Spirit Blossom Alistar by Foxiny

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Spirit Blossom Annie by Ruby May

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Spirit Blossom Aurelion Sol by Saya Sundown

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'Liminal' - An Aurora Tale by aevallare

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Character(s): Aurora, Kindred, Ornn
Additional tags: Spirit Blossom Universe, Grief, Death, Identity Crisis, Autistic Main Character, Body Horror

        Aurora has never fit anywhere.
        Vastaya rarely fit outside their communities, but for Aurora, it was this way always. Each day was the Spirit Blossom Festival, though she didn’t find her way to Ionia until long after her death. Akana, Kanmei—Aurora never had names for them before her demise. There are other names for the spirits, but Aurora never made any distinction between the two.
        When a journey’s logical conclusion proved fatal—when she died—
                —
        Aurora was always split down the middle, equal parts bound to the material and spirit realms. When her life ended, she didn’t so much as flinch at the idea of leaving the material behind. She embraced the spirits with open arms, and the spirits embraced her back.
        But even in death, wolves have teeth.
        Ornn called her the witch between worlds, once. He said it gruffly, all the while hammering away. She misses him, a prickly beast (but don’t call him a bear!) who thawed when given a chance. He was all but family.
        The witch between worlds. The spirits took the name Ornn gave her literally.
        When her corporeal form dissolved, a masked child appeared before her.
        “You know what it is to be two.”
      The beast’s mouth was silent until its fangs dug deep into the nape of Aurora’s neck. Teeth brushed against spine and the wolf tore downward. Her skin split, but she stayed whole, fractures housed in totality. Aurora might have screamed, but it might have reverberated in the shell of her mortal form. The fangs stabbed through her vertebrae, but where she expected paralysis, new consciousness took form, two times her own.
        The quivers came first, Aurora’s fingers vibrating. She ran her hands down her face as if looking for seams where the child or beast might have sewn her back together, but the wolf nudged her side as it brushed past her, almost kind in its violence, and the child tilted their head at it before meeting Aurora’s eyes, pupils barely lit behind their mask.
        “Wolf did not have to do that,” the child said, “but…” They trailed off.
        “But,” Aurora said, voice creaking from lack of use. How long had it been since she spoke? “They were lonely.”

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Spirit Blossom Aurora by StarWolfskin

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Spirit Blossom Braum by luc_blue

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Spirit Blossom Cho'Gath by M0nsterR4bbit

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Spirit Blossom Draven by Xerari

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Spirit Blossom Fiddlesticks by M0nsterR4bbit

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Spirit Blossom Fiora by Aiku Alcea

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Spirit Blossom Garen by Xerari

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Spirit Blossom Graves by ZokuiScott

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Spirit Blossom Gwen by nymvey

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Spirit Blossom Jayce by ARIES

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Spirit Blossom Jhin by Minakorii (Marina Quinart)

illustration features cameos of seraphine by celaeth, sivir by dyzntara, kha'zix by shattersound

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Spirit Blossom Jhin by Amirah

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Spirit Blossom K'Sante by Scrapbunny

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Spirit Blossom Kai'sa by 7Yukei

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Spirit Blossom Katarina by FallenWonders

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'Spirits move uncertain' - a kayn tale by uatismemos

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Character(s): Kayn, Rhaast
Additional tags: Character Study, Non-Graphic Violence, Identity Issues

