There was nothing more to be said once they removed the evidence of their den's location, barring the blood shed that now nourished the grass. If the enemy was to venture here foolishly again, then perhaps that would be an omen as why to reconsider; all that seemed to remain of a band of their fellows was little more than memories and staining red froth. They had, in their own way, stumbled into the lair of the beast they sought so desperately to fell, but the keep and its defenders had ran them off, rather through, again. How many times would they need be so viciously routed before they realized they were wasting their time here? If they were wise, they would slink off into the night before Greenest's returned favor was made manifest, for at least then it would likely never fall upon them. Just how long would it take for the lord of this land or even its crown to send retribution?

Days? Weeks? Months?

None of this was ever a thought or concern for the outlander, his thoughts preoccupied more with the hope that these kobolds and their seeming human masters would be dissuaded by the casualties sustained and how many times they had been driven off. They were tiresome and pathetic, still proving to be little more than armed brigands and draconic rats. Yet what changed Brannor's ambiance of mind was the sudden willingness of the Chauntean priestess to gather up her quarry and ferret away with it. Almost as though they were a collective, the others gathered in following, with the salt crusted sailor bringing with him an ominous orb of crimson brine and sickly water. This was, in its own way, more welcoming than if it were blood, for the scent of it was fetid rather than clean with iron and not nearly as depraved in concept.

First it was unclear just what he intended to do with it, but the evidence only mounted as crude tools were brought forth and the captive chained in a manner that was inherently unsettling to the man. He caressed his densely stubble face with a glove, looking over the sight before him. It seemed people of the "civil" realm had different notions of what interrogate meant and, being unfamiliar to the true worst man had to offer, Brannor knew nothing of what torture in fact looked like - just hearsay of the cruel mechanisms involved, those same that had begun to appear before their lot. There was an unsettling attribute to it that drove the feral instinct in him mad, for it was one thing to be caged and bound, but another to be mercilessly prodded to their own death.

Knowing better than to object while within the presence of the enemy, he set a hand upon the shoulder of the cleric when she chose to seat herself in the prison's chair and await the awakening, that which would be performed by Torus. Without a word this gesture was overt in context, the same steadying one would perform with an animal that found its spirit bound up in unreleased energy. Being neither an act of approval or disapproval, just a sign for Shepard that she might have lost sight of why she was even here, he removed it thereafter. He would let the duo speak under threat of violence, at least for now, and hopefully without the protest of the halfling, lest they risk losing their leverage.

But nothing in him wavered about executing the enemy outright rather than leaving her to suffer a long, labored death at their hands.

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