It was back to work in short order, a blessing the man counted, never mind the nagging, lingering questions if they somehow succeeded or was this just the way things were going to be from here on out, assuming he ever failed to escape. The rest had all disappeared and now the man was given a far, far larger and heavier crate to move... one that was notably more silent as well. This revelation, as he hefted the wooden thing with astounding ease in the grip of his worn hands, spoke to him further than it regularly would have. Before his ears were alight with sensations, activity, focus, but now in this odd quiet, he could truly comprehend something ever more strange was afoot. Of course the voices of the boisterous mercenaries, cultists and their scaled vermin pervaded the camp no matter where he went - the enemy was everywhere after all - but this period of interlude afforded the armored hunter a means to an end with isolation of another kind.

Perhaps this was part of what was to test and temper him, that same compass unknowing that drew him to Greenest at all before the attack, that time that almost seemed so long ago before. Before a night of fires, smoke, raiders and raids, dragons and dragonkin. That before when he was wandering in search of a place to be and things he needed do there. This was no happenstance, it could not be realistically. How else would he have ended up here, a thing such as he, in the heart of the enemy's camp hidden in plain sight? The others were nothing short of divine messengers or agents, odd ones at that, likely even unknowingly outside the young priestess who had called upon a magic none too unrelated to his own. Yet, whereas she tapped it from outside, he called his own internally.

That same reserve of inner power proved to be his inner resolve, for as he dragged the crate along in clinking march with the other captives, he could not help but lift up his hope that the rest had succeeded in just whatever they were doing, yet at the same time he thought urgent thoughts of haste. It was an ongoing effort to keep all that was within retained and restrained, for it desired nothing but to burst free of the shackles and flee, no less killing anything and everything in reach, although at the same time it was just a great of struggle to not simply lash out where opportunity arose; a roiling mixture of emotions and thoughts, all of which needed to be shut out, thankfully at ease with the monotony of the work that began again.

There were other matters to focus on... the sights, the sounds, the smells, the distractions rather...

@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable

The sailor chose to converse plainly before their interrogator, hoping to not lose any with cryptic words but to entice fanaticism.

"By Tiamat’s sacred name, is there a zealot, in these trying times, who would be judged by faltering words, and not by their devout actions? We drowned the man with guile initially, befriending with peace before later engulfing him with the holy war sanctioned by our undying Queen. Between a bear, an orc, and a Hin, this so-called victor of Greenest was captured after losing his skirmishes, initially weakened by the claws of the great Cyanwrath. And later to the progeny of dragons."

His tongue quickly became clothed with Draconic.

"Is our act but a mere trifle? Heralding a defeated knight, who transgresses the Hoard, as a trophy, is this not a crown to adorn one of the many heads of our Dark Lady? It is the champion’s fate, I solemnly assure you, that I dread for lesser, undeserving harlots and heathens, who betray the glory of the Avaricious, when the reckoning of Her return consumes them with the purity of Her fire. I would rather die ten thousand deaths, than do anything out of servility towards the Empress of Dragonkind."

The pirate tickled his audience with the dénouement, but once more in Common.

"We are all slaves to our Archdevil’s will. It is folly and cowardice to cherish hopes amiss from this evil counsel. The prize paraded before us, in this encampment, is little different than any of us, for we are all simply fodder to Her ever-glowing furnace.

He stood up, feebly.

"Torag would march boldly and endlessly into and for the flames of our Mother."

@Hekazu

Morndath had to say she had not been quite expecting the sheer flood of words to leave the mouth of the old man, the waves of the verbal ruse crashing over her and trying to turn her mind over to their side like a ship in a storm. She was taken aback by all the devotion the man showed for the Queen of Dragons, but she could not just take everything at face value. Things were not really adding up here, were they? No, she would need to go over what she knew... but not before she had shown how one did not try to speak back to a wearer of purple. She extended her left arm and waved it downwards with all her fingers kept together. The guards behind everyone took a step forward, but those behind Torus also grabbed his shoulders and rather forcefully guided him to his knees.

"Your words of devotion are impressive Torag, but one does not question their superiors in our army. I do not know how Parum has handled you, but that is a thing you certainly should learn to live with", she retorted about the old man's words against her judgement on Orchid's tight-lippedness. In what had been told to her by the guard captain, the situation had been directly the opposite between the half-orc and his supposed mount. Torag had not spoken much, but Orchid, he was one Parum had to keep under control. Of course, that was very little to go from yet... but a conflict in the interests of the group also worried her.

