The cultist camp, illumined by the ever burning sky candle, glowed warmly in the midst of the white bonfires settled in the chasm’s encampment. The bear, heralding a savior upon its saddle and a trophy in their midst, entered, hoping both Parum and Orchid could uphold the façade, if bombarded with scrutiny and inquisition. Torus recovered from his growling consternation and led them ignominiously into the outer ring of the grounds. A chill wind blustered, nipping his fur sharply and bit with striking venom into the tuft of his neck which the half-blood employed as reins. 

He eventually stood still, attempting a soporific appearance as someone interrogated their presence and purpose. The frost of the situation soon drove the sailor to paw the soil nervously with his hind feet. Miserable and disconsolate, the ursine mule wandered and wondered with his thoughts, about the many tents and the strength in number and magic. Here and there, savage draconic fiends rushed and bristled the corners of his peripheral vision. His neck hair snarled, but instinctively released them unmolested. 

To his astonishment, they had disappeared quickly into the maze of their portable gazebos and pergolas. Again his mind digressed, aimlessly circling the logistical hierarchy of the marquees and bivouacs seen. Suddenly the soil gave way beneath his fore legs and he sank down. Something wriggled under his feet. His attention sprang back unconsciously, bristling and grimacing, fearful of the unseen and unknown. 
A friendly whiff of fetid air ascended to the omnivore’s nostrils, and there, curled up under the blanket of the sun. His brain whined placatingly, squirmed and wriggled to not show his good will and intentions, and even ventured, as a false bribe for peace, willing to lick the barbarian’s face with his wet tongue, suggestive of a domesticated pet. 

Another lesson. 

The day had been long and arduous, and his body slept soundly and comfortably, though the wildshape sneered and grumbled with the bad dreams before him. Nor did he open his old green eyes till roused by the noises of their ruse forsaken. As the Hin guided them deeper, the furry wall internally pressed upon him on every side, and a great surge of fear swept through him.

The apprehension of a trap.

It was a token that he was harking back through his own pirate life to the existence of his possessor’s forebears in Amn. For he was an unduly civilized criminal, and of his own experience knew no con could snare itself, unless one donned the noose himself. The muscles of his large corpus contracted spasmodically and instinctively, the follicles on his shoulders stood on end, and with a low rumbling sneer, he continued to lead the bound Brannor, straight up into the blinding day.

A shout eventually hailed their formation, arresting both the anxiety and curiosity, bringing an end to this fool's brigade, in one fell yell.