Drawing blood, from the helpless and hapless prisoner, demarcated the situation perfectly, constraining the righteous fury of the cleric to symbolize as a beacon to all those that stood between them and Tiamat's hoard. The furry kerchief over the ursine druid, begged curious laughter from the enveloping trees and forest, as the green barbarian nonchalantly followed his stomach’s orders, once his brawn was no longer required. Carefully, with energetic firmness, looking, with a changed and inspired expression, at the spot where Brannor motioned over and stood, after loosing an arrow, the brown animal trotted slowly to the previous weapon's cache. 

Something seemed not right. 

The kobolds had fled unscathed, but were mythic in their talents to regroup and outmaneuver others with treacherous tactics and numbers. Such menaces forced the old pirate to remain in the shell of the bear for a moment longer as the battle's song grew brisker and the time duller. 

A decision was to be made.

They were to either seek the route of either the rear guard, or to race further ahead in earnest quest for the monks’ bequeathed master, Leosin.

His paws cinched strings of dirt and leaves between each gritty claw, snapping branches in his wake. The ground appeared littered by someone who was gathering firewood to bolster their recently interrupted meal. Rearing on his hind extremities, Torus wailed in an imploring tone; exhaustion had already riddled the youthful beast’s demeanor. He bore teeth and smiled seriously. His semblance mimicked both a naive and precise attitude, as if he was in a youngster's dilemma, not participating in a foreign folk dance, awkwardly hugging the perimeter as Orchid feasted. 

The raven cackled, as its woolly throne, below its talons, sat itself. The fowl fluttered its wings waiting to strike a chord of balance and vigilance, in case enemies were to unexpectedly recede back into the camp. 

It was an odd scene.

The bear did not seem to want to throw off the avian shawl from his left shoulder, imbibed with the need to wait for the half-blood to finish his meal. Until complete, the sailor remained eager to send again Judgment into the heavens as a flapping guillotine.

Or better yet, a soaring omen for those perceptive of their impending hunt.