It seemed quite clearly that Parum was here for gold. The half-orc followed her for power. Very ordinary for a group of mercenaries. But then there was this... druid, she assumed, who would praise the glory of the Queen of Dragons like his life depended on it. Hell, perhaps it did. She turned to look at Kyra, who responded by immediately speaking out of turn: "If you are to ask about my motivations, they are simple. I am to ease the suffering of my companions. No more, no less." The same gesture followed and the pink haired priestess was sent to her knees, but Morndath appeared surprisingly satisfied by her answer.

"As expected of a Cleric of something as pathetic as Chauntea", she stated with her eyes resting on the holy symbol of the cleric. Morndath then turned to Parum with a lopsided smile on her face. "So, you say you seek to join us, but to me it appears like your friend here had already made the decision to serve the Queen of Dragons herself, praise Tiamat's glory, well before you even walked in here. Tell me, just where do you think he got his idea?"

@Lucius Cypher@Ryonara - She is talking to you two
@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable

"Like I'd know. I've only known him for about two, three days maybe? Met him when we spotted the dragon. Figured we could use a man like him, what with his magic and all of that. Besides the old man is senile. I don't pay attention to half the things he says unless it has to do with me directly." Parum said gruffly, but also with an uncomfortable amount of truth. She had no idea what Torus says half the time if she wasn't specifically trying to listen to him, and even then she had to guess what he's saying and logic it out. Still, it made it easier for her to dismiss him as an old man rambling. "But let's be honest. If I had the choice between joining some regular army and a company with a dragon, I'll go dragon. I'm all for bleeding for a good cause but I'm no fool. There isn't enough gold in the world to make me fight a dragon, at least not without a massive army willing to die first. So I'd rather make due fighting for a dragon."

Parum also tried to use this chance to speak for Orchid. He at least was smart enough to know that he wasn't good at lying, so he kept his words short. Parum would have to speak for him. "As for the orc, he's here because I told him to be here. I needed the muscle, and this guy has it. I don't know why he's traveling either, and frankly I don't care. As long as he follows me and fights who I tell him to fight, he try to manifest Grummush into the world for all I care. Anyways, he's only going to be a danger to you if I need him to be." Parum then smiled at Morndath. "And of course I wouldn't do that to my new boss."

Morndath clicked her tongue but turned her back to the group and waved Cyanwrath to follow her for a second, stopping to talk with her evident second in command a few paces away from the adventurers. They whispered their words, though they also accompanied them with some waving of their hands. In the meantime Torus was helped back to his feet and the man on his right mumbled to his ear: "Friendly advice: Don't get cocky with the wearers of purple." With that done, the guards stepped back, giving them the same breathing room they had had when the moment to talk had started off. And soon it would be concluded just as well.

"Well, I will need to add you to my ledgers, but that I can handle without your help since I know your names. As for your reward for capturing the very champion of Greenest instead of just any prisoner... I'll need to look into that matter just a bit more before I can promise anything. Since you came here seeking to join our ranks, consider that wish granted. First things first, we need more hands at the mess tent. Head on over and ask what there is to be done. When it comes to resting your head for the night, I'm sure you can figure something out. Our tents are not available for the freshly hired", she instructed, likely to the surprise of the many in the group. The guards behind Parum and her motley saluted and cleared themselves from the tent. They hadn't really seen this coming either, but orders were orders. If they were not found to be infiltrators, they were to be left be.

At the mess tent those of the group who could be trusted with cook's utensils were given those to handle, the operation overseen by a portly cultist who appeared as if he enjoyed the offerings of the kitchen a bit more than appropriate. While this job would go for a few hours, Brannor who was currently on waste disposal duty for the horses of the outriders would hear a few quite interesting words being spoken. They came from a presumed cultist wearing quite ordinary gear, but they lacked had a hideous scar over their right eye and nose and were smoking some rather elaborate pipe. Their message to the guards at the camp entrance was simple, but disconcerting. "Do not let a group of blue haired halfling, a half naked half-orc, a senile appearing old man who may or may not take the shape of a bear or other mount of the orcish blood and a pink haired woman with a bow leave the camp. Most important ones would be the old man and the blue haired girl, so stop them even when alone. Morndath does not want them going." With the message relayed, the man would then leave.

