Sivir in game, Swiss sivir in game hunting for men for nsa
Sivir is a renowned fortune hunter and mercenary captain who plies her trade in the deserts of Shurima. Armed with her legendary jeweled crossblade, she has fought and won countless battles for those who can afford her exorbitant price.
From an early age, Sivir learned firsthand the harsh lessons of Shuriman desert life. They would brave cramped tunnels and forgotten crypts, hunting for anything of value, often scrapping viciously with one another over the best finds. Sivir would lead others into the depths, but could rarely hold on to what few treasures she managed to unearth.
After being robbed by her supposed friend Mhyra, she swore she would never allow herself to be betrayed again, and in time she ed a group of mercenaries led by the renowned Iha Ziharo, serving as their guide and general lackey. Rallying her fellow sellswords, Sivir decided to strike against Ziharo, and replace her as leader. Unwilling to kill her former mentor, though, Sivir left her alone in the desert with a hollow offer of good luck.
Over the years, Sivir and her new followers earned a fearsome reputation.
Accompanied by his personal guards, Sivir searched for many months, until she finally pried a cross-shaped blade from the sarcophagus of some hero of the old Shuriman empire. This was a treasure indeed, crafted by cunning and magic in a long-forgotten age. Sivir marveled at it—never had a weapon felt so natural in her grip. When the captain of the guard demanded they return it to their master, Sivir threw the blade in a curved arc, decapitating the captain and cutting down the three men behind him in an instant. She fought her way from the tomb, leaving only the dead in her wake.
When they finally reached a great tomb door, surrounded by statued guardians and bas-reliefs depicting the mighty god-warriors of old, Sivir felt her blood stir.
She was mesmerized by these beast-headed heroes, and their wars against the foul creatures of the underworld. Sivir collapsed in agony, her blood soaking the sand.
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Using the Chalicar itself, Cassiopeia unlocked the tomb door, unknowingly triggering the sorcerous curse that had been placed upon it. On the verge of death, Sivir watched as a stone serpent came to life before her eyes, searing Cassiopeia's skin with venom. The last thing the sellsword heard before her senses dimmed were the roars of maddened gods, unleashed from the tomb to walk the earth once more….
Unknown to her, she carried the last trace of an ancient, royal bloodline in her veins. She awoke to find herself tended by none other than Azir—the last ruler of the empire, who had been denied his rite of Ascension and passed into legend.
Her spilled blood had reawakened his spirit after almost three thousand years, completing the ritual and imbuing him with all the sivir in game power of a god-emperor. She had heard tales of Azir and his prophesied return, and always thought only fools could believe in such fantasy… and yet she could not deny what was unfolding before her very eyes.
The earth split, and great plumes of dust whirled into the air as the ancient city of Shurima rose from its grave, crowned by an enormous golden disc that shone with the heavenly rays of the sun. Shaken to her very core, Sivir fled with the Chalicar on her back. While she would have liked nothing more than to return to her former life, she instead found herself caught up in the struggles of powers greater than most mortals could comprehend. The time has now come when she must choose a path, either embracing the destiny she has been given, or forging her own amid the shifting sands of Shurima.
Sivir's throat felt like it was coated in a layer of broken glass.
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The cracked flesh of her lips burned. Her eyes refused to focus. I've given them more than enough time to move on. She leaned around the edge of the boulder. The caravan was still at the spring and showing no s of moving on. Why did they have to be Kthaons? Of the many, many tribes that want her dead, the Kthaons stood out in their persistence.
Sivir scanned the tribesmen again, looking for any the caravan might climb out of the old riverbed and continue its journey. She rolled her shoulders trying to judge if her muscles were up to fighting a half-dozen men. She'd have to take them by surprise to stand a chance. Sivir shook her head, trying to clear her mind.
Now wasn't the time for those thoughts. I'm becoming scattered from the lack of water. Why didn't I bring more water? The city had been bursting with it. Huge streams poured from statues, all at the command of an Ancient. He healed my wound and saved my life. Then he returned to rebuilding the temples around him, calling out strange words in an old dialect she could barely make sense of.
Talking to himself in a dead city filled only with sand. I had to get out before that sorcerer decided to sink it all back beneath the dust — or that I owed him.
Swallowing brought fresh agony to Sivir's throat. She looked at the spring again, a simple puddle of brown water in the center of the caravan. I've given them a day, she reasoned. I will die, or they will die.
For a few drops of water or a few slivers of gold. That is the way of the desert. Sprinting toward the first guard, she readied her crossblade. Would there be enough time to reach him before he turned back around? She counted the distance. Fourteen strides. He can't make a sound.
Two strides. She jumped. Her blade sank completely through his neck, down into his shoulder. Blood erupted as she crashed down on him. Her momentum drove them behind the line of rocks on which he'd been standing. Sivir grabbed his arms.
He struggled against her, refusing to accept he was already dead. The guard's blood drenched Sivir as he took a final gurgling breath. This man didn't need to die. That Noxian bitch sunk a blade in my back. I died. That should mean something. A distant rumble sounded. A sandwall collapsing? There wasn't time to wonder what it meant. Sivir crawled across the hard stones. It won't take the rest of the caravan sivir in game to notice the guard's absence.
The next target was moving high along the ridge line. She needed to hit him before he walked away from the ledge. The shot has to be perfect. She threw the crossblade. It hit the second guard, cutting him in half. The flying blade arced upward, but as it reached its apex, it slowed before reversing its direction.
As it flew back toward her, it clipped the neck of the third man. There wouldn't be time for another throw now — the blade completed its arc, flying down toward the center of the water. She only had to reach it in time. The maneuver was an old standby. She would catch the weapon and kill the three remaining men in a single, spinning summersault. But as she ran, her feet became heavy, and it seemed impossible to draw enough air into her pained lungs.
Thirty strides. She had to make the distance before the second man's body hit the ground.
Twenty strides. The muscles in her legs cramped, refusing to obey her commands. Fifteen strides. She found herself sliding, stumbling. Not yet. Then, sooner than she had expected, the second man's body completed its fall and impacted the rocks. The sound was impossible to miss. One mistake was enough.