Ricter had plenty of time to plan out how he was to go about this small mission, surely he wasn’t used to this sorda thing given his previous life but for now he was more so focused on his execution. Silently he would begin to make his way around the other end of the camp, the best place to enter from as he managed to get behind the tree of the captive moogle, she was still very much passed out and would stay that way for a bit. Using his broad sword he’d gently cut at the ropes binding her to the tree, causing them to fall down to the side and leaving her still laying against it, her posture not changing even after she was essentially free. But this wasn’t his full concern, he could grab her and run away if he liked, and none of the sleeping goblins would find out where she went, but that little show made him feel a lot less interested in their lives now.
Reaching out and picking the moogle up he would look down at them, the pain she experienced was enough to place her in shock, she was breathing but with a missing eye she’d be more than in a depressive mood once she got up. Carrying her away he would lay the moogle down on the ground, head propped up against a tree, contemplating what her or her friend had gone through. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do for that loss of life, he wasn’t god, and he wouldn’t strive to be one as the power corrupted many who wished to do good. With that wish he would carry out what he believed to be ‘just’, which from the looks he gave his own weapon, he would frown. Turning back towards the camp it was just as silent as it was prior to him releasing their captive, he’d sneak behind one of the ripped up tents, listening to the snoring that was happening he eased slowly around the side.
He could see some of their hair peeking out, not too mention how many were in each one, so he’d posture himself with his sword at the ready. Standing over the tent now as their slight movement was just from rolling around in their sleep, he’d position his sword above him, aiming down towards the goblins neck as with a plunging stab he’d decapitate them. Spraying blood along his weapon that splatted against some of the blankets and things littered inside of the bedroll as his blade had ripped through it just to cut off the head of the goblin. Once he lifted his sword, slowly the goblins head would roll along the ground, hitting a near by tree. Ricter made no attempt to stop it, much less even hide it as this was one of four he had yet to kill.
The weasels systematic decapitation was swift and he wasted no time in going to each tent, each one being the same, besides the second to last one which as he walked towards he kicked a rock by mistake. Causing one of the goblins to stir in their sleep and start to move around, he was quick to move into the bushes and stay there, his blade covered in blood while his hands were shaking a tad. He was used to death, however it was a mix of not nervousness and guilt, but rage and anguish; Emotions that rarely showed up on his face but more so in his actions. Watching, the goblin would roll out of the tent he was sharing with another, stretching and scratching his ass in the most vulgar of ways before smelling his hand, as if expecting to get the scent of roses from it. He didn’t bother to look around, but instead would make his way towards the tree’s, unzipping something before he’d let nature take its course.
This would make things tricky, and a lot more difficult now that it was a matter of waiting for some time to pass so he could sink back into the darkness of the night and kill him as well. Or another option being to attack now and risk one of the goblins being alerted, which as his hand began to stop shaking he would risk it. Walking slowly, steps making light imprints in the slightly muddy ground, he would move towards the tent, low and towards the floor, ensuring he wouldn’t be seen as the other goblin was distracted. Slipping a hand inside of the tent he would peer a flap open, coming face to face with another goblin who was sleeping still. His loud snoring was obnoxiousness, and he gave off the scent of rotting onions that fermented in cow pie’s for far too long, he was almost too repulsed to touch them but he’d do so anyways.
Grabbing them forcefully over the mouth he would pin them down as they woke up quickly, eyes shooting open to the last image they would even hope to see. He’d be able to give off one small scream of terror before the weasel would use the goblins on dagger and hack away at his throat, it was dull and had jagged edges, making this very messy. Each cut he made caused him to thrash around and mumble through his mouth, trying to bite him but his hold was too strong, eventually after the fourth cut the creature would stop moving, blood staining his hands and the knife before he dropped it and looked through one of the holes in the tent. The other one hadn’t been alerted yet, and with him just finishing up Ricter would begin to creep back and come out into the open.
Reaching out and picking the moogle up he would look down at them, the pain she experienced was enough to place her in shock, she was breathing but with a missing eye she’d be more than in a depressive mood once she got up. Carrying her away he would lay the moogle down on the ground, head propped up against a tree, contemplating what her or her friend had gone through. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do for that loss of life, he wasn’t god, and he wouldn’t strive to be one as the power corrupted many who wished to do good. With that wish he would carry out what he believed to be ‘just’, which from the looks he gave his own weapon, he would frown. Turning back towards the camp it was just as silent as it was prior to him releasing their captive, he’d sneak behind one of the ripped up tents, listening to the snoring that was happening he eased slowly around the side.
He could see some of their hair peeking out, not too mention how many were in each one, so he’d posture himself with his sword at the ready. Standing over the tent now as their slight movement was just from rolling around in their sleep, he’d position his sword above him, aiming down towards the goblins neck as with a plunging stab he’d decapitate them. Spraying blood along his weapon that splatted against some of the blankets and things littered inside of the bedroll as his blade had ripped through it just to cut off the head of the goblin. Once he lifted his sword, slowly the goblins head would roll along the ground, hitting a near by tree. Ricter made no attempt to stop it, much less even hide it as this was one of four he had yet to kill.
The weasels systematic decapitation was swift and he wasted no time in going to each tent, each one being the same, besides the second to last one which as he walked towards he kicked a rock by mistake. Causing one of the goblins to stir in their sleep and start to move around, he was quick to move into the bushes and stay there, his blade covered in blood while his hands were shaking a tad. He was used to death, however it was a mix of not nervousness and guilt, but rage and anguish; Emotions that rarely showed up on his face but more so in his actions. Watching, the goblin would roll out of the tent he was sharing with another, stretching and scratching his ass in the most vulgar of ways before smelling his hand, as if expecting to get the scent of roses from it. He didn’t bother to look around, but instead would make his way towards the tree’s, unzipping something before he’d let nature take its course.
This would make things tricky, and a lot more difficult now that it was a matter of waiting for some time to pass so he could sink back into the darkness of the night and kill him as well. Or another option being to attack now and risk one of the goblins being alerted, which as his hand began to stop shaking he would risk it. Walking slowly, steps making light imprints in the slightly muddy ground, he would move towards the tent, low and towards the floor, ensuring he wouldn’t be seen as the other goblin was distracted. Slipping a hand inside of the tent he would peer a flap open, coming face to face with another goblin who was sleeping still. His loud snoring was obnoxiousness, and he gave off the scent of rotting onions that fermented in cow pie’s for far too long, he was almost too repulsed to touch them but he’d do so anyways.
Grabbing them forcefully over the mouth he would pin them down as they woke up quickly, eyes shooting open to the last image they would even hope to see. He’d be able to give off one small scream of terror before the weasel would use the goblins on dagger and hack away at his throat, it was dull and had jagged edges, making this very messy. Each cut he made caused him to thrash around and mumble through his mouth, trying to bite him but his hold was too strong, eventually after the fourth cut the creature would stop moving, blood staining his hands and the knife before he dropped it and looked through one of the holes in the tent. The other one hadn’t been alerted yet, and with him just finishing up Ricter would begin to creep back and come out into the open.