Don't like ads? Sign up for an account, and turn off ads in Special:Preferences. Come join the LoL Wiki community Discord server! Riven is a champion in League of Legends. Innate: Riven gains a Charge for 6 seconds every time she uses an ability , stacking up to 3 times and refreshing on subsequent ability casts. Active: Riven can activate Broken Wings three times before the ability goes on cooldown, with a 0.
If Riven does not recast the ability within 4 seconds of the previous cast, the ability goes on cooldown. Each of the three casts has Riven slash with her sword, dealing physical damage to all enemies struck, resetting her basic attack timer, and ordering her to basic attack the target of Broken Wings if there are any.
First Cast: Riven dashes up to units towards the target enemy or in the direction she is currently facing, affecting all enemies around the target area units away. This cast cannot cross terrain. Third Cast: Riven mimics the first cast's effects in an expanded radius while also knocking back all affected enemies 75 units over 0.
This cast can cross terrain. Active: Riven causes her sword to emit a burst of runic energy around her before the cast time, dealing physical damage to nearby enemies and stunning them for 0.
Active: Riven dashes to the target location, though not through terrain, while shielding herself for 1. Other abilities can be cast during the dash, and Broken Wings may be cast during Ki Burst or Blade of the Exile cast times if they're used at the end or briefly after the dash.
After 0. League of Legends Wiki. League of Legends Wiki Explore. Runeterra Locations Factions Species Timeline. Short stories Video lore Books Alternate Universe. Tales of Runeterra League Animation Workshop. Lux Warmother Zed. League of Legends. Champions List of champions Free champion rotation. The bandits rushed at Riven, yelling incoherently, but she took a single step forward and repulsed them with a burst of energy from her blade.
They dropped their weapons, then scrambled to find them in the dark. Instead, she raised her sword, which began to glow an eerie green. The magic from the weapon blasted outward and repelled one of the bandits as soon as it touched him. He fell to the ground in a catatonic daze.
By this point, the others were on their feet, weapons in hand. Riven brought her arm back, and glowing pieces of metal raced toward the Noxian from the cart. The shards formed around the blade, making it look almost whole—though there were still gaps between the pieces.
The bandits rushed her again. Or so they tried. Riven whipped the blade in front of her and blew them back against the caravan with a sudden gust of wind, knocking them all unconscious. Muramaat stepped gingerly over the defeated bandits. Riven shrugged, letting the shards of her sword drop to the ground.
Muramaat stared at the remnant of the blade. Riven blanched, but her eyes revealed nothing of her thoughts. For the offer.
Muramaat nodded and slowly made her way to her caravan. When she looked back, Riven was at the fire, sitting and watching the night. The knife-edge of the plow cut through the rough topsoil, turning the underbelly of winter toward the spring sky.
Riven walked the small field behind the ox-driven rig, her focus caught between steadying the wide set handles and the foreign words she clumsily held in her mouth. Each step filled the air with the loamy scent of newly awakened earth. Riven gripped the wood tightly as she walked. Over the last few days the coarse handles had roused dormant calluses and fleeting memories.
Riven bit her lip, shaking off the thought, continuing with the work at hand. The thin-ribbed ox flicked an ear as it pulled, the plow kicking up clots and small rocks.
They struck Riven, but she paid them no mind. She wore a rough woven shirt, the dirt-speckled sleeves rolled into thick bands. Pants of the same material had been dyed an earthen yellow.
Their cuffed edges would now be too short on the man they had been made for, but on her, they brushed her bare ankles and the tops of her simple, mud-caked shoes. Without slowing her pace she wiped a strand of sweat soaked hair from her eyebrow with her sleeve. Her arms were well muscled and still easily held the plow one-handed. The farmer had gone up to the house for a skin of water and their lunch. The old man said she could stop and wait on the threshold of the shaded forest that bordered the tract, but Riven had insisted on finishing.
