Rengar plucked the bit of paper out of the Demacian's hand, wiped his claws on the back of his cape, then planted a paw on the back of his head and pushed his face down into the bloody mud. Didn't want him screaming any. In part on account of stealth, but in part just because he found these days he didn't care for the sounds of prey dying. If it had to be done, to sate that innate bloodlust inside, so, so, but he didn't need to hear about it, thank you very much all the same.
The Demacian in question had been big bastard, and he'd certainly looked the hero; big-knuckle brawny and heavy-jaw handsome, his long hair, his blunt nose, his eyelashes to their tips all the colour of melted chocolate. He wore more yellow metal than a princess on wedding day – a silken sapphire scarf wrapper around his thick neck, golden bracelets at his meaty wrists and fistfuls of rings on his calloused fingers, every part of him buffed to a pretty shine with bluster and self love.
Alas, the bloodied, disembowelled corpse at his feet would certainly lead no more vanguards, strike down no more 'accursed villains' and most definitely woo no more lovers (except perhaps, that wretched ghoul, Yorick, but that was another matter entirely). Shoving the now-silent head further into the crimson blood, Rengar finally looked down quizzically at markings written on the scroll. If he had been able to read, he would have read the words "My trusted friend Garen, Demacia is in need of urgent aid, journey to my barracks in Crownsguard Citadel as soon as you receive this letter. Regards, King Jarvan Lightshield IV". Unfortunately, the luxuries of literacy were neglected while growing up a bloodthirsty beast in the wilderness of Runeterra, so the pridestalker merely pocketed the note and set off prowling back towards his ally, Jericho Swain, who would surely find meaning in the bloodied note.