There was a terrible pain burning across nearly his whole body. His scales felt hot, like he was still engulfed in the blazing inferno. He felt his back, the burns hurting ever so slightly less thanks to the cool mud beneath him. His breathing was labored as he lifted his head slowly, painfully. He took in his surroundings. What remained of his village. There was still smoke rising from some of the pitch black corpses of his fellow tribesmen. The smell of burnt flesh pervaded the air.

He looked down at his body, taking in the damage. His normally bright red scales looked blackened and cracked, like charcoal. He tried to lift his arms, but a wave of exhaustion hit him. The effort of just raising his head had drained him of what little energy he could spare. Tears flowed down his face as he rested his head in the soft mud again with a pained grimace. He passed out again, his vision fading to darkness.

He awoke again his consciousness slowly returning. He could not tell how much time had passed. He felt a new pain, different from the pain of the burns all across his body. He was starving. He looked around, moving his head as little as possible. He must conserve his energy. He spotted a few fruits that had miraculously survived the fire on the ground near the burnt out husk of a barrel that had fallen on its side. He did not know how they got there, but he cared little about that. He needed to eat if he had any hopes of survival.

With tremendous effort and pain, he let out a yell and rolled onto his stomach to begin the slow crawl toward the dropped fruit. He practically dragged himself toward the fruit, desperation in his leaking eyes. Every inch he moved was a new burst of pain. Mud caked his body as he finally reached the fruit. He ravenously devoured them, not leaving a single drop of juice behind. His hunger sated, he felt the exhaustion overtaking him again, his head lying on the solid dirt as his consciousness faded once more.

His eyes opened once more, the side of his face in the dirt. As his vision returned, he saw a glint of of something metal stuck in the mud just a couple feet away. He stared, trying to make out the shape of the object. A... dagger? It was oddly shaped, almost resembling an axe head. He slowly reached out his hand and grasped it. As he felt the cool steel on his fingers, the pain of his burns seemed to ease somewhat. He pulled the dagger from the mud and held it close to him. Tears flowed from his eyes as he lost consciousness again.

A rider approached the ruined village, one darkly clad with a bow on his back. The embers dancing around his black steed's hooves sizzled in the murky swamp waters as it plodded forward. Though there were plenty of flies and leeches in the swamp, they dared not approach the black steed. Its infernal nature and its fiery mane warded off such mundane threats.

The rider dismounted some distance away, then quietly led his horse toward the camp, watching as smoke from still dying fires rose into the air. The whole place had been abandoned, as had its many dead. Tools, weapons, foodstuffs, building materials; all had been discarded like waste by whoever had plundered the place.

Granth scowled at the sight. It was a waste. The least the raiders could have done was take what they could before fleeing. It's what he would have done. He was comfortable killing, had killed many times in the past, but it had always been with purpose. It was never senseless, not like what he saw before him.

The bandit made his way forward, setting about his grim work. He rolled lizard's one body over onto its stomach, then yanked the pouches off its belt. One had some coins, another some herbs; he kept the former and tossed the latter aside. Then he stepped into a nearby hut, intact but abandoned, and grabbed what valuables he could. There was fine pottery, some silverware that likely originated from some raided merchant caravan, a couple crude stone tools he could fence as well... He gathered those things and more, then returned to his fiery-maned horse, setting them in his saddlebags.

And so it went. From hut to hut, corpse to corpse, ruin to ruin did the bandit go, looting anything and everything that could be worth a few coins to the right person. He took some things he intended to use for himself, too. The pickings were admittedly pretty slim given the primitive nature of the tribe, but it would be profit enough. He might even be able to outfit a couple fighting men if he found enough gear...

As Granth was making his final rounds, he flipped over a scorched corpse to search it, only to realize how warm the body was to the touch. Then he blinked in surprise. The corpse was breathing. The lizard was alive, having survived the sort of burns that would have killed any lesser creature. Granth was impressed to say the least.

He wasn't breathing very strongly, though. The lizardfolk warrior was clearly in rough shape. Under normal circumstances, Granth would not have given a damn; but the lizard clearly had strength. The lizard wasn't some hapless bystander. The lizard had grit. Granth could respect that.

