They were all dismissed. 

However, an eerie, aching plummet of discordance in the pit of his stomach rivaled the sea sickness which once plagued most of the stowaways upon his ship, the [i]Iron Flute.[/i]  It churned the waves of acid that crashed upon the rugae of his stout gastrium. The druid sensed the ravenous appetite for zealotry and fanaticism, able to deliver the edge of unsolicited bites upon any that stood against the hoard. He hoped appealing to such insanity could lower the palisades of suspicion, but the old man remained fretted with doubt.

His dragon fanged staff, a compelling testament of his commitment, aided his frail footsteps back to the mess tent. Judgement, summoned into existence again above, forked the heavens, acclimating to the surroundings of the encampment afore nightfall.

But this time, for work. 

The pirate imagined, for a mere moment, a potential destruction of all available rations, but realized that until the safety and security of Leosin and Brannor were clinched, their escape could be compromised. Once more the flap of the make-shift cafeteria was lifted as Torus entered with a light purpose, compared to the meandering before.

[color=92278f]"My name is Torag. Morndath has assigned me here."[/color] His curt vernacular awaited their response for instruction.

[@Hekazu]