Rebrer happened to stick near to the mess tent as this man then appeared around there, hanging around the outside of the place while still smoking their pipe. In the time he had spent with the cult, he had come to know this man. Krets, another inquisitive soul. Problem was, Krets was fiercely loyal to the cause. And them hanging around after that meeting... the wearers of purple had set their own spy onto the newcomers. And Rebrer could occasionally feel the man's eyes on his neck just as well. They were on a clock.

@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable@Lucius Cypher@Ryonara

If the man's attention could perk, it would now, for his mundane labor of attending to the animals they rode paid off in gaining an insight he would not well have come to learn otherwise. Near broken fork in hand, the length of its old wood body acting still as a handle, the hunter continued about removing the waste hay and mud that surrounded the horses' confines, making no effort to tip off what it was he heard so clearly. Rather, he cared more for keeping the great hoofed beasts under an aura of calm, for the last thing he needed was for his unsettling presence to rile them and draw attention. As it were, the last part of their exchange struck out to him with the greatest emphasis of all that was said.

"... Most important ones would be the old man and the blue haired girl, so stop them even when alone. Morndath does not want them going." The message ended, the feigned worker glancing only to catch a glimpse of the man who offered this information and was surely disappointed; he looked to be a runner, any number of these wretches. At first he had hoped the man would make for an easy mark to come, yet fate had other things in mind. Then again, what surprise would it be they were faceless by and large apart from one another?

Silently Brannor carried on with his work, looking over the steeds in the process. Perhaps, just perhaps this effort they had him making would be of use after all. If they needed to make a swift escape, the horses were on the fringes of the camp and cutting their reigns either to sabotage their foes in pursuit or so they might make that escape themselves could be of great use. The huntsman prayed it did not come to that, hoping instead they might rather be covert and slip out under the graces of the Pale Lady's light, free from the shackles of these scaled fiends and their human lapdogs. Just thinking of the situation he found himself in, so close to do what he must yet so damnably far from reaching, drove him closer to rage.

All that mattered was, was that the others seemed to be succeeding in their plan somehow, someway.

@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable

Orchid didn't appreciate all this questioning going on, only vaguely remembering that he is in fact here to infiltrate and sneak out Leosin from the cultists. He was just so annoyed that they were threatening him and his friends that he was very tempted to start fighting now, but soon they were released. The half-orc snorted and followed the others out of the tent, and was ordered to head to the mess hall to give a hand there. Unless they had food that needed to be eaten, or hunters to gather more meat, Orchid had very little to do there. Still, he went over as he was told to do, still fuming at the indignity of it all. At the mess hall sure enough most of the cultist seem a bit hesitate to let Orchid do any cooking, but fortunately they did have some freshly killed game animals that needed to be skinned, plucked, and butchered. That was something he could do easily.

Sitting down surrounded by dead animals Katalmach took out his dagger, a dragon's claw with a leather handle, and starts cleaning the meat. It wasn't long before he was surrounded by offal and organs from the creatures he's been cleaning, and the smell, plus Orchid's own rather strong musk, would make it rather unpleasant for anyone else to be around. Intentionally so however, as less people who want to be around Orchid would mean less people who may be close enough to eavesdrop on him. He looks around for Brannor from his seated position, slowly thinking of a way to keep in contact with him now that the half-orc was certain their ruse was being investigated.

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 Iron Flute. 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.

"My name is Torag. Morndath has assigned me here." His curt vernacular awaited their response for instruction.

@Hekazu

"Aye aye boss.... C'mon guys, let's go grab some grub." Parum and the others would soon leave the tent. She continued to maintain the facade of a confident leader, but she was practically pissing in her panties right now. They were inches, inches, away from what was likely going to be an immediate execution. Cyanwrath was there, Morndath interrogated them, and chances are they were going to grab Brannor and torture him too. This plan was falling apart fast and Parum knew that they couldn't stick around long. Not only that but she was almost certain that now all eyes were on them. Even if she could've convinced them now that Parum and the others were just mercs looking for a job, all it'll take is one slip from her or anyone else on the team before they're filled with arrows and tossed to the dragons. Parum needed to figure out a way to free Brannor fast, and then grab Leosin.