The masked bandit made his decision. Gritting his teeth, the archer lifted the half-dead warrior up and carried the creature to his nightmare steed. He looked the horse in the eyes, then nodded and set the lizard on the back of the saddle, away from the mane that could burn him even more. Then Granth pulled himself up, gave the black steed a pat on the neck, and began to ride.

---

A few hours passed before Granth made camp. He chose his site mostly for being mostly dry: it was on a hill in the depths of the Hauntwood, well away from the roads, surrounded by a copse of dead trees that seemed to darkly whisper whenever the wind blew. Granth had no doubt there were, in fact, ghosts living in those woods. But ghosts wouldn't keep him from making a campfire to dry off, nor would they keep him from what he had to do.

The bandit wasn't a healer by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew the basics of first aid. He could make a splint and wrap good bandages, and he knew a couple herbs that could ease pain. Granth applied all those skills to the unconscious lizardman as soon as he'd finished making camp. Then the archer set the lizard's back against a mossy stone near the fire, popped the cork off his last bottle of brandy, and had a few sips as he started cooking the snakes he'd caught over the fire.

Another hour passed. The sun started to set overhead, and Granth idly wondered if the lizard would ever awaken. As if on cue, the archer saw motion from by the rock, and he glanced up to see that the lizard was beginning to stir.

"Rise and shine, Red," the archer called out to the warrior, holding up a stick with a skewered, roasted snake on it. "Got food enough for two. Water, too; boiled it clean." Granth jerked his head toward the pot of water sitting over the fire, then waved toward the spit. "Take what you want. Have a seat."

Xalmann awoke to the familiar sensation of his blurred vision slowly coming into focus, the sounds of the swamps slowly entering his ear holes. The burning pain in his body slowly coming back as he regained consciousness. Something was different this time, though. The pain was duller and he felt a sliminess and pressure on his scales. He was confused. He lifted his head to look around him. He was clearly still in the swamp, but he could no longer see or smell the burnt remains of his village. He looked down at his body and saw he was covered in bandages. Had someone cared for his wounds?

"Rise and shine, Red," he heard someone say to him. He turned his head toward the voice and saw a  masked, hooded man holding up a stick with a skewered, roasted snake on it. "Got food enough for two. Water, too; boiled it clean. Take what you want. Have a seat." The man said in a gruff voice.

He sat up with a pained groan before suddenly looking slightly panicked. He looked around for the dagger he had found the last time he had regained consciousness. He sighed with relief when he found it lying on the ground next to him. He picked it up and held it against his bandaged chest before turning to face the man again. He eyed him suspiciously for a moment before conceding that the man very easily could have killed him while he was unconscious. In all likelihood, this man had been the one to bandage his burns and was now offering him food and water.

Xalmaan sat up and repositioned himself, flinching from the pain several times as he got onto his hands and knees facing the man, gritting his teeth from the pain, and bowed his head. "My name is Xalmann Dakarr. You have my thanks." he choked out, his voice rough, his throat parched and still stinging slightly from the smoke and heat.

He crawled over to the fire and started to wolf down the food and chug the water offered by the man, his body reinvigorated by the desperately needed nourishment and medical attention. A few tears streamed down his face as he ate, thankful he was going to survive.

"Don't need your thanks. Just need you to live," answered the rough man, his voice harsh and stern. "If you want to thank me, you can work with me. Always could use a good fighting hand."

The archer's horse paced nearby. There was no need to tie the fiery-maned horse to a tree: she stood at attention, watching the lizardman with an uncanny intellect, red eyes observing his every move. For his part, Granth was busily tearing into his own food, eating it like he might not have a chance to eat again. The victuals weren't exactly well prepared, but they were edible, and the bandit wasted no time devouring his portion of the meal.

When he was done, Granth noted how ravenous his patient seemed, and so tossed him a bundled up package of rations as well. It wasn't anything much: just hardtack with a little salt and pepper. It wasn't very appetizing. It didn't have to be.

"Xalmann, you said," mused the archer as he watched the lizard, one black eyebrow arched on up. "Saw your village. I'm going to bet you want to kill whoever did that. I would, too."

