[center]As Thuran was about to head off on his own, the sound of numerous footsteps moving through the mud from behind entered his ears.  Quickly turning about, he surveyed the approaching group as their questions began to fall upon him.  His eyes first jumped to the face of the Siren who sarcastically responded to his earlier statement.  He eyes betrayed him for just a second as they looked over the mask that the Siren wore.  But they soon darted off to an Elven man, who was asking a question in a way that removed all doubt as to his importance.  They finally fell upon a woman befit of a pleasure den, not a war torn land.  In his mind he joked of his luck.

“[i]A warm, dry place to rest would be a welcomed luxury from this.[/i]”  Thuran responded as his eyes darted to the skies.  “[i]But I fear such a luxury would be, how do you say, a trap.[/i]”  He accent betrayed him, and he signed a sigh of relief escaped his lips as soon as he found his words.  Even after all these years he still had issues with the Eastern Languages, the simple differences in word pronunciations yet the massive differences in meanings.  Turing his body to face the Siren once more, this time eyes under control, he addressed her directly.“[i]But if a warm and dry trap is what it will take to hear the sweet songs of the Siren once in my life then a warm and dry trap it shall be.[/i]”  He finished as he gave a slight bow.  The legends of the Sirens was a common one in his homeland, though they did not have quite the fearsome reputation here that they had there.  In his home the legends of the Sirens was more of a promise to an aging soldier or an old man.  He often heard many a man speak of traveling east to be taken to the throne of their god by the songs of the Siren.  Even though he has become wiser to the original intentions of the Sirens as he spent time in the East, at least those that the common folk believe in.  He still gave the Siren a genuine Curtsy none the less.

“[i]But I think it is I you search for, Elven man[/i].”  He spoke directly to the Elven man.  “[i]I was tasked with scouting ahead for our gracious General.[/i]”  He said as he let out a small bit of laughter.  “[i]I came across this village a little while before the main body arrived, yet something fells off.[/i]”  He said as he motioned for the group to look.  “[i]There are clothes hanging on the drying lines yet, even though the rain falls from the heavens above.[/i]”  He then motioned for them to look at the streets around the houses, pointing out the market places among others.  “[i]No people walk the streets, no people remove clothing from the drying lines, and not one sign of life is to be seen here.  Begs the question, where are the people?[/i]”  Pausing as he shrugged his shoulders.  “[i]If they ran from the Mad King, why not take their clothes?[/i]”  He began to make his way towards the village.   Step after step he could feel something was wrong.  He was taught to always trust his gut as an assassin.  If something felt off he would simply postpone his targets fate until another day.  But he no longer had the courtesy of luxury, the Mad King stole that from him.

“[i]But what do I know.[/i]”  Pausing as he shrugged his shoulders once more.  “[i]I am but a simple sell-sword.[/i]”  His head turned around to those that followed, some ten in number including a few last minute additions to the group.  They looked to be simple folk who had joined up at the last minute.  His guess was they only decided to fight the Mad King so they could tell their grandchildren that they fought along side the Great King Baelnorn in his final triumph.  He knew they would not speak when he asked his next question, they were already defeated enough for them to mention their names.

"[i]But who are you that our gracious General saw fit to send off in a scouting run?[/i]"  He asked as he looked back to the village, this time eyes carefully scanning the shadows.[/center]