The time spent laboring away in the camp by the towering man was not wasted, on the contrary now as he found himself free of his bonds and able to bear his weapons again so covertly amid the camp. Slinking from tent to tent, awaiting patrols and wanderers to dawdle by, the man soon returned to the slave tent, the same which had been his temporary home not even a half an hour earlier. What had changed in his absence however, was that the pungent, equally sweet and foul smell of the smoke that had tipped him off to a threat only now hung ever so slightly in the air; the man to blame having vanished and in his place, two regulars. Whoever they were was irrelevant, but they posed a threat the warrior of the wilds could not regularly overcome - blood of the moon or not.

It was unquestionably what drove him to his next act, that where he scanned the rest of the camp for opportunity. There was no killing the men both without someone calling out for help, even with a dying breath, assuming all had even gone that well to begin with. What was needed was a distraction, something that even if it did not call them away, afforded the others ample opportunity and time to do whatever it was they needed to with the lost monk. Brannor's eyes, attuned to the darkness, scanned aggressively for one such solution in the form of fire. Fire was a tool of fear and a potent weapon, something that could well incite chaos. Unfortunately, the only source of glimmering flame was far enough away that there would be no happenstance of its lick coming to befall the slave tent.

Instead a stack of them and tinderboxes laid crudely tossed about among other goods, but the other source?

The tiny, scaly, horrible little things had no shortage of them in any haphazard number among their side of the camp. For some reason, one that struck the hunter as odd, the small lizard-men - absolute shadows of their supposed draconic ancestors - were all away on their own in one ramshackle den of tents. It was dirtier, if one could even describe the already pathetic living conditions this "army of the dragon" had, and strewn with torches that were precariously close to too many structures. Though this did come at a price, which was well that the enemy was in great number here, traveling in roving bands.

There was no other option the knight-ranger had, so he gambled his life on it. Slinking in not far from any of the closest cover, at times skulking here and there, Brannor neared one of the roaring flames upon a staff. All too close to a tent was it, that with a firm push it collapsed on to the flammable surface. Not one to watch his work, the threat would soon spread. The next business, rather the attempt to, would be to get the slaves to flee if they would or could. How many, if any, would escape did not bother him or inform his decision in the slightest, not as he crept low to the tall grass.

All he was obligated to do was to try.

[hider=Effects]
Brannor succeeds in finding unattended and vulnerable torches, which he opts of his choices to use the ones least likely to raise an alarm other than a distraction, leaving the enemy's attention elsewhere. He tips over one to set some of the kobold tents and their camp aflame, then sneaks back to his hiding place near the slave tent, hoping the guards will be distracted.
[/hider]

[@Norschtalen][@Hekazu][@Lucius Cypher][@Ryonara][@Gordian Nought]