With a grunt, Granth pulled one of his arrows out and began sharpening the arrowhead with a stone, his expression pensive, his thoughts drifting. Sparks flew off the sharp point of the weapon, and the only sounds that rose into the air were the scraping of the rock upon metal and the crackling of the campfire. Finally, Granth spoke again.

"Won't last long on your own. You ever kill before? Raid?" The hooded man peered up at the lizard opposite of him, and their gazes met. "Your tribe was a raiding tribe. Could tell that when I went through. Got a job that'll get us both some loot, enough to get you back on your feet. You keen?"

Xalmann ate the food without care for its taste. He felt like he had not eaten in days. That may actually be the case. He had no idea how much time had passed between his consciousness fading in and out.

Swallowing the last of what he was given, he looked into the fire in front of him, a burning rage behind his eyes. "Dagon! I will kill him!" he roared, clenching his fists. The flames of the fire died down, as if shrinking away in fear of the enraged Lizardfolk. Xalmann paid the fire no attention, not really looking at it. Instead, his eyes saw the totem at the center of his village, his friends and family burning to death, his village falling to ruin.

He looked up at the man and nodded. "I have raided before. I must grow stronger. Strong enough to kill Dagon!"

Xalmann began to stand up, ignoring the pain, but suddenly felt dizziness followed by the familiar sensation of his consciousness fading out. He stumbled to one knee before collapsing onto his side on the ground with a frustrated grunt.

---

Control Flames

Granth took note of how the fire seemed to shift away from the lizard. He definitely would remember that. If the lizard had command over flame, he could be very useful.

"Ain't killing anyone 'til you can walk," hissed the leaner of the two warriors, looking away from the pained lizardman and back to his work with his arrows. He went back to moving the stone in swift, smooth motions across the arrowhead, then held it up to inspect it. "Don't move so much, and not so sudden. Body's still crispy. A good hunter knows patience, waits for the right time to strike. You ought to do that, too."

Granth paused in his speech, glancing back at the crimson lizard. He was familiar with the sort of fury boiling inside of the man. He remembered having the same fire in his gut when the lawmen hung his father. He remembered it burning all the hotter when his sister died of hunger. He remembered it burning back in the prison of the Bleakfort...

"You'll have your chance, Xalmann," he promised the lizard. "You'll get your shot at Dagon if you stick with me. But if you die, your scaly ghost will just join the countless others lost to these woods, and you ain't gonna kill anybody."

With that warning laid out, the archer tucked his arrows away, satisfied with his sharpening work. He licked his greasy fingers, then laid back on his bedroll, glancing back over at the lizardman.

"Get some rest, Red," the archer told the wounded tribesman. "At morning's light, we go hunting. Got to be sharp if we're going to catch up with the fat merchants on the road."

Xalmann listened to the man as he lay on the ground. He rolled onto his back and dragged himself a bit farther away from the fire. He disliked being so close to fire now. He used to enjoy the warmth, but now it just made him remember that night.

He felt so powerless. He knew he just needed time to recover, but how long? He had never experienced such wounds before. He was frustrated. He was furious. Mostly at Dagon, but he could not help but be a bit angry with himself for following Dagon's orders. He had willingly charged into a fire. He felt so foolish now.

He nodded to the masked man whose name he still did not know. The man kept calling him Red, despite him telling him his name.

"Mask. You keep calling me red. I will call you mask. I will rest now." he said, without waiting for any response, he closed his eyes and drifted into the first willing sleep he had had in how long, he did not know.

---

The next day, the two travelled through the marsh, Mask riding atop his flaming horse. The horse made Xalmann slightly uncomfortable, but he supposed any fire made him uncomfortable now. Xalmann felt he was recovering quickly with the aid of the medicine and bandages that had been freshly applied that morning, the dirty bandages washed and stored in a leather bag that Mask had given Xalmann to carry them in. They could be sterilized in boiling water later and reused.

His dagger in an ill-fitting, borrowed sheath on his hip, he walked along behind the man on the horse, stumbling occasionally. He gritted his teeth and bared the pain, continuing his trek each time without complaint. He was recovering quickly, but he knew he was still not fully healed yet. That morning, several of his burnt scales fell off when he removed the bandages. He would need to wait until all of them fell off, revealing new ones underneath, for him to be considered in peak condition again. He hoped he would at least be well enough to fight by the time they reached the road and found a fat merchant to raid.

