Ivern Bramblefoot, the Green Father
The intelligence of mushrooms dependably amazes me.
Ivern Bramblefoot, referred to numerous as the Green Father, is an impossible to miss half man, half tree who wanders Runeterra's woodlands, developing life wherever he goes. He knows the privileged insights of the regular world, and holds profound kinships with everything that develop, fly, and abandon. Ivern meanders the wild, bestowing unusual insight to any he meets, advancing the timberlands, and once in a while entrusting free lipped butterflies with his insider facts.
In the beginning of the Freljord, Ivern was a furious warrior with an iron will and undaunted purpose. Be that as it may, he was frail when the Iceborn rose to unmistakable quality and looked downward on Ivern and his kind as hapless mortals who challenged challenge their will. He plotted with his family to topple their sorcerous bosses. Ivern the Cruel and the fight solidified contingent under his charge set sail from the solidified harbors of Frostguard for a faraway land that, as indicated by legend, was the wellspring of all enchantment. In the event that Ivern could seize such a power for his own, at that point he could break the Iceborn. As the armada peaked the skyline, they cruised out of memory and into myth, for they were never observed again, and blurred from Freljordian history like tracks in the winter's snow.
The ocean, in wretched dismissal of their honorable objectives, fell on them with waves like pulverizing jaws, and shook the determination of even the heartiest of men. Ivern, subsequent to putting numerous mutinous weaklings to the sword, handled his naval force on the shores of Ionia and cruelly chop down the local protection. The Ionians surrendered, and drove the Freljordians to a holy forest known as Omikayalan, the Heart of the World. The majority of Ivern's men thought this a blessing to the winners, an indication of devotion. In any case, it was there, in that weird and verdant garden, where they met the fiercest protection.
A secretive new adversary emerged. Fanciful creatures, half human, half creature, stalked the decreasing contingent, persistently chopping down the future heros. Unfazed, Ivern proceeded until the remainders of his armed force, battered and few, found what the Ionians held so consecrated: the God-Willow, a monstrous tree, dribbling with long gossamer leaves that gleamed with brilliant green light. While his men were being butchered in a last strike, Ivern stood transfixed by the magical tree. Trying to smash the determination of his enemies, he grasped his fight hatchet, and swung at the tree with the power of ten men. He felt no effect. He didn't feel anything. There was just blinding light when he felled the God-Willow and doused all the lifeforce inside it.
What occurred next was considerably more peculiar—his hands intertwined and wound up plainly one with the fight hatchet and God-Willow's hardwood. His appendages developed long, and wound up noticeably knotty and unpleasant to the touch. He stood defenseless as whatever is left of his body went with the same pattern. Inside minutes, he was ten feet tall, gazing down finished a field of his killed friends. He couldn't feel his heart pumping, yet he was wakeful and mindful.
He heard a voice somewhere inside him. "Watch," it said.
In what felt like seconds, the bodies rotted under armies of bright mushrooms and humming bugs. Substance sustained the carcass flying creatures and wolves alike. Bones decayed into ripe soil, and seeds from organic product eaten by the victors matured and grew into trees with product of their own. Slopes rose and fell, similar to lungs tenderly loading with breath. Leaves and petals beat like vivid hearts. From the passing that encompassed him, life detonated forward in ways excessively various, making it impossible to accept.
Never had Ivern seen such excellence. Life, in every one of its structures, was tangled together like an outlandish bunch that would not like to be loosened. He pondered the missteps he'd made, the brutality he'd gone by on others, and felt a mind-boggling feeling of distress. He sobbed, and dewdrop destroys sprang on the bark and leaves that now secured his recently tree like body. Am I now turning into the God-Willow? he pondered.
At that point the voice inside Ivern disclosed to him something new. "Tune in," it said. So he did.
At to start with, he didn't hear anything. At that point: the fusses of innumerable mammoths, the hollering of waterways, the crying of trees and the dribbling tears of greenery. They regretted the God-Willow's passing in an ensemble of grieving. Regret washed over Ivern, and he shouted out for absolution. A minor squirrel cuddled at his legs. He felt the look of adjacent creatures. Plants connected for him with their foundations. Nature's look settled on him, and he felt the leaking warmth of pardoning.
At the point when Ivern at long last moved, over a century had passed and the world felt new. The savagery and cold-bloodedness of his old self were echoes in his heart. Never again would he be the man who fashioned so much obliteration. He even asked the voice somewhere inside, why him? Why was he saved?
The voice talked a third time. "Develop," it said.
This perplexed him. Is it accurate to say that he should develop or enable the world to develop? He chose it was most likely both; all things considered, who couldn't utilize a touch of additional development? Ivern took a gander at himself, his barklike skin, the mushroom on his arm, the group of squirrels concealed in the territory where his casing used to live. This new body astonished him. He discovered he could dive his toes profound into the dirt and collective with roots and creepy crawlies alike: even the soil itself had suppositions!
Ivern chose an incredible begin was to become acquainted with all the world's tenants, thus he did. It took a couple of hundreds of years—what number of precisely, Ivern couldn't state, since time flies when one is having such a decent time. He meandered the world and grew close family relationships with all animals incredible and little. He watched their shortfalls, having a great time their little propensities, and once in a while offering some assistance. He abbreviated the inchworm's way, played traps with naughty bramblebacks, embraced prickly elmarks to bliss, and giggled with wizened senior growth. Wherever Ivern went, timberlands bloomed in never-ending springtime and mammoths stayed in congruity.
Now and again, he protected animals unjustifiably injured via imprudent predators. In one occasion, he found an injured stone-golem. Knowing poor people animal was nearly demise, he molded her another heart from a waterway rock. Sticking to the convention of every single mineral being, the golem turned into Ivern's dedicated life-companion. He named her Daisy, after the blooms that bafflingly grew from her stone body. Today, if Ivern is undermined, she races to his side.
Now and then, he experienced groups of people, a considerable lot of them to some degree tranquil. They called him Bramblefoot or the Green Father and told stories of his weird altruism. In any case, how they took more than they gave, how they could be savage and human, scared Ivern, and he withdrew from their organization.
At that point the voice within him represented a fourth time.
"Show," it said.
Ivern left the forests and ventured out to meet a world covered in humankind. The purpose he'd once felt returned, yet this time it wasn't driven by noxiousness or mercilessness. One day, he planned to supplant what he took. In the event that he was called to be the new God-Willow, he expected to develop humankind, enable them to watch, tune in, and develop. Being human once himself, Ivern knew this would be troublesome, so he grinned and tested himself to finish this assignment before the last setting of the sun. He knew he would have room schedule-wise.
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