[i]The Charred Bog was an endless expanse of marshes and fetid swampland, filled with all manner of foul creatures and evil-stricken folk, banished from more civilized lands. Lords and kings have for years tried to conquer the region, with every attempt ending in failure, countless lives lost. For now, the Bog would remain unclaimed: an uncharted festering wound upon the region.

But within the swamp, past winding, muddy trails and murky pools - life flickered. A ball of flame, held in the hands of a young boy with all the uncertainty of a novice.

"Focus, Brennen, control your breathing. A spark will not catch without kindling to fuel it." The boy's eyes flicked toward the source of the voice: a middle-aged man standing beside him. The man was tall and slender, with sharp, pointed features, and long brown hair that fell past his shoulders. 

The boy - Brennen - did not reply, but did his best to follow the man's advice, taking slower, deeper breaths; all-the-while gazing intently at the fire in his hands. If the man said anything else, Brennen did not hear it, focusing all his attention on the flame he nurtured, seeing it grow stronger, more vibrant, feeding on his energy.

But a child's focus does not hold long, and sure enough, Brennen's eyes were drawn to the sound of a nearby frog leaping into the water, and the flame fizzled into nothing.

Brennen's initial shock quickly turned to frustration: a scowl spreading across his features as he angrily kicked at a clod of mud. The man, however, appeared unfazed, simply moving closer and clasping a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Patience, my son. The fire will return... for it is a part of you."[/i]
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[center][h3][i]Visions of Bonfire[/i][/h3][/center]
"Part of--" Brennen awoke slowly, echoing his father's words through dried and bloodied lips. Disoriented, Brennen blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. He was not at his camp. Instinct set in, and Brennen immediately tried to rise to his feet, only to strain futilely against coils of rope that bound his hands and feet. 

Where was he? Who had done this to him? 

Brennen's second question was almost immediately answered as a small, wretched-looking creature came into view, grasping a spear nearly as tall as it was. [i]Goblins[/i]. Brennen had seen small groups of them skulking near his base camp: no more than two or three at any given time. A quick flash of steel or conjuration of fire was often all it took to get them to scatter. But as a sharp throbbing in Brennen's head began to settle, he realized they must have taken him in his sleep. 

More goblins began to appear, surrounding an admittedly-impressive bonfire in the center of their clearing. They chanted, screeched, and bickered amongst themselves in their coarse language, unknown to Brennen's ears. Now fully awake, his eyes darted all about, looking for sign of his possessions, or anything nearby he could try to use to free himself. Unwittingly, the goblins had figured out Brennen's perfect weakness. His restricted movement made it near-impossible for him to channel flame. The best he'd be able to manage was a small spark, barely worth any note. But right now, a spark may be what he needed. 

Thinking back to his earliest lessons: the basic foundations of Pyromancy, Brennen cleared his head, taking deep breaths, and focusing on them. With time, patience, and perhaps a fair bit of luck, he might be able to burn through his bindings...