Like a Little Caesar's pizza, he's hot and ready.
[hider=Kian Cran'Darack the Flame Priest]
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[center][h3][color=9e0b0f][b]Kian of the Flame[/b][/color][/h3]

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[b] Priest of R'Hllor || Flame and Shadow [/b][/color][/center]

Kian cannot remember his parents very well. He recalls the smiling face of a woman, the deep voice of a man and a moving picture in his mind of what must have been his father walking past him, asking about the night's dinner. Somehow, the word Riverlands sticks in his mind. Verdant green and blue skies outside a wooden cottage, smoke lazily pouring forth from the chimney. The first smoke. His next memories fade, and suddenly he finds himself in flea bottom. The sun baking the sandstone hovels as men and women scrape for a living. He remembers walking the docks, fascinated with the men hauling ropes and carrying wooden crates of the unknown on and off ships as waves lap against the quay, dancing with coruscating, shimmering white light. It's all in a haze, as if he dreamed the entire affair. He remembers looking up, into the first clear image he can see in his mind. 

Thrandos the Fateful looked upon him, his goatee more golden than grey, those years ago. A dimple on his left cheek, pock marks gently kissing the right of his head, just beside his mane of light hair, almost angelic as the sun beams upon him. Thrandos was kindly, Kian recalls. He offered Kian something to eat; a sweet he had never tasted before. The youth followed the man to a ship. The vessel gently rolls away from the sprawling urban center of the Westerosi. Waves and one particularly bad storm staying in his mind, even now. Hiding under the bed, fear gripping his throat. 

Volantis awaited. A city that awed him, even beyond the scope of King's Landing. Perhaps so because he could not recall approaching the Westerosi capital from the sea. Only leaving it, and he was occupied with other things. But Volatnis was immense, a place of wonders. It was said the hundred isles of Braavos could be dropped into the harbor and disappear, he recalled one sailor claiming. The nameless ship had docked, and from there Thrandos the Faithful led the young one to a vast structure, almost a plaza of sorts, and yet its varying minarets seemed each as large as the Red Keep from across the narrow sea. 

The Great Temple of the Lord of Light.

Kian's memories grow far more pellucid and unclouded. And yet, this is the chapter in his life that must remain shrouded in secrecy. R'hllor is the God of light, but also the God of shadow. His rituals are secret; surreptitious, and even if they were made know, the dimensions would be paradoxical, incomprehensible, and would undoubtedly prove ephemeral in one's limited mind. 

What Kian is permitted to recall aloud, however, is the women. Alonta of Braavos, Serana from Lys, Princess Philandrae of Sarnor, and many more. One needs to appreciate the finer things in life when traveling in service to the Lord of Light. Thrantos had told him that, though granted the old priest had meant the occasional glass of wine, not bedding royalty and whispering into the ears of other men's wives. But the Lord had blessed Kian with the looks of a sculpture and the voice of a singer, who was he to question it? 

His devil-may-care attitude however, was somewhat tempered when his next pilgrimage was not to one of the Free Cities, but to the land of his birth. The council of flame had given it to him with their full blessing, but he could tell from their eyes it was a penal assignment; a punishment for his extracurricular activities. He was granted no audience with the crown, or any representation with any of the seven kingdoms. He was there to spread the faith, and provide light where there was darkness. 

Well, he supposed he would have to make do, now wouldn't he?
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