A fresh breeze caught the damp at the back of her neck, and she looked around. The Noxian Empire had tried bending Ionia to its will. Riven continued her meditative pace behind the plow. It had been more than a year since Noxus had been driven out, and the grays and browns of rain and mud were finally giving way to shoots of green. The air itself seemed to hold new beginnings. She gripped the wooden handles again with both hands. Riven stopped suddenly.
The plow handles lurched in her hands as the bony ox was brought up short by the leather reins. The plow kicked hard into a tough clod of dirt and gave a metal twang as a stone caught on the cutting edge. Riven tried to ease her breathing by exhaling slowly through her lips.
There was one voice, but there could be more coming for her. She fought the years of training that urged her to take a defensive stance. Instead she stilled her body, facing the plow and beast before her. Riven felt too light. There should have been a weight that anchored her, grounded her, at her side. Instead, she could hardly feel the small field knife on her right hip.
The short, hooked blade was good for cutting dew apples and stubborn vegetation, nothing more. The speaker revealed himself at the edge of the field, where the farmland met a band of thick amber pines. A wild mane of dark hair was pulled back off his face. A woven mantle was tucked around his shoulders. Riven noticed that it did not completely cover the metal pauldron on his left shoulder, nor the unsheathed blade at his side.
He was of a warrior class, but did not serve one house or precinct. He was a wanderer. Riven did not speak, not for lack of words, but because of the accent she knew they would carry. She moved around the plow, putting it between her and the well-spoken stranger.
Meant to cut through sod and clay, the blade would be more useful than the field knife. She had watched the old man fix it to the wooden body that morning and knew how to release it. His voice held the indifferent roughness of a long time lived on the road.
Riven ignored him and patted the patient ox. Riven wondered if the one who left that mark still lived. Riven felt the ground tremble through the soles of her thin leather shoes. There was a sound like rolling thunder, but there were no clouds in the sky. Six armed riders crested the little ridge and marched their mounts down to the small harrowed field.
His accent was thick, and Riven struggled to parse the nuance of language she had been trying so hard to learn. A quick breeze wrapped around the plow and Riven, sliding back into the shadows of the forest. Riven looked to where the stranger once stood, but he was gone, and the approaching riders left no time to wonder.
The riders spurred their horses into a trot, circling Riven and crushing the even trenches she had dug that morning. The leader carried a rigid bundle wrapped in cloth over the back of his mount. She gave the plow blade a final glance.
Two riders carried crossbows. She would be taken down before she reached even one of them. Her fingers itched to touch the potential weapon, but her mind begged them to be still.
Tightness quickened in her muscles. A body long trained to fight would not surrender so easily to peace. A deafening rush of blood began to pound in her ears. You will die , it roared, but so will they. You must do something. The riders halted their circles around Riven as the farmer and his wife crested the hill. Riven bit hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp pain centered her, quelling her urge to fight. She would not spill Ionian blood in their field. The old man, Asa, hobbled through the uneven dirt.
A patronizing smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips. She has committed many wrongs. The feeling of being mired, pulled down, overwhelmed her. Her pulse quickened to a shallow beat and a cold sweat slipped between her shoulders as she struggled to pull free.
Her mind was enveloped by a different time, a different field. There the horses snorted, their hooves trampling blood-soaked dirt. Riven shut her eyes before more remembered horrors could bury her.
She inhaled deeply. A spring rain floods this ground, not the dead , she told herself. When I open my eyes, there will be only the living. When she opened her eyes, the field was a field, freshly turned, and not an open grave.
The leader of the riders dismounted and approached her. In his hand he held a pair of shackles, swirls of Ionian metal far more beautiful than anything that would have chained criminals in her own homeland. Riven looked up from plow blade to the old couple. The lines on their faces already carried so much pain. She would not bring them more. She could not. Riven tried to hold onto the image, the two of them leaning into one another, each holding the other up.