This would all help him grow stronger. He needed to grow stronger if he wanted to kill Dagon. If he wanted to kill a god.

Granth didn't offer too much commentary at the beginning of the day, nor did he offer too much more for the first stretch of the ride. Xalmann seemed to be a quiet type, and the marksman could respect that.

The morning sun rose higher, but the Hauntwood remained just as bleak as ever. A thin, wispy mist trailed through the region, and only a scarce few crickets and toads bothered to make any noise. There was only the sizzling of water where Granth's horse stepped and the splashing sounds that accompanied that and the motions of the lizardman. The Hauntwood never ceased to be eerie.

The duo stopped to take a short rest once a rain picked up. Granth knew the weather in the Marsh Flats was fickle, and he didn't intend to get caught off-guard if it became rough. It thankfully stopped after a while, but the break lasted long enough for Mask and Red to have a few foraged roots, beetles, and berries. It wasn't a very filling meal, but it was enough to keep them going. As soon as the rain stopped, however, Granth decided it was time to keep moving.

It wasn't long before Granth spotted signs of someone else having passed through the Hauntwood. He raised his hand, gesturing for his companion to stop while he dismounted, stepping toward a broken branch and some marks in the mud. The hunter crouched on down to get a better look. He wasn't a master tracker, but he didn't have to be.

"No wagon marks or hoof prints. It's not our merchant," Granth mused. He eyed the footprints in the mud a moment longer, then peered up at the broken branch. "About two feet tall, barefoot... probably goblins. Natives like you, I'd wager," he added off-handedly, scratching his chin beneath the mask, doing his best to think up some other useful information... and failing. "I don't know the local tribes. You know any that range this far out into the Hauntwood? Think they'd join us on the raid?"

Truth be told, Granth preferred having extra hands for a dirty job. If things went south, more bodies on the field meant more people between him and his exit. He hadn't survived as long as he did by having a sense of honor; no, no. Granth survived by knowing where to put himself so he always had a way out, and a few goblin helpers sounded like exactly the sort of help they could use on a raid.

"Speak a little goblin, myself. Not much," muttered the bandit, glancing back over at the lizard. "You?"

Xalmann shook his head. He spoke barely any Goblin. Only enough to understand and counter the commands of their leaders during battles with them. The Goblin tribes living out here in the marshes were aggressive. They seemed to be even more aggressive than most of the Lizardfolk tribes in the area. Perhaps that was how they had managed to survive in such a harsh environment despite their small statures.

He took a few steps forward to take a look at the tracks as well. From a distance, they certainly did seem to be Goblin tracks. He was also no tracking expert, his duties in the tribe were mostly to go on raids or to guard his village, but his tribe had had several skirmishes with a few Goblin tribes whose villages were close to his. It pained him a bit to think those Goblins may have found what remains of his tribe by now. Who knows what they might be doing now. Probably laughing and celebrating one less enemy int he marshes.

"I speak very little Goblin. The Goblin tribes near my village are aggressive. They will attack us on sight. They are enemies." He stopped and crouched close to the tracks and took a closer look at them before glancing around at their surroundings. These tracks were strange.

"Goblins are short. They will drown or be stuck in deep mud. They avoid mud. They walk on fallen trees and dry ground. They can walk between denser trees than Lizardfolk" He pointed to a fallen tree nearby and some ground that seemed a bit dryer. Though the denser trees in that area would obstruct their horse and be a hindrance to the larger Lizardfolk, Goblins would have no problems passing through them. That path would have suited a Goblin much better than the muddy path the footprints were on. "They also do not travel alone. This Goblin is alone. There is only one set of tracks. They are not a native."

He stood up and looked at his companion. He didn't know why they would want a Goblin to join them on their raid. He knew he was a pretty strong warrior, at least when he was not gravely injured like he is now. And he assumed from the man's equipment and personality that he must also be competent in battle. He believed the two of them would be enough to raid an unsuspecting merchant, but the man had saved his life, so he would follow along with whatever they believed was best.

Granth was suitably impressed with the lizard's display of cunning. Such knowledge of the region and such ability to parse the information presented to him was useful; it meant he was more valuable than just another brute fighter. Slowly, the bandit was forming an idea of his ally's skillset.