Parum arrived to the mess hall with the others, loudly declaring her desire for some drinks. "Argh, after all that hard work and we still ain't getting nothing for it! Cripes, no wonder why I was never cut out for the army. I need two mugs of whatever strongest!" Parum ordered loudly as she was thinking of a plan. First thing first: find a way to get Brannor out. If he was with them, Parum could use him to help them escape. Perhaps, assuming Brannor wasn't going to be kept prisoner or chained up to a wall, she could have Brannor follow her around as Parum's personal servant. Next was to get Leosin. She knew where he was at. All she needed was to get him out. Perhaps find some way to replace his body too, like using one of the cultists or perhaps they could make a scarecrow. But Parum couldn't do it in broad daylight like this. She needed to wait until night but.... But there might be more cultists by then. And more watchful eyes on their group.

That left one other option. Parum could try to work her charm here among the cult. Perhaps these men and women could use a witty halfling bard who could spin tales and compliment their fragile egos. She also knew a little bit of the cult's dogma of Tiamat that perhaps she could influence a cultist into following her, if only for a little while. She looked around the mess hall for the most impressionable cultist or bandit to see if maybe she could charm them into doing her a favor.

He had to inform the party of this, but how. THey all seemed positively crazy, or ludicrously stupid. This was an issue he hadn't fucking seen coming, and it was driving him absolutely mental. Gods above save him- how had this group even worked for a day? He thought all of this whilst eating, knowing that he had someone else spying on him all the while. It was too dangerous for him to contact one of the party now, and the two he had already tried to talk to weren't giving him anything. He would have to try to appeal to rationality- however much of that the group possessed.

Torus, or Torag as he insisted to be his name for the time being, was set to work near Orchid. Nobody else wanted to be anywhere close to the pile of stink the man was making, with the exception of one cultist. This fellow was rather malodorous himself, though he did not appear filthy per say. Anyone with experience with real leatherworking could tell that this man either was a tanner or stayed close to such folk. And here he was, helping Orchid with the gutting and flaying of game. He wasn't much for conversation, apart from a few passing "Watch that intestine" or other task related quips. Torus's task was different from the one of those two though. He was to collect the waste they produced and dispose of it.

Parum on the other hand did her best to avoid getting assigned to anything by hopping to the bar counter instead of the work they had been sent here to do. For now her gall seemed to pay off for nobody questioned her about it and she had her moment to look around for anyone who might be of use to her. At first she did not exactly note anybody, not before she noted the one man she was rather sure she would not want to ask. Somebody just outside the mess tent, smoking a pipe and occasionally glaring inside. Standing guard or something more heinous altogether, she could not immediately tell. But this one seemed like somebody she'd rather avoid.

Following his gaze led her somewhere though, for the befuddled cultist (whose name happened to be Rebrer) appeared confused and/or desperate enough to perhaps listen to her. Especially with that one man occasionally glaring at him. She might want to look for her chance later, though even if this man on his own might be unable to help, he just might have the connections she needed. All she needed was to figure out a good moment to ask.

@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable@Lucius Cypher@Ryonara

Continuing his work at their ramshackle stable, the outlander paid his dues in observation about the way the camp seemed to regulate and operate among the enemy; the short answer was, they didn't. It was not that they lacked soldiers or guards, rather than they lacked any sense of order, discipline or standard. In a way, as his mind wandered from the mindlessness of the work, not tethered down by it, it was clear to him the dragon-cult's following was... actually quite pathetic in number. Several times over he had witnessed that the majority of these "cultists" were mercenaries and what followers the dragon had were, other than the half-dragon, little more than peasants playing follower in a set of robes they were tossed.

It was no wonder Greenest failed to fend them off, that their numbers and their bought sellswords did all the work under the shadow of a dragon. Were it not for any one of those things, they probably could not have even assailed even a small farming town out by itself. This led to the wondering of the man, as he calmly moved one of the horses aside to get between them, if he could enact a simple but effective effort in eliminating them in time to come.

They needed to scrounge, to eat, clearly picking at the land as they went earlier today he discovered, so it made them vulnerable and little more than prey. After all men and these minute scaly-things were not particularly observant, neither were they elusive. Following them at a great distance and keeping watch of them when they gathered their resources would make for an opportune time to attack, for not only the back being turned, but most of their weapons being not quite ready. It would be no trouble at all to maul and mangle them, assuming they even had the chance to limp home, they might well die of their injuries there or even before it; hooked, tearing claws had a tendency to rasp open horrific wounds that did not stitch themselves quite right, if ever at all.

