The act of cleansing a blade was as much a ceremonial process as one would employ upon their self. The ordeal that Brannor undertook with it was methodical, ever so careful to not waste what little water he had to spare on it. That which he had not drunk for himself, he spent the rest upon his person, but most notably for this process; it was a thing of dedication, knowingly done and a ritual not to be scorned. As to be expected of good steel, the blade and its uncanny edge did not readily trap the taint of their enemy, but this did not mean it was not there. The illness these creatures kept in them, this bias of evil, was deeper than just the physical. Striking them down in body was only the first step - something in time perhaps he would grow beyond.

It was as true in this quality, the need to return purity to one's self and their means, as it would have been in the hunt, but where that was as much a matter of respect and function, this was strictly a process of necessity.

Allowing the water to fall to the stone floor between his boots as it followed to the point, some splashing upon the toe, the outsider examined the weapon and its length, being certain to not leave any traces of its vicious work behind. Turning it over, once and then again, he found himself pleased with the result, then resting a palm atop it where it laid flat across his leggings. Just as he had done before, he took the time to rest, to close his eyes and remove himself from these dank corridors. The excursion to the temple of Chauntea was, without question, one of the few breaths of air the man had throughout the night. It was almost as familiar just in presence and presentation as the thoughts he conjured up within his mind. Had he his instrument, perhaps he could have convinced himself he was not again here in the depths of the keep between it all.

Surely dawn was coming and with it was the near certainty the enemy disband like the vermin they were. Unless that dragon was to return, Brannor was confident their reign of terror on the night would close. They would likely be fatigued and sure of their victory, as the tides seemed to have largely turned against them throughout it; the most recent endeavor likely having been the true turning point, but what was to come next?

The man had come to Greenest days ago, following a drive he could not explain on a path he did not really understand. He knew now what he believed was correct, that his gift and mantle of the wilder things was a weapon to beat back the things that truly did not belong, but just how was he to do it? His company was not lacking, between a raging lunatic, a scorned priest, a curious elder and a wounded youth. They all had that drive within them to resist, to fight back and follow through, something the paladin needed in the days to follow surely, but just what would they do and be willing to agree to? The orc seemed to live for the thrill of it, the woman now for her faith besmirched, the raven's master for odd secrets, and the halfling out of want to set things right.

Could he convince them to continue? All of them, that was. That this was a battle far from over, one larger than just Greenest? A wicked dragon and its followers assaulting the countryside was no threat to be ignored, as many more souls were at stake, but that it seemed a cult of lesser monsters had formed around the beast.

Perhaps that was the actual "hunt" he found himself prowling in the wake of.

Or perhaps these notions were all a roiling descent into the sleep Brannor had fallen into.

[@Hekazu][@Ryonara][@Lucius Cypher][@Gordian Nought][@Norschtalen]