It was a moment of fragile defiance before they knew something would be taken. When the old man wiped a sleeve across his wet cheek, she had to turn away. Riven shoved her wrists toward the leader of the riders. She met his smug grin with a cold stare and let the steel close over her skin. Riven could hear the taut hope in her voice. It was too much. Too much hope. The wind carried the strained words and the smell of freshly turned earth, even as Riven was led farther and farther away.
For two days after the girl surrendered, there had been nothing for Shava Konte to do but help her husband slowly repair the trampled furrows and plant the field. On the cold morning of the tribunal, knowing it would take more time for their older bones to walk the long road into town, the couple left before dawn to reach the village council hall.
Realizing her tone was more fit for calming chickens than her husband, she gave him a hopeful smile. That is all they need to proclaim guilt. Asa knew his wife, and knew further argument would not change her mind. Instead he nodded his head softly. Shava gave a dissatisfied harumph and turned back to the road, marching in silence to the town center. The council hall that was beginning to fill. Seeing the crowd, she hurried into the narrow space between the benches of the council hall to find a seat closer to the front As the old woman fell forward with a weak yelp, a groan escaped from the sleeping man.
Like a lightning blade, his hand snapped forward, his grip like steel, catching the old woman by the arm before she fell to the stone floor. He withdrew his hand as soon as the old woman was back on her feet. The old woman looked down her nose at the unlikely savior, her eyes narrowing. Under her scrutiny, the man receded further into the shadows of the mantle wrapped around his shoulders and face; the ghost of a scar across his strong nose disappeared into the darkness.
Be gone before you are asked to concede your own wrongdoings before the magistrates. He meant no injury. Leave him be. The hooded stranger offered two fingers up in peaceful supplication, but kept his face hidden. Shava moved on, carrying her indignation like a delicate gift. The old man tipped his head as he passed. She worries that an innocent soul will be found guilty before the truth is known. The hooded man grunted in acknowledgement as the old man moved on. The old man glanced back at the strange, hushed words.
The seat was empty, save the ghost of a breeze that rustled the robes of a nearby couple deep in conversation. The hooded stranger was already receding into the far shadows of the council hall.
Shava chose a seat at the front of the gathered crowd. The smooth swirls of the wooden bench should have been comfortable—they had been shaped by woodweavers to promote balance and harmonic discussions of civic duty—but the old woman could not find a comfortable position. She glanced at her husband, who was now settled patiently on a creaky stool, waiting to be called.
Beside Asa, a bailiff stood and picked his teeth with a sliver of wood. The old woman recognized the bailiff as Melker, leader of the riders that had come for Riven. She glared at him, but Melker took no notice. He was watching the doors at the back of the room. When they opened and closed behind three darkly robed figures, he straightened quickly, tossing aside the bit of wood in his mouth.
The magistrates, their smooth vestments settling behind them as they took their place at the head table, looked out at the crowded hall. The noise in the great room dropped to an uneven silence. One of the three, a tall, slim woman with a falcon nose, stood solemnly. A hum of murmurs, like a hundred locusts, began to build from somewhere in the middle of the crush of people. Some had heard of the new evidence the judge spoke, but most had gathered at the rumor there was a Noxian in their midst.
The wind technique, the magic that scoured his meditation hall was all the evidence that was necessary. Only one besides Souma himself could have executed such a maneuver. A wound, unevenly healed, opened. The hive mind of the crowd coalesced in a moment of communal pain. If the elder had not fallen, they shouted to each other, the village would not have taken such heavy casualties.
Shortly after the murder, half of a Noxian warband had slaughtered many on the way to Navori. More ESports News ».
More Food News ». More Dog News ». View all Lifestyle Sites. More Music News ». More FS Music News ». View all Music Sites. More FanSided News ». If a player feels like trying their luck, they could always roll three skins from their loot to upgrade to a permanent skin, though it's not guaranteed that Sentinel Riven will be the skin that they can acquire. Sentinel Riven Skin Splash Art Sentinel Riven, along with the other skins that will be released in tandem with this one, has the high fantasy-themed looks to it with fully animated abilities for each character too.
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