While Raistlin keeps busy gathering supplies from a stream, Guts keeps to himself gathering fuel for their campfire. He doesn't attempt to make conversation, yet, though there are questions on his mind.

The fire gets going quickly enough, using a flint and the metal of his prosthetic to shower his pile of kindling with sparks until it starts to smoke. Nursed from smouldering twigs and pine needles to a little core of leaping flames, he starts adding the larger sticks to generate some proper warmth for them.

As he works, he notices fresh blood dripping down his hand, hissing when it hits the fire. It traces itself up the dried lines of wine-red to the source higher up near his shoulder. One of the Nightrenders must have gotten their claws in when they'd clung to him, and his movement irritated the cuts to boot.

"Hm."

Sure enough, on the vulnerable inside of his upper arm snaked some ragged clawmarks across his skin. He didn't even notice the pain with his armor on. Unfastening his pauldron from this angle was going to be a challenge, but he's done it before. Using his hand, he aids his rigid metal fingers through the loops of the straps.