Glad tidings from the castellan had finally arrived upon keen ears. 

[color=ed1c24]“Mr. Lake 'as said he wants ta come with ya though, so take that as you will. Now follow me, let's get tha job started.”[/color]

Mr. Lake had offered his hypnotizing services, in preparation for the daunting pilgrimage to one of the many houses dedicated to the Great Mother, where Falconmoon sheltered a portion of Greenest, confined within the temple against the darkness abroad. This sister of Sylvanus was formed alongside Toril, upon the forge of the ancient clashes between Selûne and Shar. She safeguarded the summer with the gardens that thrived beneath its hot sun, whether it be full of chaff or wheat. 

[i]Sinner or saint.[/i]

All deserved those rays of hope bestowed by Chauntea, including those incarcerated, against their will, within her sanctuary. Wanton destruction was antithetical to the cycle of life, preached by her followers. The sunrise was the demarcation where a cleric should make entreaties to discern the will of Jannath. Unfortunately, dawn would likely be too belated for those dwelling inside her shrine’s walls, bearing futile fruit for the arriving coalition emboldened to rescue them.

[color=fff200]"We will be as swift as we can whilst being subtle."[/color] The divine aspirant bellowed at the entrance of the citadel’s burrow.

Despite the inebriating stench, the tunnel was less of a sewer, lacking the pumps in vogue of Joster Barbellow, a gnome king of marshwort and spadegrass. Water, in a streambed, splayed along and through the narrow passageway, beckoning fungus and gulguthra alike. The abandoned channel promised a latched gate at its goal, with a lock but no key. The faint chattering echoed slightly from the corroded shaft, suggesting the underpass was inherited by other tenants in its obvious negligence and lack of upkeep.

The pirate boomed, with palate arched, [color=ed1c24][b]“Shillelagh,”[/b][/color] whilst securing the shield on his decrepit forearm.

His dragon fang glimmered, but provided no actual radiance, its evanescence barely pervading the shadows within the stony strait before them. Lacking darkvision proved troublesome to Torus, especially with his failing eyes. His insipid palm retrieved a torch within his pack gingerly, as if calculating the occupancy of his hands, to thrust the makeshift lantern upon his dominant right or sinister, but feeble left. After some ambidextrous juggling, the flint and lamp congealed in one fell swoop along the wall, sparking and imbuing luminosity upon the fateful faction.

[i][color=00aeef]“Let us march on, and fear not the thorns in our path. Nor the stones, who shall chant along as we seek the goddess. Roses will soon blossom in the heart of this threshing as the raven shall guide us unto salvation.”[/color][/i]

As he stepped inside, leading the way with his staff and flame, the brook effortlessly parted, as if a Nile had been commanded by a freed slave.