[h1][center][color=dimgray]Many Years Ago[/color][/center][/h1]
[i]Early afternoon had begun to set on the Charred Bog. Orange-yellow sunbeams glowed through gaps in the trees and foliage like a kaleidoscope of light, casting discordant patterns on the still, fetid water, teeming with fish and insects alike.

Not far from a modest, if teeming village of huts and bonfires was a small pocket of dry land, surrounded by the murky shallows. Sat cross-legged upon the ground was the tribe chieftain and his son. The chieftain was a younger man, no older than 30 or so, of slender frame and middling height; but broader in the shoulders and taller than some of the other men in the tribe. His shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair was styled back, modestly decorated by a single knot at the end, and two locks on either side of his face adorned with hand-carved beads. The chief's face was long and pointed, with gaunt cheeks and ice-blue eyes set in narrow sockets. His [url=http://darksouls3.wiki.fextralife.com/file/Dark-Souls-3/pyromancer_small.jpg]garb[/url] was heavy layered furs, pelts, and fabrics, adorned with random bits of metal decoration scavenged from lost adventurers in the swamp. A twisted circlet 'crown' of molded antler sat atop his head, signifying his status. Despite his youth, the chief appeared wearied and burdened, no doubt by the weight of his responsibility, not only as chieftain, but father and teacher. Yet he hid these anxieties as well as he could with a soft, poignant smile to his young son, who looked upon his father with the eager, insatiable eyes of curiosity. 

"Now, then, Brennen," the Chief began, "the first, and arguably most important lesson of pyromancy, is to find your Inner Fire." The Chief outstretched a thin hand, letting a single finger press against his son's chest. "Here."

"My Inner Fire." The young Brennen replied, echoing the words as though they were holy scripture. "What's that?"

The Chief let out a small, warm laugh at the boy's antics before continuing. "Have you ever played a game with your friends, say, hide or seek or tag? And you feel that sensation in your chest, that desire to win? To excel?" At Brennen's rapid nodding, the chief elaborated. "That feeling within you, that drive and desire to succeed [b]is[/b] your Inner Fire. Ambition, self-assurance, and motivation are some of the ways we stoke our Inner Flame to conjure fire." At this, the Chief receded his hand, holding it out palm-up. After closing his eyes for a mere moment, a ball of fire appeared in his hand, held slightly aloft in the air, its warmth radiating towards Brennen. 

"I wanna try!" The boy proclaimed, immediately holding out his own, smaller arm and focusing a glare of concentration upon his palm, as if he were trying to will the flame to appear. 

"Brennen." The Chief called patiently, a few moments passing before his son's expression lightened and turned back to his father. "First, you must focus on that Inner Fire, draw on your drive and motivation; let your mind wander back to that game you played, try to imagine that desire, the welling feeling in your chest." 

At this, Brennen closed his eyes, his face once more adopting a look of concentration. But this was different, not the concentration of domination or control, but of serene equilibrium with himself. 

"Do you feel it?" The Chief asked. Taking his son's silence as affirmation, he continued. "Now, direct that feeling towards the palm of your hand--yes, that's right--do not try to control it; you are the flame's humble guide, not its master. Now... keep focusing, look for a tingling in your fingertips. Breathe, deeply, now, yes. Now... Open your eyes." 

Brennen opened his eyes, blinking a few times to readjust to the light before looking at his palm. There, hovering above, was a small tongue of flame, flickering and unsteady, but there all the same. 

Brennen's face seemed to explode into joy, a wide grin stretching from ear to ear as he beamed at his own success. "I did it! I did it! Ididit!" He proclaimed excitedly, looking at his father for that look of proud affirmation. 

But, in his lapse of concentration, the tongue of flame dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared. The boy's excitement melted away like snow in the midday son, replaced by a look of defeat, downcast eyes locked on his hand, where the small flame had been moments before.