"Smart," mused the archer, nodding as Xalmann finished speaking. He rose on up and walked back to his horse. "Let's track the goblin. He's headed in the same direction as our merchant's caravan. We'll decide what to do then."

The pair's course shifted only slightly as the duo went in pursuit of the goblin. They caught up with the creature surprisingly quickly, too; just as Red had thought, the creature was definitely not a native, not used to traversing the rough terrain of the marshes, let alone the Hauntwood. They made no effort to hide their passage, either. The raiders caught up with the creature within an hour.

The goblin was a pitiful sight. He was thin and hungry, and he was dressed in a mish-mash of clothing from various civilized cultures that had become disused and poorly maintained. He didn't have any armor, but he did have an oversized helmet - goblin-sized, so useless to himself and his ally, Granth thought to himself - and a rickety, rusty-headed spear. He didn't look like much of a threat, but Granth knew from experience how fierce a cornered goblin could be.

"Looks to be an exile," muttered Granth from a distance, having long since dismounted so the flames from his steed would not attract the goblin's attention. He and the lizardman watched the goblin from behind some twisted trees and thin mist. "Probably not very brave. Probably very hungry. I think we can depend on both.

"You head around the right, cut off his escape. I'll drive him towards you with a couple arrow shots. Once he's in your reach, grab him and his spear. Then we'll talk and see what he knows."

Xalmann silently nodded to the man and started moving around the Goblin. He moved slowly, not only from being careful not to make any noise, but also due to the pain of his injuries. He made sure not to let any grunts or groans escape his gritted teeth as he approached what looked to be the easiest escape route for the Goblin, on the opposite side of the Goblin from his companion. This Goblin clearly didn't know their way around and would likely run for the emptiest path instead of into the denser trees that would have helped them escape their larger pursuers.

Hidden behind some bushes, he took out his dagger and got into a low stance. He held his dagger, ready to deflect the spear with it if it came at him, and his free hand ready to grab the Goblin. He watched the Goblin, waiting for Mask to make his move.

Patience was key, as it ever was. Granth wasn't a master of stealth, and neither was his companion, but they both were able to keep enough distance from the goblin to avoid notice. The poor creature was crouched down with his back against a tree to rest when Granth released an arrow through the air and pinned its hat to the tree behind him.

The goblin panicked. The little spear-wielder leapt up and dashed away from the arrow's direction, and Granth gave the coward a little "inspiration" by shooting another arrow into a nearby tree when the goblin started scampering. He yelled at the goblin, too, scaring the daylights out of him as he ran straight toward the lizardman.

The poor goblin didn't even see the intimidating figure before him. His wide eyes were focused on the obvious threat behind him, the archer chasing him through the swamp waters, splashing the murky stuff across the mud and the rocks. It wasn't until he was maybe six feet away from the lizard that the poor goblin glanced forward again and skidded to a halt, thrusting his spear out in front of him frantically when the hidden lizardman came into focus. The goblin screamed.

Xalmann easily deflected the frantic Goblin's spear to the side with his dagger before stepping close to them, too close for the tip of the spear to be able to hit him. He swung down with his dagger hand, hitting the Goblin on the wrist with the pommel. The Goblin dropped the spear with a yelp of pain. He free hand punched out at the Goblin, hitting them in the center of their chest, stunning them for a moment. He had held back his strength, trying to injure the Goblin as little as possible. He didn't know why, but Mask wanted the Goblin to join them. It would be better if they were not injured, unlike Xalmann.

Xalmann reached out his free hand, and grabbed the stunned Goblin's shoulder and flipped him around. He pulled him into his chest, his arm holding them in place. He placed his dagger in front of the Goblin's throat as his tail flicked the dropped spear farther away.

The Goblin's back against his chest hurt, the Goblin's squirming making the pain worse. He grit his teeth as he glanced up at his masked companion before looking down again at the panicking Goblin. It was plain to see that this Goblin was no warrior. They probably didn't even have any training with using a spear. They clearly had no idea how to properly fight with it. If they had, this would have been far more difficult for the injured Lizardfolk.

"Stay still" he hissed. The Goblin stopped moving, but a look of panic remained on their face.

