His fury began as a spark in the pit of his stomach - an errant lightning strike upon a field of dry grass, the conflagration spreading quickly, as he was mere kindling under its primordial sway. Barron’s eyes squinted and his teeth clenched as the familiar white hot rage subsumed him with its ravenous intensity, and he screamed in exultation, his blades flashing in anticipation…
This rage was a familiar companion of Barron's, getting him out of trouble on a countless number of occasions - and into trouble on at least as many. It was his solitary friend for much of his early time upon the streets of Manea, and his only companion after his parents had died of the plague and he was sent to the Orphanarium. It was there that this anger learned to coax and embolden his small fists as he sought to defend himself from the larger boys, who saw him as easy pickings for their own misplaced rage. They had their angry companion as well – as all orphans do - but his friend was stronger and it burned hotter and longer than theirs, and with it by his side it did not take long for Barron to use it to make others respect him. And fear him.
Upon arriving in Eadwald, Barron had tried to distance himself from his surly, irate friend - it had served its purpose and now he needed to find his way on his own, didn’t he? What use would a simple carpenter have for such and unruly and unpredictable companion? Nails didn’t display any intention in harming the poor or the innocent or the weak, did they? One hardly had to defend oneself from a plank of wood or bucket of paint. And so he tried to shun his old friend, ignoring the drunken, knowing waves and beckons it sent his way in the crowded inn when the dice turned against him or when some stumbling patron spilled drink or careless word.
Barron had missed his old friend, feeling weak and empty without the irrational encouragement and reckless bravado it imparted upon him when the two of them were together, but he knew that they were bad for one another and it was for the best that they had parted ways. But here now, fighting the denizens of this wretched and cursed forest the two of them reunited like lost lovers; running forward and embracing one another with open arms and raised fists.
These tree creatures attacked at them from all sides in seemingly endless waves; creatures driven by unholy magic and murderous design. Barron and the others had built a small fire to try to corral the monsters in an effort to contain them to some small degree, and positioned themselves along the open path. Using the fire and the labyrinthian hedgerows they funneled the beasts forward to fall under the persuasive lethality of Bexley’s giant sword and Sinikka’s mighty spear; they sent them stumbling and dying under Marrows deftly dancing dagger strikes and into the intricate and dangerous deadly arcs of Burryaga’s spinning staff; and they sent them burning to screaming ash under the arcane might of Mordantyr’s eldritch flames. But in spite of their prowess, each member of their group was bleeding from a dozen wounds and growing weaker by the minute, while their enemy’s numbers seemed boundless and were as determined as ever; and all the while, the confining flame of the protective bonfire began to grow dangerously low.
Barron grabbed one of the tree creatures in desperation in an attempt to hurl it into the dying flames, hoping to rebirth the protective fire with its corpse. But the creature – harried by powerful blows from Bexley and Sinikka – disassembled into wooden flinders in his grasp, collapsing into worthless splinters and crumbling decay. He looked around frantically, knowing that if their pitiful fire burned out completely, their precarious position would be quickly overrun by these abominations. He noted one of the pod-throwing tree creatures drawing near, making ready to hurl another one of the explosive flowers into their ranks, and he moved to action. The rage within him spurred him on, drunkenly cajoling him to grab this creature and drag it into the flames before the fire winked out completely. The creature shrieked when he grabbed it, the sound like hurricane wind through the boughs of a tree, and it fought back frantically as Barron tried to drag it screaming into the fading flames. It tore into his soft flesh with thorny hands and gnarled fingers, and struggled to pull free of his grasp as Barron plodded towards the fire with his sacrificial bough in tow. In the corner of his eye he could see the last embers of the dying fire begin to send its death rattle into the sky, sending a wildly dancing shower of sparks and smoke spiraling hopefully towards the heavens. There wasn’t much time, he knew, as he tried to navigate this mass of living struggling kindling into position, but it fought against him furiously, kicking and screaming like a mud-caked child being brought inside for a cold bath.