Lord Wyron — Roleplayer Guild

Twenty-Two Years Ago

Two days had passed since the incident with Kipper. Though the Chief had promised Brennen to begin teaching him the values of discipline the day before, he was waylaid with his tribal duties -- and the fury of Kipper's father. That night, feigning sleep, Brennen could hear the two men arguing outside the Chief's hut. Brennen's father, maintaining his patient, reserved demeanor, almost seemed to be browbeaten by the larger, louder man, who's shouts seemed to disturb even the native creatures of the bog. Yet Brennen could hear the subtleties in the Chief's tone. Though quiet as he always was, steel was beginning to form behind his words, a sharpness that serve to remind Kipper's father that he had forgotten himself. Finally, after what had seemed like hours, the two men parted. The last thing Brennen could remember was the Chief offering a quiet assurance to his wife before all fell silent again, and Brennen slept, comforted by the sound of crickets in the trees.

The next morning just before daybreak, Brennen was gently awoken by his father, who had him get dressed and follow him into the untrodden depths of the Swamp. The early morning sun peeking across the horizon seemed to burn through the dense treeline, giving the swamp a warm, yellow glow. Brennen could hear the sounds of the swamp waking in reply. Birds began to sing their long song; frogs and toads croaked out their morose baritone choir; and insects buzzed and looped about the bog, ready to begin the day's work. 

Throughout their journey, the Chief spoke little, seeming deep in thought. Though his anger and disappointment at Brennen's previous antics had faded entirely, he seemed tired today, as though drained from long battle. 

After walking for what seemed like a mile-and-a-half at least, the environment around the two changed. In what could almost be described as a rift between worlds, the swamp seemed to...die. The soggy, spongy ground turned to infertile, dry cracked mud, riddled with puddles of foul, black water. The treeline thinned out almost entirely, leaving a bare, open plain before them. The few trees that still stood were burnt, bare, and withered, like corpses. The air was thick and heavy, and a cloud of smoke still seemed to loom in the distance, a physical barrier separating this damned wasteland from the rest of the Bog. 

"Wh-where are we?" The young Brennen piped up, nervously looking from left-to-right as if expecting some beast to come charging from the malodorous fog. 

"It has no official name to our tribe," the Chief began, somberly, as if recalling a bad taste in his mouth, a bitterness towards past memories. "But many  of our brothers and sisters call it the Scorched Place."

"What happened to it?" Brennen asked next, primal instinct urging him to run, to hide. Whatever this land, this 'Scorched Place' was -- it felt wrong, like it shouldn't be. 

"Many years ago, centuries before my time, the first fledgling Pyromancer tribes settled in this part of the Bog; the first generation to come after the founding company made pact with Valaista. For years, the tribes were peaceful and accommodating, recalling the camaraderie shared amongst their forebears. But it was not to last. Soon there were disturbances between the tribes. Minor, petty disputes that could be resolved with a mediator, no lasting harm to be thought of. But as the tribes grew and flourished, their success gave rise to arrogance, a struggle for the superiority of ideas. Those small, petty disputes began to occur more frequently, with truly unbiased mediators becoming harder and harder to find. Arguments turned more vicious and accusatory, and tribes subconsciously began picking sides, forming alliances with each other. Finally it all came to a head: a physical altercation over what was a trivial disagreement. That was all the tribes needed before erupting in all-out civil war. They began to use their Gifts against each other, Pyromancer versus Pyromancer, fueling their Inner Fires with 'righteous' fury and 'just' outrage. But their anger controlled them, and unstoppable fire cut a swath through their home, gorging itself on flesh and vegetation, leaving nothing unburnt. When the flames died down, leaving this...scar behind, all that was left was shame." The Chief stopped, turning to look down at Brennen, who stared back, captivated. 

"This place is a permanent reminder of the dangers involved in misusing our craft. This land was never the same after that - barren and salted. But it serves as a lesson to future generations: we Pyromancers walk a fine line between rage and serenity. To channel our gifts, one must have the passion to cast fire, and the discipline to control it. It's been tribe law since that time to never use our powers against one another. We are not primitive savages tearing at each other for sport, but servants of a higher purpose. To pervert Valaista's gift out of wrath or enmity is contrary to nature, to our beliefs. It only leads to destruction... Keep your eyes ahead of you, Brennen. Watch closely - and let this lesson sink in."