        Ionian children coming of age are told the tale of the crossroads: those who stop before them are greeted by a mysterious but familiar spirit, cloaked in the images of possibility. Inevitably, a choice has to be made. It’s a lesson in never looking back, to decide resolutely between the two futures. To make a new choice is to martyr the other, and the Wavering Volition is always waiting by the crossroads.
                —
        The Spirit World is a neutral place: it accepts more so for its lack of rejection, embracing all its people, devotees and castigators.
        Ionia whets itself on culture and folklore. Though many schools of thought have sprung up time and time again, the predominant way of life is built on secular teachings: honour tradition, live in harmony, coexist with nature and magic, and to never, ever spoil it. For all Ionians are children of the First Lands.
        This itself is a choice.
        Still, just as mortals live and die, as the march of time carries on ceaselessly, choices have to be made. Sprouting from desires, labelled as missions to purposes, greed and selflessness forever entwined; it takes a conscious decision to determine which of the innumerable paths people will call their own.
        Just as how the Taker heralds the end to mortality and how the Gatekeeper would guide the moribund to their final rest, both benevolent and malicious spirits are what await the dead, souls who have passed from the waking world into the Spirit Realm. In contrast to them, the Volition is a sojourn for those wavering, alive It arrives to those who have not yet trodden along their full journey, a gentle push towards their next stop. There is no hint of what’s to come, only a reminder to children to sharpen their will on the road they walk.
        It is nature’s law for choice to proceed in its starkest, basest form.
        Once, stories tell of the spirit as a lost child. Separated from his homeland, those who come across the child will see him wail with inconsolable sorrow and loss, and point towards an unbreachable darkness. At the end of the path, where light will once again greet their sight, the child will bid farewell with a grateful smile. It is said that the ones who grasp courage and carry the child to his destination will find themselves blessed with a newfound resolution.
        As war rages through the land, the need for choice hangs heavier. The balance tilts in an indecipherable direction. While the folklore of warriors and obsession are told with grown fervour, the story of the child has lost popularity in childhood homes and memory alike, long buried with dreams of peace.
        It is impossible for spirits to die, for it is in their very nature to be deathless. However—their physicality incorporeal, existing outside of time and space—they can be reshaped.
        It is from this that the Spirit of Choice is reborn.

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Spirit Blossom Kog'Maw by RaptorKizzie

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Spirit Blossom Leona by YuQing

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Spirit Blossom Lucian by Giru (Luv)

collaborative illustration with Spirit Blossom Senna by d3adseas

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Spirit Blossom Lulu by littlelolz

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'Forever Friends' - a milio tale by Rupebutreally

in collaboration with blazefrostdemon's illustration of millio.

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Character(s): Milio, Fuemigos
Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst

        Ionia is beautiful this time of year.
        Milio was never calm enough to really admire it, but sometimes, on good days, he’d sit back and just relax. It was one of the unspoken perks that came with being a spirit, a kanmei in a world that constantly shifted and morphed to better adapt to the changing tides around it. The spirit world was no exception. Milio found that if you looked really closely, you could see how the moon and stars danced in a pink and purple sky, illuminated by a crystalized sun that never seemed to set. And then sometimes it didn’t look like a crystal at all! Sometimes the sky was just suns. Or it was just moons. And sometimes it looked like you were completely underwater!
        He laughs at nothing in particular, leaning back against the soft grass of the land.
        His fuemigos bumble over him, rolling in the pastel coloured grass. A few of them press against his arms while one is a bit more bold— it sits right on his chest, trilling happily.
        “Hey, little guys!” the spirit says brightly, patting the smaller souls with his hand. They’re cool to touch but they purr like little cats, effortlessly happy with the young kanmei’s care. They roll around leisurely, and Milio sits up, sweeping them all up into his arms. “Take a look at that!” He says, looking up at the sky, and his fuemigos turn to look too. The pink moon makes the lands look like candy, the blades of glass glimmering endlessly as the sun sinks behind the tall hills of Ionia. “The sky is so pretty today,” Milio tells them. “I’m really happy we get to watch it together!”
        His smile falls a bit, and when he glances down he finds one of his fuemigos, an older soul with a sleepy expression, looking up at him already.
        Milio sighs heavily, standing with his little friends in his arms.
        “But this is goodbye for one of us,” he continues, allowing all the fuemigos to float back down to the grass save for one. He holds up the sleepy soul, shaking him around fondly as he grins. “Gomoso! You’ve been with me for so long! But something tells me that you won’t travel with us anymore, will you?” He asks, and when Gomoso trills sadly, it’s all he needs to know.

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Spirit Blossom Nasus by Foxiny

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Spirit Blossom Nilah by Quinni

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Spirit Blossom Nunu & Willump by Castorinx

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Spirit Blossom Nunu & Willump by ItsBurntToasts

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Spirit Blossom Renata Glasc by lacrim_iris

with illustration cameo's of fempired's mordekaiser and astrid's udyr

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Spirit Blossom Rengar by WildTapioca

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Spirit Blossom Samira by Piper Loan

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Spirit Blossom Senna by d3adseas

collaborative illustration with Spirit Blossom Lucian by Luv

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Spirit Blossom Sivir by Amber

featured in minakorii's spirit blossom jhin illustration.

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Spirit Blossom Sona by DrSassy

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'Nevermore' - a sylas tale by Strawbeary

in collaboration with angelwing's spirit blossom sylas.