Granth was pleased. Xalmann performed his role quickly and efficiently, sustaining only minor harm to himself while disarming and incapacitating the goblin without hurting the creature. As much as Granth wanted to have the goblin on their side, the task was a test as much as anything else, to see just how much he could depend on the lizard to follow through with a plan. If his performance with the goblin was any indication, the answer was very much.

"Steady now, snot," Granth commanded the goblin, stepping up in front of him with an arrow in his hand. "You're all alone out here, and we ain't here to kill you... not if you talk."

"T-talk! Talk! I can talk!" the fearful goblin spat out, his tongue stumbling over the words as he tried to make his message clear. "I know words! I speak! I can talk!"

"Quiet!" snapped the archer. The goblin obeyed.

Granth looked up at his companion, nodding at Xalmann to reassure him that all was going according to plan. Then Granth crouched on down in front of the goblin and toyed with the arrow in his hand, tapping it against the terrified goblin's cheek once, then twice. The creature whimpered.

"Who were you following?" the archer asked slowly.

"Nothing! Nobody! None!"

Granth pressed the arrowhead a little harder against the goblin's cheek, drawing blood. The goblin whimpered.

"Who were you following?" Granth repeated again, eyes narrowed.

"WAGON! WAGON!" the goblin squealed, breathing more quickly. "Followed wagon! I was follow wagon!"

"Good." Granth relaxed his hand, dropping the arrow away from the goblin's cheek. He tapped it idly on the goblin's shoulder. "How many people were with the wagon?"

"S-six? Six. Wait, seven!" The goblin corrected himself, squirming a little in Xalmann's scaly grasp. "Humans, dwarf, lizards!"

"Good. What sort of weapons?"

"T-they, they- they have clubs, swords, spears! Funny shootstick," the goblin added, swallowing. Granth assumed he meant either a bow or a crossbow.

"Armor?"

"N-no armor! No armor!"

"Horses?"

"Little horse! Loud little angry horse, two!" the goblin insisted, nodding quickly.

Granth took stock of the information. Six or seven visible men, mostly humans and lizards with a dwarf; one wagon pulled by two mules; mostly melee armaments in their hands. They weren't armored, so they probably weren't professional caravan guards. Still, six or seven was a lot of men to take on at once, even with Granth's skill at archery factored in. Xalmann only had his dagger, and Granth wasn't sure he even knew how to use his fiery powers yet...

The matter was settled. Granth raised an eyebrow at the goblin.

"You want food? Treasure?" Granth asked the goblin.

The goblin paused, uncertain and cautious. He tentatively said: "Yes?" His voice cracked.

"You can run fast," Granth observed. The goblin nodded, so Granth continued. "We need a distraction. You need to make the men angry, then run away. We will kill them. You come back when you're done and you get food and treasure. Yes?"

The goblin weighed his options. He must have considered that saying no might lead to his death, so he squeaked the word "Okay" in a defeated tone.

Granth looked up at Xalmann. His decision was made. He gestured the lizard to let him go, then muttered a few words in the lizardfolk tongue.

"<Make sure he does not try to run away before we get to the caravan.>"

Xalmann was slightly surprised when Mask spoke fluently in his language, but realized he shouldn't be. He knew barely anything about the man. He was almost surprised they didn't speak Goblin fluently.

He let the Goblin go, relieved as they stopped pressing against his bandaged chest. The Goblin seemed relieved as well until Xalmaan grabbed his shoulder and turned his around again, this time to face him.

"Do not run" Xalmann hissed, his eyes narrowed, his face inches from the Goblin's. He stood back up to his full height. He towered over the Goblin, looking down at them menacingly. The Goblin nodded, fear showing on their face. Now he knew why Mask wanted the Goblin alive. They would be serving as bait.

He went over to the Goblin's dropped spear. His tail stuck underneath it and flicked it upwards into Xalmann's hand. He looked directly at the Goblin as he did so. It was clear he had no intentions of giving the spear back to the Goblin.

The group walked on, Mask in the lead. The Goblin followed behind with Xalmann in the rear, keeping an eye on the Goblin. One hand on his dagger, the other using the rusty spear as a makeshift walking stick. It made the journey a bit easier on him, taking a bit of weight off of his still weakened legs.