Mort broods. If he could feel something, it would not be happiness. He does not want to go on some loony, suicidal mission. But he also does not want to eat, most of the time. To live purposefully is to act in a way that is consistent with what one wants, but what he wants, it seems, is largely immaterial to what he finds his body doing nowadays.  It's strangely transcendent, like a parable in one of Master Zhou's [i]Meditations on Mortality[/i]. Perhaps the hands of the Gods guide him, and he has truly given himself to Fate, in a true act of self-annihilation. He grimaces at the thought of six immaterial hands touching him, and he ruffles his feathers in annoyance.

He sees if there are knives in the barracks, and attempts to stock 8 knives in a carrying belt. He tries on some leather armors and light mails, to see if he can find anything to protect him while allowing him to still take flight. (Wait, can Mort fly?). Mort next looks for throwing stars. He also looks for any sort of chained, long-range weapon he can wrap around himself and fling at enemies. He bosses around some of the serving staff for clothing, camping materials, and foodstuffs. 

"And if yeh can do it, get me a strong, hard bottle of something sinful. I need a break from sobriety."

Mort also puts in a request at the local library for books on the geography of the continent, books on the creatures and plants of the continent, mythical/historical lore, and if possible, any sort of functional magical tomes. He files the request under "Mort, Officer of the Six Gods and Six Council People."

He files another request to some serving staff for some sort of pack animal or cart for the party's use. And oh, how could he forget: he needs a few bottles of different poisons. 

He then seeks out the Harpy Councilman. Or does he need to do this with his colleagues? Hmm. He grabs another innocent member of the serving staff. "Hey, where do I find wossname, Isra'fil? Tell him Mort bin Hytham wants a word."