The sound of marching filled the battlefield. The dwarven shield vanguard had been marching since first light, and they had been increasing their speed steadily. Domar's heart pounded as he felt the adrenaline rush from the beating of the orc war drums. He felt as though nothing could stop them from pushing the enemy back. Looking over his shield, he saw the dragonkin army front line. He lowered his head and braced his heavy shield, and war cries joined the drums throughout the line. He felt the impact of the enemy and pushed with all his might. The enemy lines gave way, and the spearman thrust their spears over his shield. The line lurched forward again until it met resistance, and another hard push put the dragonkin on their back foot. The spearmen thrust out again over the shields. Domar felt he could do this for hours with the drums and war cries boosting his strength. Suddenly, the sound of the drums was drowned out by a monstrous roar.

Doman's heart felt as though it had been frozen solid in ice, and something huge slammed against his shield, knocking him backward. As he hit the ground, he realized he was alone. None of his fellow soldiers were around him. Above him stood a dragonkin the size of a house. It placed a foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground, and then it bent down, and he could feel the heat building in the dragonkin's mouth. Doman tried to lift his shield to protect his face, but it had grown so heavy that he couldn't. The dragonkin looked at him; its eyes were made of blue fire, and it grinned at him before turning to face his arm pinned to the ground by his shield.

Doman watched in horror as the flames hit his arm, and the skin started to melt, then the muscles, and finally the bone. Doman sat up screaming, his left arm reaching to grab his right arm, only to feel his ribs. He dropped his head back to his pillow. Every night was the same dream, and he had to take a moment to remember that his arm was gone every morning. Doman wiped sweat from his face and walked to the wash basin by the door of his room. The cold water felt good but wouldn't banish the memories of his arm burning. A month after the Draconic Burn Syndrome had taken effect, the pain had been too much for him to take. Doman chose to have the healers remove his right arm rather than live the rest of his life suffering from the burning pain. He had thought he could put it behind him, but the dreams followed him. Now, a year out of the army, he still lived in his family's tavern. He could not do much work until he learned to use his left arm better. Looking outside, Doman realized it was past noon; he was thankful that his sister never woke him early, but he hated knowing she was running the tavern alone while he slept.

As Doman entered the tavern's main room, he noticed the crowd wasn't significant. It dawned on him that it was a market day, and most regulars would be working their booths most of the day. Most customers were at the bar, and the old dwarves enjoyed their ale and chatting with his sister Nola. Nola noticed him and motioned with her head to a halfling and a goblin sitting at a table in the corner. Walking to the two men, he forced a smile to greet them.

"Welcome, can I get you some ale and stew?

The goblin looked up and nodded. "Ale and stew will be just fine." "Same for me," the halfling added.

Doman went to the bar, and his sister had two ales and two bowls of stew ready for him to take in the basket. He felt foolish using it but couldn't balance a tray with his left hand without spilling half the time. The door opened as Doman walked to the customer's table, and he called out a welcome. His smile faded as soon as he saw the three men that had just entered. He knew the armored dwarf but not his two new companions. They were both young dwarves with leather armor with shortswords at their waist. Nothing would make Doman happier than being able to throw them out now, but he knew it would only make things worse. They would spread the word that his family's tavern was unfriendly to adventurers, and business would suffer. After unloading the basket for the goblin and halfling, Doman made his way to the adventurer's table.

"Ale and Stew today, Kordel?" Doman tried to sound friendly but could tell he had failed.

The armored dwarf smiled wide before loudly answering, "Of course, ale and stew, Lefty! For me and my companions here." As Doman nodded and started to walk away, the dwarf continued to speak loudly, "Lefty used to be a member of the Dwarven Shield Vanguard. He was very impressive, I am sure. Until, of course, he got a bad burn and couldn't stand the pain, so he had them take his shield arm so he could come back home and bring us ale and stew." His last words were filled with venom. The armored dwarf laughed, and the younger two joined in. Rolling up his sleeve, the armored dwarf continued to speak loud enough for the entire tavern to hear. "You see this here," pointing to the scared flesh of his bicep. "I got this when I rammed into a lava golem in a Tier 3 dungeon. The skin will never be the same, and I will not lie. It was one of the most painful injuries, but I wasn't cowardly enough to just cut my arm off so I wouldn't have to fight anymore. No burn was going to keep me from the adventurer's life."

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There was a loud sound of a chair hitting the wall, and Doman turned to see that the goblin had stood from his chair and was walking toward Kordel.

"I will give you one chance to take back what you said and walk out of here," the goblin shouted.

