Thirty One Attacks

Thirty one attacks.
A slice.
And the first death was blessed.

Slash.
Stab.
Cleave.

Heads fell with every slash.
Hearts pierced with every stab.
Bodies split with every cleave.

Thirty.
Black mist of grief, they cried for leniency.
The grim reaper did his job.

Twenty.
Crying goblins knelt before the approaching guillotine.
Awaiting judgement to be served.

Fifteen.
They wept with no purpose.
Their hearts were pierced.

Ten.
Empty tears fell for naught.
Their heads chopped and rolled free.

Five.
Perhaps their meaningless grief needed release.
Their lives were reaped.

One.
Last tears seeking for mercy.
And so the last head fell free.

Silence.

Thirty one goblins gone.
Thirty one goblins no longer cried.
Victorious silence.

Rei and Derrick collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. They looked at the woman in front and sighed.

Voidborn looked around.

The black mist surrounding him had faded with every kill.

But that was not the last of them.

Two left.

A pitiful, crying puppet.
And a pathetic, whimpering coward.

He limped towards the giant puppet.

Blood flowed down his arms in braided streams.

The battlefield was reaped of goblin screeches, but it was now time for Voidborn to screech.

Not the frenzied, bestial screech of a goblin, but the screech from the tip of his blade dragged across the ground.

Behind, the cowardly Shaman sniffled.
Its body trembled.
Its staff shook.
It tried to strengthen the vines, but the never-ending tears interfered with its spell.

The vines weakened and uncoiled, retreating back into the ground.

Voidborn sheathed his sword.

He bent down and picked up a dagger from his left, a short sword from his right.

A few more tired steps.

He looked up at the giant crying puppet.

It raised a trembling hand, fingers brushing against Voidborn's leg.

But the hand dropped, another sob escaping its throat.

The dagger sank into the left.
The short sword dug into the right.
The puppet roared in anguish.

Its left arm burst with pain, but all it could do was cry.

Did its tears have meaning now?

Pain?
Agony?
The fear of death?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

To Voidborn, it did not matter.

Dagger pulled out, he stabbed it higher.

Short sword pulled out, he stabbed it even higher.

Pulled and stabbed.

Pulled and stabbed.

Voidborn climbed the bugbear.

Plunge after plunge, he now stood atop its shoulder.

The bugbear had barely managed to stand.

It turned its head, looking at the human on its shoulder.

Still crying.

Unable to do anything.

Dagger and shortsword abandoned, tossed to the side.

Sword unsheathed.

The blade pierced flesh.

Voidborn drove his sword right through its throat.

Gurgle.