Pressuring them and hounding them this way would bleed their numbers yes, but their morale? How many men would be so brave as to dare out on ventures as simple as gathering food or water, let alone walking on patrol in a small band at night? Eventually they would send more or better, but just as they sought to use their draconic beast as a weapon of fear, the huntsman himself could do much the same.

It was thoughts as these that passed the time of work, awaiting any clear signal or opportunity to escape. Albeit not alone - they came this far and it needed to be worth it.

@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable

It wasn’t hard for the halfling to spot two people of interests, one being a cultist she could try to talk with, and another rough looking fellow who no doubts was sent to spy on her and the others. The fact she was being watched now made Paris extra nervous and nearly breakdown, but she had to keep herself composed. First things first: she needed to get something to eat. She was legitimately hungry.

Paris went over and received herself some tough roasted veal suitable for a halfling (ie a lot) and went to a table to sit at. Namely the same table as Renbar, however she didn’t speak to him, instead seeming like she was just eating at his table. But she had one trick up her sleeve to pass along a secret message. Wiping her greasy fingers ima but of fleece in her pocket she casted minor illusion, creating a message for Rembar on a surface only he could see.

”Fancy a lady who could slate you appitite? Talk to the .

The lifeless carcasses arranged its dissembled parts, naked and forlorn on bloodied tables, in the oppressive whiteness of the mangled eyes of their understudies, the cruel sobriety of the operating theater, where the applause of endless torments still seemed to tremble. The midday sun covered them, and awakened the death-spots on foreheads, a bright bile would spurt out occasionally from a desecrated belly reminding all of the tremulous gallbladder within the crevices of a savaged liver. The man alongside Orchid stenciled flesh like a giant shimmering calyx, arms likes scarlet petals strewn over their altars of death.

Splendid red and blue colors grew along the butcher’s loins, and in the heat the pirate stomached the wound against nature, furnished for man’s convenience and style. The lesion under his brows spiraled and slowly split into a furrow against the terrible odors of makeshift pathologists.

Ovaries. Spleen. Pancreas. Intestines. Ligaments fruitlessly tethering all internal anatomies.

These were all carved with delicacy, dissecting with dueling forceps and butterfly blades. The half-orc and his new found companion squatted over the limp game, their sclera beady with noses like crooked vultures’ beaks forever screaming for flesh. As they continued their ghastly handiwork, looking like fearsome torturers, with coagulated blood streaming over their tainted hands, the sailor adorned with his own minotaur hide remained careful with the discarded organs.

He scurried back and forth, ever deeper into the fray of the burning Gehenna conjured outside the tent. Each skinned corpse plopped upon burning coal only for his dragon fang to return him to the duo, like cooks disemboweling the next proverbial goose. The entrails wound around their arms, greenish-yellow snakes, with the rare excrement dripped onto their protective coats. The veteran tanner would occasionally puncture the bladder away from the potential leather; the cold urine spouting from the vesicular insides like buttery wine, bearing the sharp, biting stench of sworn ammonia.

But the dead animals slept, patiently allowing themselves to be rent, torn from hair and fascia, as busy flies likes carrion swallows circled amidst and high above the allegorical giants destroying the massacred monsters.

This way and that.

They slumbered, all the while, the druid’s mind evolved into a numb drum, beating with the tedium of the labor.

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

Orchid was quiet as he cut up these corpses, contemplating their next course. Normally a man of action, but fools don't last long, and Orchid knew this much. They were being watched, like prey. Not only that, but they still haven't fulfilled their mission, whatever that was. Orchid wanted to find a way to save Brannor first and foremost. After that, they'll save whoever else they could when they could. Soon Orchid gathered all the offal and remains; hooves, guts, and other disgusting parts that even Orchid would be loathed to consume. They had quite a pile since they were experienced butchers, and Orchid figured that if they weren't going to stuff this stuff into sausage, they were going to toss it out. Which gave Orchid an idea.

He gathered up the parts into a sack to be disposed of. But among the remains he had left a sizable bone, cracked in half. On it's own it didn't seem like much, but Orchid knew that it could easily be used akin to a dagger to slay an enemy, or cut a bond. Such as those keeping Brannor tied. He left the sack aside among with other backs of refuse, marking them with a bit of blood and different shapes. One had a square, another a circle, and the last a triangle. The triangle had the bone knife that he'd try to get to Brannor. Patting the soreness out of his back Orchid looked to Torus and the other butcher. "Orchid gunna find slave. Make em throw bad meats." Orchid left the mess hall to head to the slave pens, seeking out Brannor. If or when he'd find him, Orchid would call out to him. "You prisoner! Orchid have work for you. You want live you do what Orchid say, got it?"

