Tonight’s kill count: 1.
You scurrilous fiend. Did you think your attempts to conceal yourself in leaves would be your salvation? Did you hope hiding beneath a bush would give you refuge from my reach? Mine is the arm of wrath. There is no place it cannot reach. Mine is the gaze of vengeance, and it burns wherever it touches. You die, and in so doing fuel my desire for further carnage. Mine is a furnace of rage, and the fuel is the death of your wretched kind.