Speaking primarily out of instinct and not from instruction, the verdant half-blood provided an explanation to the queries in disconcerting speech, only to be rescued by the Hin, who swelled a hidden ruse, seemingly only to bare to the gods looking down curiously from the heavens. The old man sensed that they were in the deepest tract of Hell, courtesy of the foreordained ruse fabricated by the cerulean adorned Halfling. This mission originated out of the necessitated mandate to strike against Tiamat and her horde. To avenge a village and prevent devastation upon other Greenests to come. 

As Parum further concocted the tale afore the interrogators, the sailor chose the blissful restraint of silence, in hopes to seduce any future foul revolt and allow further infiltration into this ambitious hive. His tongue, though, often delighted in spouting cryptography at opportune times, an infernal serpent, whose muscular guile frequently stirred up envy and revenge under Xaron’s unruly authority. She was once the mother of his mankind, priding and casting him from his cerebral haven, for over half a century. His mind, now no longer dethroned, mounted against other rebellious angels whom opted to sway it from its rightful monarchy. 

The whispers of an impious war straddled the druid’s quivering fingers, which quickly sought solace in strumming the beard below his pursed lips. His skin cackled of a bottomless perdition, aged with a hideous ruin and combustion dwelling within penal wrinkles and chained weakness. The sailor’s briny hide contrasted against a navy robe below a Minotaur pelt, partnered with the gnome skull of Yorick and other scavenged belongings. 

He stood still.

With a demeanor reserved in a slumped stance, as his eyes measured and darted the space between the mortal men and women who would judge the immediate fate of Brannor and his company.