"I know you're not a mercenary group. So, what the fuck are you doing here?"

The pirate was seized off guard, slightly by the tyrannical abruptness of the inquisition. The feet of the sailor scuffled, with durst dislike his reign of his words, imbuing an adverse power against the dubious query. 

[color=92278f]“Tiamat’s hunger knows no rapture, friend. Left unbridled, her harvest will feast on all the fruits of Toril.”[/color]

The cryptic ambiguity was intentional, as Torus did not trust the young merc. He lingered for a moment, to discern whether his guide would disclose further incriminating or liberating evidence. The old man truly yearned, to shake the ark of the hooded man’s mental sanctuary, in a subtle fashion as to not attract attention nor to relinquish the previous farce, lest the surrounding propitiation redeemed with immortal revenge against those not sharing the wrath of the hoard, be forfeit. The beard and eyes swiveled its paired gaze over the encampment, indulging in the enormity of such an enterprise.

[color=92278f]“A famine quickly depletes a region of prey. Hence, predators must migrate from hill to coast to feed their ilk’s massive bulk.”[/color]

The sailor entered the Mess Hall, seeking to understand their extent of provisions or rations and to delineate numbers, by the potential occupancy of such a deranged cafeteria.

[@Hekazu][@Irredeemable]