Fiddlesticks

Something ancient has stirred in Runeterra, and it shows no desire to be understood.

Fiddlesticks isn’t tied to any one nation the way most champions are. It prowls the fringes of mortal settlements across Runeterra, gravitating toward towns where suspicion runs deep, since suspicion is its meal. It wields a jagged scythe that looks more patched together than forged, and it harvests dread the way a farmer harvests grain.

Few who meet it walk away untouched. Those fortunate enough to survive often return with minds so fractured that they can no longer recount what happened. It gives warning only occasionally, in the caw of a crow or in a half-human silhouette caught from the corner of the eye.

Its kit brings the same creeping unease to the battlefield. Harmless Scarecrow, its passive, swaps its trinket for scarecrow effigies, a grim little touch that suits a creature made entirely of pretense. Terrify hits a marked or targeted foe with fear and sends them running. Bountiful Harvest siphons health from every nearby enemy, then closes with a burst of execute damage. Reap cuts through an area, slowing everyone it catches and silencing whoever stands at its heart. Its ultimate, Crowstorm, wreathes it in a murder of crows that shred every enemy inside the zone. Fiddlesticks resists neat explanation. Where most champions come with guidance on how allies and foes should handle them, there is nothing of the sort here, which fits a being whose very nature refuses to be studied or pinned down. No faction lays claim to it, no chronicle traces its origins, and no pattern reliably forecasts its next appearance. It returns whenever fear has taken root somewhere new, then disappears just as completely once it has fed.