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SleepyWrites
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CrispyCryptidIt didn't feel quite right, from where the namekian was standing (or floating to be more accurate) to eradicate all the penned up space cattle while they were still locked up in the ranches he came across. Whenever possible in fact, Gastrod saw to it that the hapless herbivores were set free from their holding areas before he reduced their former livestock prisons into smoldering craters. Course his patience only lasted for so long, and so after the first ranch he hit, any stragglers that didn't heed their liberator's stern call to evacuate would meet their fate in the smoldering cavities where their homes once stood. Oh well, he gave them a chance at least.
Of course the specimens that he allowed to escape wouldn't last that much longer in comparison, as after a good few minutes, the slug man would track and hunt them down, tallying up his quarry according to the animals he counted as surviving the carnage. They'd have a preciously fleeting row of freedom in their final moments, he'd get to practice his hunting skills, it was a total win-win, as they say. Sure he got a good number of dirty looks and a tad worse come his way courtesy of the native population that witnessed his methods in action, but he took special exception to claims suggesting his plan of attack was sloppy. One of the especially rowdy hunters even had the nerve to call him a "garish, squishy-looking, two-bit sellsword". If the Grand Master had been inexplicably present to witness such disrespect, then Gastrod would see no other recourse but to slap the mouthy ingrate over the head with his own dismembered arm.
Sure it'd be a pain to grow back, but that just goes to show how seriously Gastrod views such insolence in the company of his master. Ultimately though, the namekian's hands were tied, given the lad's annoying lack of evil in his heart.
But that was then (and a pleasant, hypothetical daydream), and this is now. Gastrod had since levitated on his lonesome within eyeshot of the Scather, overlooking the smoking black pillars of the wreckages that also awaited their former owners. For now, he mostly occupied himself with munching on the juicy produce that some of the aforementioned natives had thrown his way. Picking a few sticky berries that had stuck to his shoulder pieces and lifting them up to his mouth, he pondered whether the peltings were a part of their complaints against him, or if they were actually expressions of customary gratitude, in which case - Who was he to judge? Food for thought.
Of course the specimens that he allowed to escape wouldn't last that much longer in comparison, as after a good few minutes, the slug man would track and hunt them down, tallying up his quarry according to the animals he counted as surviving the carnage. They'd have a preciously fleeting row of freedom in their final moments, he'd get to practice his hunting skills, it was a total win-win, as they say. Sure he got a good number of dirty looks and a tad worse come his way courtesy of the native population that witnessed his methods in action, but he took special exception to claims suggesting his plan of attack was sloppy. One of the especially rowdy hunters even had the nerve to call him a "garish, squishy-looking, two-bit sellsword". If the Grand Master had been inexplicably present to witness such disrespect, then Gastrod would see no other recourse but to slap the mouthy ingrate over the head with his own dismembered arm.
Sure it'd be a pain to grow back, but that just goes to show how seriously Gastrod views such insolence in the company of his master. Ultimately though, the namekian's hands were tied, given the lad's annoying lack of evil in his heart.
But that was then (and a pleasant, hypothetical daydream), and this is now. Gastrod had since levitated on his lonesome within eyeshot of the Scather, overlooking the smoking black pillars of the wreckages that also awaited their former owners. For now, he mostly occupied himself with munching on the juicy produce that some of the aforementioned natives had thrown his way. Picking a few sticky berries that had stuck to his shoulder pieces and lifting them up to his mouth, he pondered whether the peltings were a part of their complaints against him, or if they were actually expressions of customary gratitude, in which case - Who was he to judge? Food for thought.
