His stride emboldened with dignity and grandeur as he departed from Chauntea’s holy disciple, differing from the majestic solemnity and reckless hysteria that encountered Falconmoon moments earlier. Torus gripped the Tethyrian fang, adhering and suffusing his command over the staff, projecting an air of authority and stateliness. The syllabic rhythm of his footsteps did not intimate any warning of limp or frailty as he sought Kyra, who undoubtedly would risk her longevity to save another friend or capture an intelligent foe, so as to provide the necessary intel to the Governor himself. A human sympathizer or a sell-sword perhaps? Kobolds, in the druid’s experience, were savage and instinctively would provide whatever ears would engender, oft insinuating incongruity and misinformation among the ranks, misleading the authenticity of their reveal.

As the elder vigorously descended the stairs to speak with Mr. Lake about planar travel or the pink-haired cleric about the gods, he overhead the party converse with Escobert as they scampered down the lower flight.

[color=red]”I'll talk to them. But while we are going, I could share the newest information we have from out there. We don't really know where there might be people to save, if anywhere since most seem to be here. But I can tell that they've showed a worrying interest in our mill. You, if anyone, know how important it is they won't take or destroy all our food reserves. So that's all I can point you to. Or if you are out there for a shorter while, you might just run into some patrol and bring one back from there. Do what you will.”[/color]

The draconic force was seemingly more organized, now seeking to destroy any and all reserves, to starve the citadel and its people into submission.   A few days would beget suffering, wails and gnashing of teeth from the wounded and children, until ascertained appeasement either by food or by victory. Time was ever more of the essence, ticking valuable moments away. 

Once in the basement, the pirate fluttered his hood over his visage, the sparing shadows dancing as a yin-yang jester contrasted against his pale face. With the germination of an exasperated yawn, Torus’ feathered scout arose and escaped once again from the bellows of his mandibular estuary, bolting effortless past the stained gates behind his eclabium through the tunnel past Kyra, Orchid, and Parum. Trailing the troupe as the ingress sealed its reedy door, the briny elder offered again aid to the defenders of Greenest.

[i][color=92278f]“Allow my scout to farm the night. Lest we ache over an unexpected harvest and be surprisingly interrupted.”[/color][/i]