But the Chief placed a reassuring hand on Brennen's shoulder, squeezing it lightly, prompting the boy to once more look up at him. "You've done excellently. Far more excellently than I ever could have at your age." The Chief commended softly. "Mastering the art of fire requires years of training and practice. One day, conjuring a flame like this will come as naturally to you as breathing or speaking - I promise."[/i]
[h1][center][color=dimgray]Present Day[/color][/center][/h1]
Brennen sat alone at his humble campsite, cross-legged before his roaring campfire. The road to Dramon was a long and arduous one - especially when one chose to walk. It had been a week of travel, at least, and Brennen, despite his familiarity with walking long and treacherous trails was feeling the effects of his journey. But he'd take sore legs over riding a horse any day. Such creatures were rarely, if ever found (alive, that was) in the Charred Bog. The idea of mounting some strange beast and letting it take you somewhere seemed strange and uncomfortable, so Brennen would rely on his own two feet. 

Lost in focus, Brennen kept his spirits up by remembering old memories of his childhood in the swamp, his foundational lessons of pyromancy. As if to emphasize the contrasts between his childhood and present self, Brennen looked down at his hand, bandaged in strips of cloth for protection. Without thinking, a large flame appeared, hovering above his fingers, lapping the air for anything to consume, feeding off its master's energy. Closing his fingers, the fire disappeared instantly, leaving Brennen with a small, almost mocking smile. How insurmountable the task had seemed in youth, to simply conjure fire, let alone use it as a tool and s weapon. But his father's words echoed in his mind, assurances that training and practice would make them natural, intrinsic to his nature. Brennen's Inner Fire, stoked and stirred as it had ever been before, was burning with bitterness and resentment. All that the Scorned had taken from him. Even the roads farther from the larger settlements were unsafe. Brennen was constantly on the move, lucky to get a full night's rest before suspicion and destiny pushed him forward. For so long he had been without purpose, wandering aimlessly, unsure of where the road would take him and why. But the Emperor's letter had found him, carried by a tenacious courier. Brennen was unsure how the messenger was able to track him, let alone find and give him the summons, but that kind of persistence could challenge even the most skilled of hunters.

Slowly rising to his feet, Brennen felt the road calling to him. Dramon was only a few miles out. Should his feet be swift and the trail welcoming, he would be there in only a couple hours. 

Grabbing a bucket of water collected from a river about a mile-and-a-half away, Brennen doused his campfire and scattered the ashes, collecting his meager, one-man tent and bedroll, securing them to a weather-beaten knapsack. He tied a rope from his pack through the handles of a battered [url=https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/elderscrolls/images/c/c1/Iron_Shield_SK.png/revision/latest?cb=20121023001910]iron shield[/url], and shrugged the pack over his shoulders, grounding his feet to restore balance with the extra weight. At the pack's side was Brennen' only physical weapon, a simple [url=http://sellantiquearms.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/SELL-Antiques-Product-Photography-Purple-Moss-Photography-63-4000x2670.jpg]hand-axe[/url], slightly chipped and rusted from use, but still sharp enough to cleave a Scorned or bandit or two.

A few hours had passed by the time Brennen reached the city gates. The guards looked at him suspiciously. A man garbed in tattered robes bearing potions was either a wizard or a snake-oil salesman, perhaps both. But one quick flash of the Emperor's royal seal was enough to turn the guard into an escort, leading Brennen through the crowds of busybodies and sycophants, gruffly muttering something about another adventurer having arrived earlier. 

Met with strange looks ranging from the curious to the distrustful, Brennen ignored them, soon pushed into the royal palace itself, hit instantly with the gaudy regal air that could only be found in places such as this. Shiny floors of marble, tile, and stone; ornate glass windows set in decorative, custom-smelted panes; tapestries of silk and other expensive fabrics; paintings; statues; shields; armor-and-weapon-racks; and other such showy declarations of wealth, culminating in the silver-gold-and-ruby throne of Dramon itself, seated by the Emperor, himself. At his side was a fully-clad knight, dressed in ornate, silver-and-gold plate armor and mail, visage hidden by an eagle-shaped helm

"Your Majesty, Brennen, Pyromancer of the Swamp." The guard introduced him in formal address before turning on his heel and leaving out the large doors.

Brennen stepped forward, towards the only other individual before the throne: a small, scruffy sort garbed in simple adventurer's clothes, a shaggy mane of dark hair and beard covered his head. Brennen had arrived just in time to hear, but not see what had come beforehand. A voice, one most likely belonging to this man, addressing the Emperor in a tone that dripped of scorn. 

Turning his gaze upon the Emperor, himself, Brennen merely bowed his head. "Your name is not familiar to us in the Charred Bog, Your Majesty. But I answer your summons."