Skulking in the dark

I didn't encounter the next person right away.  The cave was lit by lantern and candle and torch and I'm sure that the current owners thought it well lit indeed, but the shadows were deep and long and despite the sound of my hammering heart and the smell of my sweat, I was not seen skulking about.

The cave descended and I felt the weight of the mountain settle around me and did not like the feeling at all.  I almost turned back, but the part of me that did not want that killing outside to have been meaningless drove me deeper.  I passed a few tables and chairs, one or two with pickaxes resting nearby. Maybe a hundred feet inside the cave opened up into a natural cavern worn by water and time.  About ten feet below me was a pool of water that stretched to my left as far as the light reached.  Across the cave a set of wooden stairs led down to a small ledge where two men were resting next to a cookpot and some sleeping rolls.  A wooden bridge crossed the watery gap to the stairs and deeper into the caves.

The two below were oblivious to the cave entrance, so I moved into the shadows of the bridge and started across as quietly as I could.  Neither of them appeared to hear anything..one kept sleeping while the other never looked up from his cooking and muttering.  By the time I reached the far side of the bridge I was soaked with sweat.  I could hear more voices from deeper in the cave and fear was a real problem.  I pressed my sweat-soaked hands into my clothes and drew my knives and I inched closer.

I don't know what I did wrong or what noise I made.  Maybe he could smell my fear too.  Whatever the cause, the cook perked up with me just out of reach, twisting his head to investigate what he'd heard.  The deep "Huh?" he started to voice turned into a gurgling grunt of pain when my fear-filled approach turned into a panicked rush.  The sleeper stirred, and I heard him mutter, "Hey, Jorge, food ready?" drowsily.

Jorge.  The man had a name now, and that made it worse.  Jorge fell back with a thud, his throat torn by a hasty, lucky cut that kept him from crying out.  I watched him, Jorge, try to gasp for air.  His face turned and his hand started slapping the stone frantically.  The sleeper grunted and started to sit up and I was angry again and never had a chance to learn the sleeper's name before my knife found his spine.

Jorge continued to suffocate, or drown, and I didn't care anymore.  I plucked a nice looking dagger from the ground nearby and moved up the stairs again, sneaking deeper into the cave for more prey.

The human finished dying.  Good riddance.