With Judgment periodically circling above, scavenging for and distracting patrol, the beggar of a mouse, soon swelled in sickness, giving rise to a lineage of incestuous flesh and frail bones, quickly molding into the husk, Xaron had grown both weary and fond of. The peripatetic wanderings for the monk had finally evolved in its spongiform fruition, congenitally unearthed and cornered by the now fully bearded man, clothed by Minotaur hide, leaning heavy on a dragon fang as a staff. 

Bound akin to a brazen serpent to a pole, fettered only by rope, Torus whispered to Leosin.

[color=ed1c24]“The stint to sunder this wound has come…”[/color]

A quiet interruption soon befell the ears of the pirate.

“And force me to abandon my task?”

The druid, accustomed to the Sisyphean oblivion, irreverently birthed an academic inquiry, assuming that the man before them, would require an emergent liberation. Brannor already had departed alongside the green blood, weapons in hand, back to salvage what was lost amongst the horde, the victims of the promised rise of Tiamat. Her phenomenal mind thrived on harnessing and manipulating a striated cerebrum’s full potential. 

To contract and to spark. 

She was tempted to seep and possess a younger corpus, but felt the will before her would not be as quiescent as the sailor from Chult.

[@Hekazu]