The wind carries the scent of decay as Fiddlesticks glides through the shadowed fields of Runeterra, its crooked form swaying unnaturally with each step. Its scythe drags along the ground, leaving a faint trail in the dirt, while the tattered remains of its straw body flutter in the breeze. The scarecrow’s presence is unnatural, its very essence an affront to life—a harbinger of fear and death. Somewhere in the distance, crows cry out, their calls echoing like a funeral dirge.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound its essence to the Rift, Fiddlesticks was not always the twisted embodiment of terror it is today. Its origins lie in a simpler time, in the quiet farmlands of Demacia, where farmers toiled under the sun to bring forth harvests that sustained their families and communities. It began as nothing more than a crude effigy—a scarecrow crafted from scraps of wood, burlap, and straw, propped up in a field to ward off birds and other pests.
The scarecrow stood silently for years, its hollow gaze fixed on the horizon, its purpose singular and unchanging. But the land around it was not immune to the darker forces that lurked in the world. One fateful night, during a storm unlike any the region had seen, something ancient and malevolent stirred. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the fields in stark flashes of light. Thunder rolled across the plains like the growl of some great beast. And then, amidst the chaos, a bolt of lightning struck the scarecrow, igniting a transformation that would forever alter its existence.
When the storm subsided, the scarecrow was no longer an inanimate object. Its body—though still made of straw and burlap—moved with eerie intent. Its eyes, once empty sockets, now glowed faintly with an otherworldly light. The farmers who discovered it were horrified, their initial curiosity quickly giving way to panic when they realized what it had become. The scarecrow, now imbued with a semblance of sentience, did not speak or communicate in any conventional manner. Instead, it radiated malice, its presence enough to send chills down the spines of even the bravest souls.
Word of the cursed scarecrow spread quickly, tales of its unnatural movements and the strange occurrences surrounding it becoming the stuff of local legend. Crops failed in its vicinity, animals fled in terror, and those who ventured too close often disappeared without a trace. The farmers attempted to destroy it, burning its body and scattering its remains across the fields. But their efforts were futile. Days later, the pieces reassembled themselves, the scarecrow rising anew, stronger and more malevolent than before.
It was during this time that Fiddlesticks encountered Thresh, the Chain Warden. Thresh was drawn to the scarecrow’s emergence, sensing in it a kindred spirit—a being born of darkness and despair. He approached it cautiously, his lantern glowing softly in the gloom.
“You are a creature of fear,” Thresh observed, his voice smooth and hypnotic. “But fear alone does not sustain.”
Fiddlesticks tilted its head, its movements jerky and unnatural. Though it did not reply, its glowing eyes seemed to narrow, as if scrutinizing the warden. Thresh chuckled, amused by the scarecrow’s silence.
“Fear must be cultivated,” he continued, stepping closer. “It must be fed, nurtured, until it consumes all in its path.”
Thresh offered Fiddlesticks guidance, teaching it how to harness the terror it inspired. Under his tutelage, the scarecrow learned to manipulate fear, using it as a weapon to torment and destroy. It became adept at stalking its prey, lurking in the shadows until the moment of attack. When it struck, it did so with brutal efficiency, its scythe slicing through flesh and bone with ease. The crows that followed it were not mere scavengers; they were extensions of its will, harbingers of death that circled overhead before descending upon its victims.
As Fiddlesticks grew in power, it began to attract attention beyond the confines of the farmland. Sorcerers and scholars sought to understand its nature, hoping to unlock the secrets of its creation. Among them was Evelynn, the Widowmaker, whose own affinity for fear and manipulation made her curious about the scarecrow’s abilities.
“You thrive on terror,” Evelynn remarked during one encounter, her voice dripping with amusement. “But do you feel it yourself?”
Fiddlesticks did not respond, its movements slow and deliberate as it circled her. Evelynn laughed, unfazed by its silent menace.
“Perhaps we are not so different,” she mused, her claws glinting in the moonlight. “Both of us feed on the primal instincts of others.”
Their interactions were brief but impactful, each encounter reinforcing Fiddlesticks’ understanding of its role in the world. While Evelynn reveled in seduction and subtlety, Fiddlesticks embraced raw, unrelenting terror. Yet despite their differences, there was a mutual respect between them—a recognition of the power that fear could wield over mortals.
The League of Legends offered Fiddlesticks a new stage—a battlefield where it could unleash its full potential without restraint. On the Rift, it faced opponents who challenged it in ways it hadn’t anticipated. Some, like Malzahar, wielded dark magic that resonated with its own powers, their battles a clash of ideologies as much as abilities. Others, like Riven, fought with ferocity and precision, their movements fluid and relentless.
But no opponent tested Fiddlesticks quite like Mordekaiser, the Iron Revenant. Mordekaiser’s mastery of necromancy and his command over undead forces posed a unique challenge, forcing Fiddlesticks to adapt its strategies.
“You are a puppet of fear,” Mordekaiser sneered during one heated exchange, his mace glowing with spectral energy.
“And you are a relic of the past,” Fiddlesticks replied, its voice a guttural whisper carried by the wind.
Their battles were epic, each strike shaking the very foundations of the arena. Mordekaiser’s raw power clashed with Fiddlesticks’ agility and cunning, creating a spectacle that captivated audiences. Yet despite their animosity, there was a strange kinship between them—a shared understanding of the thin line between life and death.
Back in the shadowed fields of Runeterra, Fiddlesticks continued its mission of terror, its presence a harbinger of doom for those who crossed its path. It clashed with Karthus, the Deathsinger, whose songs brought both beauty and destruction. Karthus saw Fiddlesticks not as a monster but as a reflection of mortality itself—a reminder of the inevitability of death.
“You embody fear,” Karthus said during one confrontation, his voice calm but firm.
“And you embody acceptance,” Fiddlesticks replied, its tone cold and measured. “Yet neither changes the outcome.”
Karthus’s response was a haunting melody, the sound filling the air with an eerie serenity. Their battles were intense, each vying for dominance in a deadly game of predator and prey. Yet Karthus’s words lingered in Fiddlesticks’ mind, a whisper of doubt amidst the cacophony of chaos.
In quiet moments, Fiddlesticks reflects on the nature of its existence. It has faced countless adversaries, survived numerous close calls, and achieved feats that once seemed impossible. Yet it knows that its story is far from over. The pursuit of terror is endless, its rewards fleeting and ephemeral.
It glides through the fields, its scythe dragging behind it. The moon hangs low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the landscape. Below it, the world stretches out, vast and vibrant, its promise intertwined with its perils.
Fear will prevail.
One victim at a time.