"Heyla!" The drunkard called Farra exclaimed, not sober enough to assume a proper fighting stance. In her eyes, she was facing three opponents that wouldn't quit swaying and shifting around.
"Share wha...?" Farra's question trailed off in a gurgling sound; not even managing to scream or move backward as she was cleaved in half. Toad was not quite so lucky; managing to emit a whining squeal and backpedaling a few steps before the useless, sniveling lout was swiftly gutted, sinking to his knees and uselessly grasping at his entrails, before simply collapsing. What a shame that he'd been too stupid to follow the simple orders that had been "unless it's me, kill anything that finds the camp."
---
Kit had finally returned to the camp, entering behind the (supposed) newcomer to their band and looking forward to a drink and maybe a game of dice, if either Farra or Toad were sober enough for it. With an armload of firewood, halberd slung casually across his back, what he was looking at didn't immediately register.
"Heyla, Toad, Farra! I see you--" That sentence trailed off into an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek as a throwing knife seemed to imbed itself to the hilt in the imbecile's sandaled foot. A pair of green arms wrapped around his neck from behind,
"Let me show you a good time," A soft, feminine voice purred in his ear. What a shame that the dumbfounded, agonized halberdier did not realize that a dagger was pressed to his throat-- not until steel bit through leather and deeply into flesh; slicing through the bumbling fool's esophagus.
Her head snapped up as a branch overhead cracked, the leaves rattling and bouncing in a manner that revealed it was not just the breeze. Rising to her feet and running the three yards that seperated her from the tree that the archer crouched in, Lycoris began ascending as the bastard finally loosed an arrow that did not
quite fly true: rather than hitting its target while the mercenary below fell Farra, it would land a mere few feet from Reinhardt.
The archer, focused on drawing and firing again, would never see if his second arrow would find its target or not. For the plant-woman's daggers would again quickly find their targets; one slicing the archer's back open at a diagonal; the other thrust into the back of his neck, just below his skull, twisted and wrenched free. A swift kick would send the archer sailing from the branch quite gracefully, like a bird of prey, tumbling head over heels and hitting the ground with a low, wet thud.
Daggers momentarily tucked into her bandages, Lycoris would descend again, carefully climbing down five or six branches. Once she was standing on a branch not much wider than her feet were, a mere four feet above the ground, she would just hop down, landing on the balls of her feet, moving to rejoin the mercenary.
"I didn't hear or see anyone else, but that might not mean anything." She kept her voice pitched low, in case she was mistaken.
