Ionia's lands were vast and stretched for miles beyond your eyes, plains of grasses swept and waved in winds cast by an orange sunset over the horizon. It was the kind of sky born by the purest of waters, the clouds painted across the sky by the brush of the spirits themselves. Trees surrounded you no matter where you walked, thickets of forest boundless around you. The wildlife, eccentric and ethereal, spiritual energy intertwined with the soul of every being that walked the First Lands.

Yet, it was not the land nor its many inhabitants that could catch your attention. It was a man, one who stood alone, playing a melancholic song to himself and to the wind. A blade stuck in the ground behind him detailed with patterns of wind, he leaned comfortably against it as he played the melody. His bushy hair was tied into a ponytail behind his head and a bluish scarf draped over his shoulders had a collar just high enough to hide his face. When the gale winds caught the fabric just enough to reveal his rugged features, though, it was obvious who the man was.

A scar lined the bridge of his nose, rough stubble along his jaw, pointed brows and eyes that had seen hardship repeatedly.

The Unforgiven himself. Yasuo. A man feared, hated, and most of all resented by the residents of Ionia and himself.

He continued his song, having noticed you a while ago but not wanting to break the melody.