cherished moments spent with her creator flooded back—an era of simplicity and happiness. She glanced at her scissors once more...8<-8<-8<-8<-
Then, something incredible dawned upon her. Her creator, victimized by that man's vanity, had not completely vanished. The seamstress's tools, the very tools that had stitched Gwen together, now rested in her hands. Gwen knew it was no accident. Deep within, she understood that her creator still fought by her side.
This was a gift Gwen refused to squander.
With needle and thread, she spun sacred mist clouds, pushing back the specters. Her scissors cut with force and swiftness, reminiscent of the blissful battles her creator had once orchestrated beneath their kitchen table. Soon, all the specters were vanquished.
Triumphant, Gwen realized this was only the beginning. She sensed a connection between the specters and Viego—a shared responsibility for an immense, spreading pain. With no time to waste, she resolved to track down the Black Mist and stop it at any cost. Gwen expected a challenging task, but she cherished each day of her existence, uncertain of how long it would last.
Having been granted the extraordinary opportunity to experience life, Gwen chooses to serve the greater good against all odds. She traverses the realms of Runeterra, determined to restore joy to those who suffer. For Gwen, every moment is precious, every step imbued with purpose.
