His hands held precision. The blade flipped upon his palm, deft digits curling lightly around its textured grip. Three of his knives were already lodged within the center ring, outlining the crimson mark which would receive his fourth. Index and thumb grasped the silver blade whilst his eyes honed in on the inanimate victim. His arm swept upward, dagger poised beside his ear before the swift backward wrench and forward release. The weapon struck home, its sharp point embedding itself within the core as commanded. Esca often chose luncheon to occupy camp outskirts, where the majority of camp settled among the mess hall-- or in this case, evaded the masses of ‘moving day’. Yet, an uninvited presence arrived to interrupt his ritual. His gaze failed to greet them, his attention instead plucking a fifth knife from the table.
