The descent into the quiet dark was a sure enough sign that this was not death; no, something else more grounded, less surreal, and even less permanent. This was not the first time he had been here, here being alone to mind in the expanse that was the unconscious. The reality of this mindscape was that of distant echoes and subdued noises, none of which were familiar in their distortion and dreamlike ways. What few questions crossed the mind in its absence from the world outside were blurry grey things, all seemingly quite recent. Like the noises they were undecipherable, familiar in their own right as though they were to be expected, but nothing clear or visionary. The contrast was what would have given Brannor some comfort, assuming he could so much as even actively think, instead only playing off emotion and instinct to these ends.

He was not dead, that was all that was for certain.

Alas, he was not awake, or at least not for some indiscernible amount of time. When he [i]did[/i] at last come to, the crack of his tremendous knuckles wrenching their digits into the wood of the bed was his first of many reactions. The wood, creaking by the raking of heavy clawed fingers, was only overwhelmed in volume by the deep snarl that escaped his jaws upon realizing his plight of being stared at by a stranger and in a place he certainly did not remember. To friend or foe, the saliva slicked fangs bared themselves at the figure hanging upon his staff until the surprise subsided. Wisely, the bandaged man spoke in explanation of himself and just why he stared into the eyes of the tiger.

[i]"You are an unusual sort, aren't you? I am rather sure a fellow brother mentioned someone like you working with them earlier... Ah, but where are my manners? I am brother Waladra. Pardon me for intruding by your bedside so."[/i]

Brannor snorted, ears still sleek to his pale skull. Unclasping his talons by the easing of his murderous hands, the wilder paused and let go of the rest of his defensive tension, or as much as he could muster.

"Consider yourself excused," His fingers pried themselves from the wood and some of the torn material that was the bed; he looked about in the dim candlelight and came to understand just where he was in the keep before focusing again on the monk, "But why are you here?"

He stood slowly thereafter, resting one palm to the aged stone of the wall, the strangeness of his own legs working against him throughout this effort. That and it helped none the rush of power, that which fueled this change, was burning away with supernatural flames within; it was not something refined or controlled, something the young beast of men could only beseech in prayer. It had taken years to so much as even see it, let alone years more until now to so much as call it out if ever briefly. Now? Now with it fading away, held on to only by concern for the company - whose motives he truly did not know - the moontouched found himself before. Brannor trusted the seemingly crippled man was what he appeared to be, but appearances were deceiving as he himself knew. He could not let go of this ferine power, at least not weakened and disoriented as he was now.

"And where are the rest?" His voice reverberated a growl in absence of control.

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