Swain skins

An usurper has joined us, dear Wolf. A man who grasps for power far beyond his reach. He fails to see his folly. How will he adapt to his new surroundings, now that he is no longer in control? We will be watching him closely… as we give chase.

An esteemed warrior and strategist, Swain brings his refined taste and unparalleled attire to both the hunt and the Gala. Menacing and dignified with a dash of disdain, his competition fears him when he hits the runway. Although he'll do whatever it takes to secure his victory, he lets onlookers know that fashion is what really matters.

The Hunter Swain made no acknowledgment of his fellow leaders and was the first to put himself forward. He desired the Aurora's blessings to better provide meat and pelts for his people. After making his case, he gave the smallest of bows to Polaris, who watched with a face as serene as moonlit ice. Satisfied, Swain stepped aside and waited for his gift.

Swain knows how important the alliances formed at the Festival of the Crystal Rose are… and how fragile. His determination to see the event go perfectly has gained him a connection with Zyra, the Rose's protector. With her help, he intends this to be the most successful festival ever—and that he will be celebrated as its architect.

The hextech artificer known as Jericho Swain is an almost legendary figure among Piltover's growing upper crust. Though he professes not to meddle in city affairs, he has been quietly integrating various hextech components into his own body… and with them, unparalleled access to the eyes and ears of thousands of artificial creatures.

Seeking to turn the very essence of dragons against them, the great Dragonslayer Swain battled beneath the earth for the souls of ancient, long-dead wyrms. In his hubris, he was consumed by their power, emerging a corrupted thrall of the monsters he once swore to destroy.

Swain, though a mighty leader of men, was no match for the ancient demon slumbering beneath Noxus. As dark energies flowed through his once-human body, the new Grand General gave his first decree: “Kneel before me, or die.”

They could have sent an army—twelve helicarriers boasting hypercoil cannons, pulse-jumping shocktroopers, and mechs to carve through the ice. But instead, a lone, grizzled veteran striding across the tundra. Some things are better left to the Grand General.

What is a ruthless dictator to do, when he tires of the burdens of empire? It's a pirate's life for Swain, m'hearties! Plying the seas outside Bilgewater, his flagship, the Beatrice prowls—searching for storm wracked and serpent-choked vessels, each carrying the promise of plunder and souls.