@The Harbinger of Ferocity

Of all the unexpected faces and people to have encountered as Brannor worked it was the half blood orc, Orchid. From time to time he had seen the savage fighter, the madman who attempted to leap on to a dragon, throughout the camp but this was the first interaction they had since the paladin aspirant was handed off to the work detail of slaves. Initially the question arose as to why the man was here, but it seemed to answer itself the more the eyes of the hunter looked him over; Orchid wouldn't have been here if he had no reason to be. He was not the most intellectual, but he was cunning and prone to unusual plans, in addition to well knowing what detection threatened them with. With a slight nod and snort, the wilder drove the mucking tool into the muddy earth.

"I do not think I have much choice." Brannor's characteristic gruffness answered, loud enough to be heard but not enough to make a scene. Failing to be defiant to some extent, while still playing along, would have aroused suspicion. He would prefer if he did not need speak at all truthfully, yet now was not the time to emphasize his personal wants.

They had a mission, a need rather, one greater than any one of them or even the totality of their collective whole. This infiltration effort, to sneak right beneath the enemy's nose, was not just for the monk they needed to rescue or to gain information about the dragon-cult, neither was it about avenging Greenest by spying, no, it was about creating momentum for the grand hunt to come. So when it came to the warrior playing slave it was everything to preserve the illusion that was being weaved before the enemy's eyes. No less, the outlander kept in mind what he had witnessed and what he knew; that the cultists and their army wished to prevent their departure... all now he needed was an opportunity to pass that on.


@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Gordian Nought@Irredeemable

Parum soon left the daft cultist and went to toss her dishes to whoever was being ordered to clean them. Which, unfortunately for Parum, was her. Apparently since she didn't help cook or prep, she'd have to clean up after everyone. She grumbled but accepted the tedious task, since it'll hopefully give her a chance to scout around the mess hall. One of the first things she noticed was that the mysterious stranger who had been eyeing her had left, and so did Orchid. Parum hoped the orc wasn't going to get himself into trouble, more so since she had no idea where he was at right now. Still... It did give Parum a bit of breathing space. She quickly cleaned the rest of the dirty dishes with her deft hands before loudly announcing that she was going to go dump the dirty water. In truth however, she was going to try to find someone who could help the team.

She could tell that there was definitely a dichotomy between loyal cultist and hired mercs. She may be able to use that to her advantage, either to manipulate someone on either side into aiding her, or possibly pitting them against each other as a distraction. Carrying the large tub of water she intentionally moved towards a lone male, hoping to perhaps charm them into assisting a "meager" looking halfling and perhaps gaining her false affection. It didn't help that the basin of water was also legitimately heavy for Parum. "Tch... Could use a bit of a hand here." She said in an exasperated tone.

Parum's call for assistance, feigned or not, was picked up on quite soon by the man man she had approach, who was clad in what the group had established was a mark of a dedicated cultist, a black leather tunic with a flared equally black mantle. He nodded at the halfling and gave her a quick "stay put" before turning around and taking a few steps towards a group of other, less imposingly dressed cult members and called out to them with a loud "Atttteeeeeeeeen-tion!" The five reacted by straightening their backs immediately, though they seemed displeased about this surprise.

"I need one volunteer. One", the man asked of them. Nobody showed interest. "Huh, how enthusiastic. Well, guess none of you are up for this task. A shame, but not unexpected. Perhaps you do not have the devotion after all", he hinted at possible repercussions.

This trick worked as one of the men raised his hand up in the air, fingers splayed and cried out: "I will be the volunteer, praise Tiamat's glory!"

"Muuuuch better. Come along now, let's get you to your task. The rest of you, I'll find something for you too. Don't celebrate yet", they declared, returning the few steps to Parum and pointing at the underling he had brought. "Whatever it is you are doing with that tub, Acolyte Davis will help you", they moved the responsibility of the menial labour to the one of lower rank with a hint of a smile and headed off, presumably to make good on his promise to the others.

