Pained Claw

Nothing was really happening with himself. He looked at the pendant that he had created. Made with care and thought, and perhaps thought that he should make one for himself, and perhaps another for his brother. But he was sure that each had to be unique. Every one had to be special. Perfect. He would not make duplicates unless that was exactly what had been called for. But it was not what had been called for. Each individual deserved a crest by which to be known.

But that was for another time. For something else. He would remove his sword and begin to work on what he had thought of. He doused his arm in water and lit it on fire. Then he began to use it in conjuction with his greatsword. He now held the massive blade in a single hand, using his other hand for its own ability to damage and to hurt, and for utility. Then as soon as all the water had evaporated, he began to feel the sting. The pain. He had to stop. Then he would wait.

And when he had doused himself again, he would try again and again. He needed a way to stop the fires from hurting himself, but how?
(Malus)