Just before the onset of darkness, the old magician played his hand by appearing once more in the shape of a cat, whose hoarse cries and subtle meows eventually coaxed the ferine one to pay heed to the bird above once more; it confirmed what was suspect in the man's mind, that no animal here would dare to or about him without some sort of purpose. The entire camp was functional, utterly indifferent to any elements of the world outside or within it. So much so that they seemed to be, like the captives themselves, tools to an end. No greater purpose, no larger thought attributed. This dragon's cult was not only pathetic, it was petty.
Brannor, left largely to himself owing to his reputation or the wariness of the captors themselves, put himself on the fringes of the tent. One knee drawn in to rest an arm, the other outstretched, he awaited the time to strike. He counted only their torches and lanterns for his amusement rather than any practical ends, watching the fire they so chose to shield themselves with; a false ward if anything as they had let the danger stalk directly into their camp and take up roost in it. All that remained was the escape now, whenever that was to come, but the hunter knew to wait, to afford the others their needed time.
All that concerned him now was the time it would take, for each passing minute once they were to begin would make the likelihood of success all the more weak and this "Leosin" was somewhere other than here among the slave camp. Whenever and whatever they chose to do, it would need be decisive and soon.