Kordel stood from his chair and approached the goblin. The goblin only came up to his chest, and Kordel puffed his chest out and put his hands on his hips. "I take nothing back, you runt of a goblin. Go back and sit down before I put you down."

The goblin stared daggers at the taller dwarf, "There is something you should know about the vanguard."

Kordel opened his mouth to speak, but before any noise came out of his mouth, the goblin dropped to a knee and drove his fist into Kordel's knee. The pop was loud, and Kordel screamed in pain before an uppercut knocked the air out of him. Kordel fell back, knocking the table over. His leg was bent wrong, and as he tried to catch his breath, the goblin stood and walked to look down on him. Slowly, the goblin removed his two long leather gloves. The sight of his bloody fists sent a gasp of shock through the tavern. He held his bloody fist in front of the downed dwarf. "This is what Draconic Burn Syndrome looks like." He took one hand, and while everyone watched, he slid his hand from his elbow down to his wrist, easily removing a layer of burned black skin, and threw it into the dwarf's face. "The skin continues to burn as it grows back, so it never heals." the goblin then got a wide grin on his face. "Oh, and what you should know about the vanguard is if you push one of us......We Push Back!" As the goblin shouted, he launched one last punch into the dwarf's face, knocking him unconscious. He looked at the young dwarfs standing with dumbfounded looks on their faces. "You better take him to a healer and have his leg fixed."

The two dwarves looked at each other, and then they each grabbed an arm and carried Kordel out of the tavern. As the door shut, Doman finally blinked. He had been stunned by how fast it had happened. Then he looked at the goblin walking back to his table. As the goblin took his seat, Doman saw his bloody hand reach for his ale. His fists might both be blood red now, but that was only because the impact of the punches had caused the skin to come off. They would have both been black. No, not black, burned.

"The Burned Fist," Doman whispered. He had heard of a goblin who refused to leave the front lines even with Draconic Burn Syndrome. Many times in the camps, Doman had listened as the older vanguard soldiers told tales of The Burned Fist charging through dragon breath attacks and crippling the enemy lines. Doman hadn't believed he was real, but the speed at which the goblin moved was incredible. Doman turned to see everyone else was staring at the goblin as well. Quickly, he pulled himself together. "Why is nobody drinking? That's not the first time an adventurer has had sense knocked into him in a tavern. Enjoy the ale. The show is over." The older dwarves at the back turned back around and talked amongst themselves again. They were undoubtedly talking about what they had just witnessed but being respectful. Doman wasn't sure what to do next. He wanted to say something to the goblin but couldn't think of anything. Instead, he headed to the table that had been knocked over and cleaned up the mess. That included wiping the blood from the floor. His sister pulled him into the kitchen when he returned behind the bar.

"Do you know that goblin?" she asked in a hushed tone.

Doman shook his head, "No, but I think I have heard of him before."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I think he is war-titled."

Nola was taken aback. "What? Really?"

Doman Nodded. "I am not sure, but I heard stories of a goblin called The Burnt Fist. I didn't think he was real, but after what I saw. It has to be him."

"Well, don't just stand around looking like a fool; take him a pitcher of ale and some good bread from Kate's bakery. Oh, and take him something to wrap his arms with so he doesn't bleed all over the table."

Doman winched. "I will take the ale and bread but not ask him to wrap his arms."

Nola put her hands on her hips. "And why not? Blood isn't easy to clean from tables, you know."

"Nola, if he wraps his arms, the skin will attach to the wrapping as it hardens, and when he removes the wrapping, the skin will also be removed. It would be like asking him to peel his skin off again once he leaves."

Nola looked at him in horror. " OK, if it doesn't come clean, we will just sand it down. Now go and serve him and his friend. If he tries to pay, don't let him. I have wanted to see Kordel taken down a peg for months now. And since we didn't do it, the other adventurers can't blame us."

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Bowen was a little shocked at what had just happened. He had known Trog was a good fighter; he had taken down four armed bandits, but the speed of the fight was ridiculous. Bowen hadn't even left his chair before the fight ended. Not that he would have been able to do much. Bowen was even shorter than Trog, and dwarves were twice as thick as halflings, so throwing himself at one of the other dwarfs wouldn't have helped. When Trog sat back down, he acted like nothing had happened. Trog just drank his ale and then started eating his stew. The leather gloves lay on the table, and his exposed arms left drops of blood on the table as he ate. Bowen was afraid they might ask him and Trog to go, but the man Trog had stood up for returned with a pitcher of ale and a loaf of warm, sweet bread, so he figured they were welcome to wait here for Morgan.