The cultist took hold of the tub and lifted it up with his back, taking a look at the halfling. "Got to love Dragonclaw Stern and their 'volunteer tasks'. What do you need done with this?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

@Ryonara

With Brannor obediently playing his part, he thrust the three bags into Brannor's arms. "Go." Taking out Brannor's own greatsword, Orchid threaten the warrior with him and herded him towards a cesspool off the side of the camp. Orchid could identify it by it's strong, putrid odor. Pointing towards the pool Orchid barked another command at Brannor. "Trash guts. Now!" Orchid snarled menacingly, playing up his role as the brute orcish slave master. Not exactly a role he was familiar with, but one he played well. At the same time, Orchid was keeping tabs on the ones watching them. He noticed a few who were obviously following them, but he was certain that perhaps there was one or two he didn't spot. Either way, Orchid needed to earn their "trust", in the sense that they could believe that he truly was looking out only for his own personal interest, and not some lofty goal of destroying this cult or liberating it's slaves (Which is on the agenda).

Once Brannor got to the last bag, which Orchid made sure was the one marked with a triangle, Orchid waited until he saw the bone among the mess, and then attempted to kick Brannor over onto some of the guts and gore, nearly kicking him into the cesspool itself. Orchid had a hearty laugh at this. "Hah hah hah! They say you champion! That you fight dragon man! Boss make good call make you prisoner. More money from you. Bah, but you, champion? More like chump! Orchid take you down easy. Weak man. Better to crawl in shit then fight." Orchid's spoke these harsh words loudly, almost as if he was trying to challenge Brannor into fighting him. Whatever it took to help make Orchid "prove" his place among these rabble. But the hidden motive to all this bluster was to allow Brannor a subtle means to obtaining the hidden bone dagger that Orchid had snuck into the bag. By making Brannor fall onto it, he'll no doubt feel something jabbing into his chest. With any luck, he could subtly take the weapon inside his stained garments and be able to use it to free himself later.

Orchid kept loudly gloating and taunting Brannor, trying to draw attention to the half-orc himself and give Brannor time and a distraction to sneak the blade inside his garments. But after a few minutes, Orchid stomped on the ground and leered at Brannor. "Get up! Back to work!" If Orchid had a whip he'd crack it right now, so the best he could do was help Brannor up forcefully, pulling him by his collar. When their eyes met for a moment, Orchid gave Brannor a wink before shoving him back towards the rest of the camp. "You got more to do."

It was only when Brannor caught his balance amidst the tirade physically did he catch on to just what the half-blooded orc had been hiding, seemingly as inconspicuous as it could be in the bags of waste flesh. Perched upon one knee and rising again with the gifted burden, but not without plucking the point from its nest of grotesque camouflage, did he stand. Orchid carried on, bellowing, mocking, and crafting an elaborate scene that was truthfully his giving into the role; loud and hostile, just in a different vein than he had been before. The huntsman, hands still bound, wiped himself clean upon the still bloodied armor he wore, stashing the prize down into the waist where it fell down the leg and landed in the tucked portion of his leather leggings. The pressure of the boot against his leg prevented it from falling into the thing and risking injury from its potentially deadly point; all he needed to do to access it was pull the leg of the pant free and retrieve the adhoc weapon.

Clever, but he was not finished himself, not at all. Instead, as he disposed the rest of the refuse into the pit beside them both, he did so whilst providing the seeming orcish slaver a deathly glare. Dumping the contents in, his muscles did not strain or tire, his strength not entirely human after all, but the gesture was meant to be as much a part of the act as anything else. Those of this cult who likely recognized him, especially as the orc touted the recounting, would equally realize Orchid was not to be trifled with. After all, he and his bear, rather his druid, were able to take on a monster. If anything the deterrent went both ways, Brannor not so naive as to recognize the man was trying to cement his place in the scene, all while keeping his own.

Dealing with the barbarian was among the best options he had, someone he could at least trust in part, and if none of the other cultists would willingly do it, then the half-blood was the easiest candidate. Hopefully such a ruse would keep in play for as long as they needed it, that they would not send the halfling, the priestess, the old man, or the half-blood savage too far out of sight or mind. So when Orchid roared there was more work to do, Brannor only answered reasonably without a word; the wringing of his hands free of the blood from the slaughter, letting it spatter messily onto the muddy, sickly ground. It was a cold gesture, one that kept his mind trained rather than delving into the overwhelming scent of decay mingled with fresh blood.


@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@Gordian Nought