The wind carries the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth as Gwen moves through a sun-dappled meadow. Her scissors gleam in the soft light, their blades whispering faintly with each step she takes. Around her, threads of magic drift like silk ribbons, weaving patterns in the air that shimmer and dissolve before they can be fully seen. Somewhere nearby, birds chirp, their songs mingling with the rustle of leaves. Yet beneath the tranquility lies an undercurrent—a quiet ache buried deep within her chest.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound her essence to the Rift, Gwen was not alive in the way most beings are. She began as nothing more than fabric—soft wool dyed in hues of lavender and gold, stitched together by loving hands. Those hands belonged to a woman named Isolde, a seamstress from Camavor who poured her heart into every piece she created. Isolde lived in a small cottage on the edge of a forest, her days spent sewing garments for villagers and crafting dolls for children. Each creation bore a fragment of her soul, but none so much as the doll she called Gwen.
Isolde had always been drawn to stories of life beyond death, tales of spirits lingering in objects or places touched by great love. When her own health began to fail, she turned to these legends, hoping to leave behind something enduring—a legacy that would outlast her frail body. Using scraps of cloth saved over decades, she crafted Gwen, stitching her together with care and imbuing her with rituals meant to bind spirit to fabric. The final touch was a pair of golden scissors, forged by a traveling blacksmith and etched with runes said to hold ancient power.
On the night Isolde completed Gwen, she whispered a prayer over the doll, asking whatever forces governed life and death to grant her creation purpose. Then, exhausted and weak, she placed Gwen on a shelf beside her bed and fell into a sleep from which she never woke.
When Isolde passed, Gwen awakened—not as a human, nor as a ghost, but as something in between. She opened her eyes (if they could be called that) and found herself sitting amidst the remnants of Isolde’s life: spools of thread, needles, sketches of designs, and half-finished projects scattered across the room. At first, Gwen felt lost, her mind a jumble of sensations and memories that weren’t hers. But slowly, pieces began to fall into place. She remembered Isolde—the warmth of her hands, the sound of her humming, the way she smiled when she worked late into the night. And she understood her purpose: to protect what remained of Isolde’s world.
The scissors became her anchor, both weapon and tool. They allowed her to cut away threats, reshape obstacles, and mend what was broken. With them, she ventured outside the cottage for the first time, stepping into the forest where sunlight filtered through the canopy in dappled patches. It was there she encountered Viego, the Ruined King.
Viego was searching for his lost queen, his presence radiating sorrow and rage. He moved like a shadow, his form flickering between solidity and mist. When he entered Isolde’s cottage, drawn by the faint echoes of her spirit, Gwen confronted him. Though she had no words, her actions spoke clearly enough: this place was hers to guard.
Viego regarded her with curiosity, his expression unreadable. “You’re a relic,” he said finally, his voice heavy with grief. “A remnant of someone long gone.”
Gwen raised her scissors, their blades glowing faintly. If he sought to harm Isolde’s memory, he would face her wrath.
Viego did not press further. Instead, he stepped back, vanishing into the trees as silently as he had come. But his visit left Gwen unsettled. For the first time, she questioned whether protecting Isolde’s home was enough—or if there was something greater she was meant to do.
As weeks turned into months, Gwen grew stronger, her connection to the magical threads around her deepening. She discovered she could manipulate them, using them to snare enemies, shield herself, or even heal wounds. The forest became her domain, its creatures treating her with cautious respect. Birds nested in her hair, foxes darted playfully at her feet, and deer followed her as she wandered. Yet despite the peace she found, loneliness lingered. She yearned for companionship—not just fleeting encounters but meaningful connections.
Her search led her to the Shadow Isles, a realm steeped in decay and despair. There, she encountered Hecarim, the Shadow of War. His spectral hooves trampled the ground, his laughter echoing like thunder as he charged toward her. Gwen stood her ground, her scissors slicing through the darkness he summoned. Their battle was fierce, Hecarim’s brute force clashing with Gwen’s agility and precision.
“You cling to life,” Hecarim sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “Life is fleeting.”
Gwen’s reply was silent but resolute. Life might be fleeting, but it could also endure—in memory, in creation, in love.
Hecarim withdrew, his laughter fading into the distance, but his words stayed with her. What did it mean to endure? Was her existence merely an echo of Isolde’s, or was she forging her own path?
The answers came gradually, pieced together through encounters with others who shared fragments of her journey. One such figure was Kalista, the Spear of Vengeance. Like Gwen, Kalista existed between worlds, bound by duty and driven by loss. They crossed paths near the ruins of an ancient temple, their meeting marked by wary tension.
“You’re a guardian,” Kalista observed, her spear glinting in the moonlight. “But what happens when there’s nothing left to guard?”
Gwen tilted her head, considering the question. Her scissors hovered briefly before she replied—not with words, but with action. She knelt, mending a torn tapestry that lay among the rubble. To preserve was to create anew; to protect was to honor the past while embracing the future.
Kalista nodded, understanding flickering in her gaze. “Perhaps we’re not so different after all.”
Their alliance was brief but significant, each learning from the other. Kalista taught Gwen the value of resolve, while Gwen showed Kalista the beauty of renewal. Together, they cleansed the temple of lingering shadows, their combined strength driving back the darkness.
Back in the mortal realm, Gwen continued her journey, drawn to places where life and death intertwined. She clashed with Thresh, the Chain Warden, whose lantern gleamed with stolen souls. Thresh saw her as an anomaly—a creature neither fully alive nor dead—and sought to unravel her essence.
“You are fragile,” Thresh taunted, his chains snapping through the air.
Gwen danced away, her scissors flashing as she countered. Fragile things could endure; fragile things could thrive.
Thresh retreated, his lantern dimming slightly, but his interest in her remained. Gwen sensed his curiosity, a predator’s fascination with prey that refused to break.
The League of Legends offered Gwen a new stage—a battlefield where she could test her abilities and forge bonds with others who walked similar paths. On the Rift, she faced opponents who challenged her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Some, like Mordekaiser, the Iron Revenant, wielded power rooted in domination and control, their clashes a battle of wills. Others, like Yorick, the Shepherd of Souls, embodied the cycle of life and death, their duels a dance of creation and destruction.
But no opponent tested Gwen quite like Lillia, the Bashful Bloom. Lillia’s innocence and determination mirrored Gwen’s own desire to protect and nurture. Their battles were intense yet strangely harmonious, each strike resonating with emotion rather than malice.
“You fight to preserve,” Lillia observed during one encounter, her staff glowing softly.
“And you fight to grow,” Gwen replied, her scissors slicing through a tendril of magic.
Their battles often ended in stalemates, neither willing to yield to the other. Yet despite their rivalry, there was a mutual respect between them—a recognition of the balance they both sought to maintain.
In quiet moments, Gwen reflects on the nature of her journey. She has faced countless adversaries, survived numerous close calls, and uncovered truths that once seemed impossible. Yet she knows that her story is far from over. The threads of her existence continue to weave, their patterns shifting with each choice she makes.
She returns to Isolde’s cottage, now overgrown with ivy and flowers. Inside, the shelves still hold spools of thread and unfinished projects, reminders of the woman who gave her life. Gwen sits among them, her scissors resting in her lap. Outside, the wind stirs the grass, carrying whispers of those she has met along the way.
Purpose will prevail.
One stitch at a time.