| abstract | - It’s not often that I am the deliverer of breaking news. I prefer to leave the “Johnny-on-the-scene” shtick to the younger lot, whose wisdom is trumped by naïveté. Mind you, I don’t mean to downplay their efforts. After all, it is upon their broken, labored backs that my salary is generated. For that, the martini of my indifference is garnished with a modest olive of unspoken appreciation. (Those of you who would assert that vermouth would have made for a stronger metaphor have no business partaking of any beverage not distilled in a bathtub.) Digression aside, it so happened that while most diligent young reporters were out “pounding the streets” or “keeping noses to grindstones” (or whatever hackneyed jargon the kids are peddling these days), I was attending a match on the Twisted Treeline. I’d nestled myself in the corner of the VIP area amongst a throng of noisy summoners who spent the better part of the pre-game festivities expounding the virtues of self-importance. Fortunately, they were preoccupied enough to afford me some privacy, a thing as rare and cherished as the overpriced hot dog I purchased from the Arena stands. The match began as one would expect, with champions from Piltover and Zaun exchanging tiresome banter and moody glares. The action was painfully dull. I'd just risen to make an early exit when the crowd around me stood in unison to a chorus of gasps and shrieks. When I turned, what I beheld was something truly odd. A File:MaokaiSquare.png tree, part of the scenery, had suddenly become quite mobile. The champions, despite often being privy to sights which would cow or at least startle the average man, seemed to be in an equal state of shock. The collectively dropped jaw of all onlookers fell lower still as the rampaging arbor slew all six champions on the map. His techniques were quite unusual. He was able to coax life into saplings, which he then hurled at his opponents, and which themselves attacked once they landed. All the while—as though walking were an insignificant evolution—the tree was talking! Unfortunately, perhaps too quickly adopting the common demeanor, he was whining incessantly about the recklessness of magic and the tragedy of upsetting nature. I admit that I have previously allowed myself to muse on the topic of sentient plants, but never once had I envisioned them so eager to return to the drudgery of stillness and the eventual promise of fueling a fire, stabilizing a cart, or housing rodents. Although the plants of my musings also didn't single-handedly dispatch a sextet of world-class combatants. Hmmm. The rowdy band of summoners who had besieged my ears since I arrived did prove of some use in suppressing the plant. Descending to the Field, they managed to overwhelm it with magic, though I’m sure it would have surrendered voluntarily if exposed to their incessant conversation. One Noxian summoner even saw fit to destroy the poor tree, but he was restrained by the others – a sideshow far more entertaining than the match. The tree was quickly whisked away to receive the League's patented poking and prodding, and I departed quickly while others lingered to discuss how they suddenly found something worth discussing. I later learned that a lowly minion summoner had given the earliest warning, stating that one of the nexuses seemed to destabilize for a moment just before the old oak made his debut. The League has issued assurances that the nexus has been examined and is thoroughly unlikely to explode, animate further flora, or otherwise kill you in your sleep. All in all, the night will remain in my memory as one marked by a lack of disappointment. (Though it withers next to the teeth-clenched, vein-popped expression on Farnsley’s face when he was forced to request that I write this article.)
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