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ID: TFWHpp7z/qst/6246886#6248694
5/26/2025, 9:20:29 PM
>>6248477
>stealth takedown
>Now THIS, This is a knife
>79>25
>87>67
Your hand drifts from the grip of your Spiker. While you're sure that you could land a lethal shot on this scumbag while he's distracted with gutting his reptilian prize, there's no need to waste time digging one of the valuable bolts out of his torso. Not when you've got another solution ready at hand. Your hand wraps firmly around the hilt of your knife and it slides free of the sheath with a whispering rasp of metal on leather. Nine inches of razor sharp steel, single edged with a wickedly sharp point, more than one has met their end with it buried in their ribs. You carefully stalk forward, eyes locked on your target, the miniscule scrapes of your footsteps lost in the wind and the wet slicing sounds as the slaver saws his knife through tough scaly hide.
It's seems like just a moment and you're on the man. You can smell him, a rank stench of stale sweat and filth, the sour reek of his breath, the rich coppery tang of the blood soaking his hands and dripping onto the parched earth. Wispy, greasy hair tosses in the wind, half tucked beneath a cloth head wrap that's just as filthy as the rest of him. His skin is grimy and sun baked with the telltale pustules and lumps associated with those who spent too long around rad-zones without protection. You regard him carefully for a moment, choosing your moment to strike.
>stealth takedown
>Now THIS, This is a knife
>79>25
>87>67
Your hand drifts from the grip of your Spiker. While you're sure that you could land a lethal shot on this scumbag while he's distracted with gutting his reptilian prize, there's no need to waste time digging one of the valuable bolts out of his torso. Not when you've got another solution ready at hand. Your hand wraps firmly around the hilt of your knife and it slides free of the sheath with a whispering rasp of metal on leather. Nine inches of razor sharp steel, single edged with a wickedly sharp point, more than one has met their end with it buried in their ribs. You carefully stalk forward, eyes locked on your target, the miniscule scrapes of your footsteps lost in the wind and the wet slicing sounds as the slaver saws his knife through tough scaly hide.
It's seems like just a moment and you're on the man. You can smell him, a rank stench of stale sweat and filth, the sour reek of his breath, the rich coppery tang of the blood soaking his hands and dripping onto the parched earth. Wispy, greasy hair tosses in the wind, half tucked beneath a cloth head wrap that's just as filthy as the rest of him. His skin is grimy and sun baked with the telltale pustules and lumps associated with those who spent too long around rad-zones without protection. You regard him carefully for a moment, choosing your moment to strike.
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