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Character(s): Sylas, Lux
Additional tags: -

1 Sylas
        People say you get to see your whole life when you are about to die. Everything you did, everywhere you went, every person you loved — they will all flash right in front of you. Is that supposed to make you feel a bit of warmth in the final hours?
        The sun is slowly descending into the mountains. I took a good look at everyone that had gathered in front of me, most of them angry, some disgusted. I have been hanged and shackled here for almost a week now. There is one child that comes here everyday. He just stood there, right in the corner by the lamppost, staring at me silently with fierceness. He did not come today. Did I disappoint him? Or was he satisfied with the number of nails that had punctured my body?
        The sun is finally consumed by the mountains and the crowd disperses. I lower my head, waiting silently for the dawn of my own…
        I saw a reckless kid, growing up as a prisoner of war, picking fights among the prisoners that were twice the size just to create a moment of chaos to let everyone in his cell to escape. They all got hunted down shortly after. I saw an angry teen, full of hatred, with such menacing eyes, but can only comply with the orders given by prison guards, digging rocks and minerals deep into the darkness. Slowly those fierce in his eyes turn into disappointment, into pessimism, and then apathy. He long forgot the color of the sky and the scent of the rain.
        As he was about to end his pathetic life, he met a young princess. The naive princess, perhaps blinded by love, showed him a path that does not end up being in chains. He did not let go of this chance. He unleashed all of his anger and wrath to make it out of the prison that had caged him for far too long. As he stepped out of the prison, he saw a different world. People were cheering him on as they helped him take off the chains. But in the meantime, he was forced to put on another chain — he became “Sylas”. At first he thought it’s not bad to start a new life with a new name. He already forgot his old name anyway. But this name also comes with ambitions, chaos, and responsibilities. He became the lead figure of the rebellious faction against the corrupted empire. He became the vanguard that creates mayhem all over the city. He became the leverage on the negotiating table between the oppressed and the oppressor.
        He is Sylas until he is not.

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Spirit Blossom Sylas by Angelwings

in collaboration with strawbeary's tale of sylas 'nevermore'.

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'Remembering' - a talon tale by shxmes

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Characters: Talon, Ahri, Sett, Nidalee, Cassiopeia, Yone
Additional Tags: character study, angst, other characters but very taloncentric, talon has issues, helps if you know spirit blossom lore.

Part 1: The Fox
        After a very long time the blossoms bloom again, and all the old stories spring out of hiding, and Ionia is not the same as it once was. The mortals are desperate to relive the years before war had been sown on their soil. They miss their loved ones, they miss the flowers. Life may be different but war has always come and gone, these mortals just don’t remember it. The spirits themselves remain unchanged, except one.
        They mingle amongst the Ionians, hiding in the cool mist that bleeds in from the coast. To a trained eye they’re almost glowing, surrounded by an otherworldly, twilight haze; fathers and brothers and mothers and sisters and great aunts and people who died too soon and others who took their time, all gathered in the same place. They’re waiting for their loved ones to find their blossom, so they can catch up on all the years they’ve missed.
        To an untrained eye there is no one except flesh and blood Ionians celebrating the festival, which is in full bloom just like the flowers. The village streets are clotted with people returning home, vendors selling goods, and performers reenacting all of Ionia’s oldest fables, whether by puppets, shadows, or the musical ache of an accompanying flute. The fable in question is not amused.
        “How does it go?” An old man is perched on a stool, picking at a wire harp, his beard long and impressive and tied in three places. “Once there was a young fox, born in the high mountains by Thanjuul’s summit—”
        “It wasn’t the mountains,” Talon says, sharp as glass. “It was the coast.”
        The old storyteller is unable to hear his correction, and the surrounding spirits shuffle their feet awkwardly. They just want to hear the legend, regardless of how poorly it’s being recalled. The best part of a story is often the voice it’s told with, and this teller has a good voice, rich with color and feeling and age, carving a world out of words the same way a woodweaver sings a home out of branches.
        “It’s only the first day of the festival,” Ahri reassures. “They have time to get it right.”
        The mortal storyteller is still going, unaware that he’s being talked over.
        “One day the snows fell down the mountainside, and the fox was—”
        Talon scoffs, disgusted. “What a liar.” He turns away from the storyteller, tossing his head like he doesn’t care, but Ahri can detect bitterness still, hiding in his hunched shoulders.