The doe slain and processed on the spit branded anger into the pirate’s heart. The cackling fire stirred an ire, which previously committed stoicism to his bound services to Nature, a law which stood as a plague to the custom of civilization. Brannor shared this deep wilderness of the soul. The elder's navy robes fringing upon the minotaur hide permitted a curiosity of nations, which deprived the sobriety of the lager of his seeming brethren. 

The offered fresh sinew on spit bastardized his senses as the bandits demanded a stance, compacting the dimensions of his morality. Liberated from Xaron’s reign, his mind was generous. Shape was true, after discarding the ursine mantle, blatant and honest as an escort’s blanket on a sinful bed. The druid subdued his wrinkled composition and fierce qualities, hoping to thrive on the invention of the ruse, which Parum had earlier orchestrated.

Thus he began upon the horrid threshold of stating nothing, gleaning the necessary information of masses fed by the slaughter of Greenest and the vibrancy between the pillaged towns. The old man ignored the arrogance couched, though hunger churned his innards. Usually, a goodberry would recalitrate against the will of famishment, resisting the pangs of the flesh of man and bearing the pains of consciousness. 

After he surveyed the Mess Hall, Torus returned to the miry road, which constrained and goaded the activities fretting the encampment. His feet directed towards the former path which led him previously alongside Rebrer, an inclination for familiarity which was alerted to the happenstances brewing. 

It appeared the hive was alive. Something was wrong.

[@Ryonara][@Hekazu][@Irredeemable][@Lucius Cypher][@The Harbinger of Ferocity]