Sephiroth waits a minute or so, silent. Whether or not others thought he was good for anything else, he knew his purpose. And that ... wasn't finding this entertaining, unlike the other two, apparently. There's blood on the air before the sweet tones of an unfamiliar whistle, and Ardyn's kill is only adding to it.

When the boy finally leaves his chosen spot, it's to bar exits with whatever he can move quickly and quietly, strew hazards on familiar paths, tip bandit weaponry out of easy sight and upend a few barrels of stolen, pungent-smelling oil in a slowly spreading stain across the ground. It wicks gradually into anything wood, anything fabric.

Sooner or later there'll be a spark. Someone will drop a candle, or a torch, or a spell..

One such lookout in a ramshackle watch tower nobody should trust, torch in hand, turns at the sound of the whistle, only to get yanked down and backwards with a muffled shout and scrabble in the darkness, the torch clattering to the rough wood floor of the watchtower. It'll take a few to ignite, but that's inevitable too.

Sephiroth hasn't joined in the killing. He's got a different prize over his shoulder that's bound and gagged with an oil soaked rag, kicking and cursing as best as the bandit can in his situation. It doesn't seem to matter the bandit probably outweighs him by a hundred pounds, it's not slowing him much. The man is gently, carefully set out in the open, where the entire camp is in view, where he worms and tries to scream warnings behind his gag.

The point is sending a message, isn't it? A messenger has been picked.