Within the bone-souks of Kenethet an Ascendant walks.
His form cuts a path through the thronging crowds of the bazaar, its people knowing better than to get in the god-warriors way. Hushed whispers speak the name Nasus, and some offer their reverence, but this he ignores; his nose raised ever so slightly as if sniffing for hidden prey while he scans the crowd.
Sivir had come this way. And while both she and Nasus now bore the warded talismans that would hide them from the otherworldy senses that the Ascendants shared, he could not afford to stay long. Word of his presence would spread, quickly, and he would not have more innocents slaughtered in the Butcher's pursuit.
Nasus finds not his quarry in Kenethet, but in the crowd, a flash of purple.
The Void? This far out from the Sai?
There could be no mistake, Nasus found as he approached: the rune-marked purple robes that adorned the man; the aberrant energies that surround him, keeping those bare feet above the scorching sands; and those eyes, clouded pools of unholy light that all at once saw nothing and saw everything; eyes he'd seen in the frames of his broken brethren, ruined in the sealing of the Great Rift ages ago in Icathia.
At the sight, centuries worth of grief is torn once more from the Curator's heart, and his eyes flare a violent purple.
"YOU." He bellows, wispy trails of violet trailing from the Ascended, while simultaneously gathering about the target of his ire.
In that moment, he is curator no more. He is jackal-headed Death, the arbiter to which all Shurimans were bound, the one to deem who is worthy of a peaceful afterlife, and who an eternity of suffering. Onlookers quail at the sight, quickly vacating to leave the two standing alone between the stalls.
And so the Curator's war-axe is swung from his back, the gilded blade tracing a wide arc to end in a point at Malzahar.
"Give me one reason not to strike you down where you stand, void-touched."
@void-grasp
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