Guts' plan is a simple one: book it the fuck out of there and northward into the woods. The faire was a lost cause, but he was hoping to find some kind of shelter where he could dump this guy off and be able to defend them both. A cave, a tunnel made of roots, a stone bridge, anything. But at night, with the smoke and the waning moon, his vision was limited as he rushed through the forest, ignoring the scratches and prodding of twigs.

He skids to a stop, nearly barreling over the edge of a sheer drop to a lake below. The laughter of the two masked figures had faded, but they weren't entirely gone. And he could still hear things rustling and rushing in the trees behind them, like gusts of wind.

"Hey," he gives Raistlin a rough jostle,"You can swim, right?"