The forest breathes around him, its pulse a rhythm that only he can hear. Ivern stands beneath the canopy of ancient trees, their gnarled branches twisting skyward like reaching hands. His staff rests lightly in his grip, its wooden surface warm to the touch, as if it shares his heartbeat. Vines curl around his ankles, not to restrain but to embrace, and small creatures—rabbits, birds, even the occasional fox—watch him with curious eyes before darting away into the underbrush.
To most, Ivern is an enigma—a man who seems more spirit than flesh, more forest than human. But those who know him call him “the Green Father,” a title earned through centuries of devotion to nature’s balance. He is neither wholly mortal nor entirely divine, existing instead in a liminal space between worlds. Yet for all his wisdom and connection to the wild, Ivern carries scars from a past life—a life steeped in violence, guilt, and redemption.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound his essence to the Rift, Ivern was once known by another name: Eldred , a soldier of Noxus. Born into a family of warriors, Eldred grew up believing that strength was the ultimate virtue. In Noxus, where might made right, he excelled on the battlefield, his reputation built on ruthless efficiency and unyielding loyalty to his commanders. Among them was Swain, the Grand General of Noxus, whose vision of conquest resonated deeply with Eldred’s own ambitions.
But war has a way of unraveling even the strongest convictions. It was during one particularly brutal campaign in Ionia that Eldred’s world began to fracture. The Ionians were fierce defenders of their homeland, using guerrilla tactics and terrain to outmaneuver Noxian forces. Eldred led his unit into the heart of the Placidium Forest, a sacred grove said to be alive with magic. The orders were clear: burn it to the ground, deny the Ionians sanctuary.
As flames licked at the ancient trees, Eldred felt something shift within him. The forest did not scream or fight back—it wept. A soft, mournful sound filled the air, carried by the wind like a lullaby turned dirge. The animals fled, their cries piercing; the trees themselves seemed to shudder as they fell. And then, amidst the chaos, Eldred encountered her: Diana , though she was not yet the Lunari warrior she would become. She emerged from the shadows, her crescent blade gleaming faintly in the firelight. Her eyes burned with fury, but there was also sorrow—a grief so profound it stopped Eldred in his tracks.
“You desecrate what you do not understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “This forest is alive. Can’t you feel it?”
Eldred hesitated, his sword lowering slightly. For the first time in years, doubt crept into his mind. He had always believed in the righteousness of Noxian expansion, but now he wondered: was this truly strength? Or was it destruction masquerading as progress? Before he could answer, Diana struck, her blade slicing through his armor and leaving a wound that would never fully heal—not because of the physical injury, but because of the questions it opened within him.
That night, as his comrades celebrated their victory over the forest, Eldred wandered alone into the charred remains of the grove. There, amidst the ashes, he found a sapling struggling to grow. Its leaves shimmered faintly with moonlight, defying the devastation around it. Eldred knelt beside it, his fingers brushing against its delicate bark. In that moment, he felt something stir within him—a presence, ancient and vast, whispering in a language older than words.
“Protect me,” it seemed to say, though no sound passed between them.
Eldred stayed with the sapling through the night, shielding it from the cold winds that swept through the ruins. By morning, something extraordinary had happened. The sapling had grown taller, its roots intertwining with Eldred’s body. Where they touched, his wounds began to heal—not just the cuts and bruises of battle, but the deeper scars etched into his soul.
From that day forward, Eldred was no longer the same man. His transformation was gradual but undeniable. Over time, his armor rusted away, replaced by moss and vines. His hair grew long and tangled, blending with the foliage that clung to him. Even his memories shifted, fragments of his old life fading like mist in the dawn. When people asked his name, he simply smiled and replied, “Call me Ivern.”
Now, as the Green Father, Ivern wanders Runeterra, tending to the forests and fostering harmony between humans and nature. His journey often brings him into contact with others who share—or challenge—his ideals. One such figure is Lillia , the bashful dream-faerie. Though their paths rarely cross, they are kindred spirits in many ways. Both seek to nurture life and protect the fragile bonds between beings.
When Lillia first met Ivern, she was wary, her timid nature causing her to retreat into the shadows. But Ivern’s gentle demeanor put her at ease. He spoke softly, his words carrying the weight of centuries. “The forest loves you, little one,” he told her. “It sings your name when you dance.”
Lillia blushed, her ears twitching nervously. “You… you really think so?”
“I know so,” Ivern replied with a smile. “Why else would the flowers bloom wherever you step?”
Their bond deepened over time, each learning from the other. Lillia taught Ivern about the dreams of the forest—the whispers of hope and longing that drifted through the trees at night. In turn, Ivern showed Lillia how to harness her connection to nature, guiding her in ways that allowed her to overcome her fears. Together, they became guardians of the wild, ensuring that its beauty endured despite the encroachment of civilization.
Yet not everyone shares Ivern’s reverence for nature. One of his greatest adversaries is Viego , the Ruined King. Viego’s obsession with reclaiming his lost love has driven him to madness, his very presence corrupting the land around him. Where Ivern seeks to heal and preserve, Viego destroys, his actions fueled by grief and rage.
Their encounters are fraught with tension. Viego sees Ivern as naive, a relic of a gentler age unfit for the harsh realities of the modern world. “You cling to life,” Viego sneered during one confrontation, his spectral form wreathed in decay. “But life is fleeting. Death is eternal.”
Ivern’s response was calm but firm. “Life may be fleeting, but it is precious all the same. And death, though inevitable, need not be cruel.”
Though their battles often end in stalemates, Ivern refuses to give up on Viego. Deep down, he senses the pain that drives the Ruined King’s actions—a pain born of loss and betrayal. Perhaps, he muses, there is still hope for redemption, even for someone as broken as Viego.
Another figure tied to Ivern’s story is Zyra , the Rise of the Thorns. Zyra embodies the raw, untamed power of nature, her form a fusion of plant and predator. To some, she is a monster; to others, a goddess. Ivern respects her ferocity but disagrees with her methods. While he believes in coexistence, Zyra sees humanity as a plague to be eradicated.
“You coddle them,” Zyra accused during one heated exchange, her vines snapping angrily. “They will destroy everything if left unchecked.”
“And you would destroy them without understanding,” Ivern countered, his tone measured. “Balance is not achieved through annihilation.”
Their clashes are intense, each representing opposing philosophies. Zyra fights with primal instinct, her attacks swift and relentless. Ivern counters with patience and precision, using his knowledge of the forest to outmaneuver her. Despite their differences, there is a mutual respect between them—a recognition of their shared love for the natural world, even if their interpretations of that love differ.
In quieter moments, Ivern reflects on the duality of his existence. He is both healer and warrior, protector and wanderer. His life is a tapestry woven from threads of light and shadow, joy and sorrow. He knows that the path he walks is not easy, nor is it free of sacrifice. But he also knows that every seed he plants, every creature he nurtures, brings the world one step closer to harmony.
He pauses beside a stream, watching as ripples spread across its surface. Somewhere in the distance, a stag calls, its voice echoing through the trees. Ivern smiles, feeling the forest’s heartbeat sync with his own.
Balance will prevail.
One step at a time.