He knows nothing but blood.

A loud gong tolls, giving the one minute warning before the battle is to begin. The arena is empty, as both teams stand within their respected barracks, waiting to be summoned to the field. Silence stretches across the great divide.

Tryndamere huffs, eyes closed, as he carries out his traditional pre-battle routine. One hundred pushups, fifety sword swings. It isn't much, but enough to stretch his muscles and warm them for the challenge ahead. It also makes it easier for him to ignore anyone who might want to talk to him.

As he finishes his excersises, Tryndamere kneels, eyes closed as he breathes deeply. The sounds of the other champions, the spectators, and the announcers all fade, until he is alone. Silence fills the air as he watches the memory replay in his head once again...

His parents, walking along the snow-covered road...

The entire tribe laughing and joking, peacefully moving about in the barren wasteland...

The assassin's cry as they jumped from their hiding places...

His parent's dead bodies, covering him, hiding him, saving him.

He has not smiled, nor has he cried, since that day. While some champions may celebrate when they defeat an honerable opponent, Tryndamere simply walks from the corpse without a word. It means nothing to him, to defeat such an enemy. He defeats countless enemies, and has been defeated by countless more. The statistics do not interest him. All he wants is a home for his people, officially.

In reality, he wants to break the kneck of everyone living in Noxus.

Tryndemere looks around, studying his allies. None of them are as simple as they may seem, and none have had an easy life.

Amumu, the alive, yet not alive, mummified warrior, is forever sad, having no memory of his past, or who his parents even were. He often cries for his lost lineage, without knowing where the tears come from.

Fizz, the joking prankster, is the last known survivor of his entire race, and is continually searching for clues of their whereabouts. He smiles and jokes at everyone, but Tryndamere knows it is a mask to hide pain and guilt, as he blames himself for abandoning his family.

Veigar, the small Yordle who has gone mad. Solitary confinement is a dangerous thing for his race, and it turned him into a twisted, evil monster who has learned the black arts.

Kayle, the savior for her people. She has bought so hard into her ideals that her sanity is compromised, convinced that she is now to play God on whoever she sees fit to live in the name of justice.

Tryndamere closes his eyes once more, allowing the ancient vision to come to him once again, the rage to flow through him one more time. Outside of the arena, he is King Tryndamere, married to the beautiful Queen Ashe, brave leader of his people. It is all for show, he knows. The marriage to Ashe is political; linking the King of the Barbarians to the Queen of Freljord. If it doesn't deal in business, they do not speak to one another. Outside, he is a noble king.

In the battlegrounds, he is simply a barbarian, a warrior, fighting to stay alive. Politics and the like mean nothing in here. It is pure aggression, unadulterated fury on his part, to bring his enemies to his knees.

The bell tolls, and he feels himself summoned into the arena. Standing, he runs to his position. Another battle, another game, another kill. When it is over, he'll go back to his home, go to his room, and sleep on the opposite side of the bed as his wife. The next day, he will do the same thing again.

None of it will bring his parents back. But by now, he knows nothing else. Nothing but blood.