Tonight’s kill count: 1
Oh, scorpions. It has been so long since we last danced our dance of death. Did you think I had forgotten? Did you hope I had grown weak? I have been awaiting your return. I have not lapsed in my vigil. It was you who chose to hide. Who dug into the earth and told yourselves it was only a temporary grave. I have kept my hatred alight while you have hoped cold cunning might prevail. What good is the cold against an inferno? What hope has a chill against the brazen heat of my pure hate? If you had the capacity for regret I would tear you apart in front of your brothers. I would boil your families alive in the flames of my malice. Instead I leave you broken and dying among the dirt you had hoped would conceal you. I hope your corpse fares better. I wait. I hunger for your deaths. Send your kin into the rapacious maw of my seething contempt.
Tonight’s kill count: 1.
Scorpion. You tried to run. Surely you know this was folly. You were dead the moment I saw you. You persist in this lunacy. So many have died needlessly. You could come bearing an armistice in your pincers or impaled on the barb of your tail and it would matter not. These are not your lands. They shall never be your lands. I am the stone around which your tide breaks. I am immovable. Continue to smash yourself against my resolve if you will, but expect not other outcome than death by whatever numbers you are foolish enough to bring. Before you set a single chitinous leg on my property, dig yourself a grave. You will soon be occupying it.
Tonight’s kill count: 2. I thought the rains might drive more of you from your holes. These were the smallest of your ilk to date. Is this all? Children? You would send children against a butcher? Did you expect sympathy? That I might stay my hand? I am insulted. I thought my intentions were clear. My hatred writ large. I will drink the blood of your women. Your children. Your grandchildren. Their grandchildren. My thirst for vengeance cannot be slaked. I will never be sated, and consequently you shall never know peace. I will bring you ruin. You shall have a kingdom of hot ashes. Would you like a crown, your majesty? I have fashioned one from your DEAD.
Tonight’s kill count: 3. Gehenna. Ragnarok. Apocalypse. Choose a name, scorpions. Choose a name for my home. Any of these spell ruin. You continue to come. I continue to kill. My bloodlust burns in my throat. I thirst for slaughter. It cannot be slaked. Send your multitudes. Come by the dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. It matters not. I cannot ever be sated. I will butcher you. I will bring on you the end of days. I will open my mouth and from it will issue the discordant song that ends your universe. Come. COME YOU ARROGANT FOOLS. My hatred for you burns, and there is no balm to soothe this conflagration.
Tonight’s kill count: 2. Have I been unclear, scorpions? Has my message been obfuscated? Or are you simply obtuse? I am ruin. I am the executioner. I bring you desolation. Death. It is a systematic purging. There is no chaos at work here. No random pattern of misfortune. I assure you, my every act is exceedingly deliberate. There will be no armistice. I will not shirk my duty. The patrols will continue if I find you or not. You consider yourselves hunters. I am he who hunts the hunters. If you come to this place, you shall not leave. I will not allow it.
Last night’s kill count: 1. None of you seem to understand. I’m not locked in here with you. You’re locked in here with me.
Last night’s kill count: 1. Do you see what you get, scorpion? Do you see what you get when you mess with the warrior?
Scorpions. I have made my lands a sepulcher for you. My house is ringed is crystals that abrade your tiny shells, weakening your bodies as my words weaken your spirit. You are nothing more to me now than a common pest. No different than any other insect. Once you had my hatred, now you have my contempt. I spit on you. Perhaps if you had any courage I might still accord you the respect due an enemy. Is this what you hoped to show me? Is this all you are capable of? Your cowardice sickens me nearly as much as the sight of your monstrous, mandibled faces. What a pity that even with all those eyes you could not see what you were unleashing.