Brennen said nothing, simply looking at the seared expanse in reverence. At the passing of a shadow, he could've sworn he saw an echo, a dark and feeble spirit of malice gnawing at itself in the burned wake.
Present Day

Brennen remained almost entirely silent during the proceedings that followed, but his bright amber eyes darted from adventurer to adventurer as they beseeched the Emperor with their own requests. His eyes fell on one who was not there before, a late-newcomer who did not announce herself or her presence. a silver-haired young woman no older than himself garbed in inelaborate furs and fabrics, the only notable feature about her appearance being the strange markings on her face that Brennen could only assume were a sort of tribal marking or war paint. She said nothing, but had the look of a huntress about her, enough that the pyromancer wondered if perhaps this woman was a kindred spirit. 

His train of thought was interrupted by the sallow disciple of Luna stepping forward with his appeal, disregarding wealth and even forfeiting his own life in return for one thing, a relic called 'Serenity.' The Emperor seemed to oblige this request, so long as it is not used in violence. The Imperial Pantheon within Eon confused Brennen more than anything. Their emphasis on a deity representing each element of life seemed counter-intuitive. The Pyromancers worshipped Valaista and Valaista alone. Questions regarding the mysteries of life were seen as a waste of time in the greater scope of group survival. That was not to say such questions did not exist within the tribes, but no pantheon came from it. These temple disciples were as varied as men come, from modest and mild-mannered to overzealous and fanatical. Which camp would Neil fall into? 

Brennen grimaced softly as the Emperor all-but-admitted he knew nothing of substance about the threat they were facing, but still, he said little, absorbing the information as well as he could. Indeed, the only question that the group needed to focus on was how to kill the Scorned, to see them put down - exterminated. 

The entire company was interrupted by the introduction of another -- how many letters had been sent out? -- this one an Orc-woman, equipped for battle. From her dialogue, it became apparent she was a replacement for another, one called Garthan. Despite her strong, sturdy appearance on top of carrying enough weapons to single-handedly take on a band of brigands, the woman carried herself with stiffness and uncertainty, as though she did not belong here. But whether they liked it or not, these men and these women of all races and walks of life were tribe now. And within tribe, there is strength and unity. 

When the question of slavery came up, Brennen's interest was piqued. He had heard tales of some regions of Eon partaking in the practice, something that Brennen found despicable. Men and women were each entitled to individual freedom, the power to choose and decide for themselves. For someone to be born into servitude, into bondage was inhumane. As with nearly all past inquiries, the Emperor did not give a solid answer aside from seeming to share the human-looking Fae's request. Conditioning its enactment on their success and survival seemed to Brennen like self-absolvement. This quest was already little more than a suicide mission, one that, while being the Empire's last hope, had little chance of succeeding. By saying their petitions would be carried out upon success might as well have been saying no. 

Right when the Emperor prepared to unveil the rare Artifacts of Dramoria, another seemed to burst through the large, ornate doors, announced moments earlier by shouting and cursing that echoed off the walls of the keep. This latest newcomer, one called Sue, looked like any peasant or commoner, one who could slip into a crowd and remain unseen. But the way she carried herself, the way she spoke betrayed her station. Brennen had not been out of the Bog for long, but he had seen enough to know that the rules of fealty were different here. To address any ruler, let alone an Emperor so curtly, by first-name no less, is a bold, dangerous move. Yet that ferocity, that utter lack of deference intrigued Brennen. Whoever this woman was, she was no peasant.

The Emperor's reply only confirmed Brennen's suspicions. He spoke to the woman not as a blatantly disrespectful serf, but with a sort-of mutual respect. History there, perhaps dating years back. This woman, her identity seemingly-revealed, was to be the company's guide, their advisor. A monolith of a Templar and a false-peasant: motley leaders for a motley crew. 

At long last, the Artifacts were introduced and revealed. Servants, as though waiting for signal, carried in tables, laden with items covered by fine, expensive silks. These coverings alone would have likely cost one of the commoners a year's wages to pay. Eon may as well have been a different land from the Charred Bog. Opulence, wealth replaced practicality and utility. 

But Brennen could sense something from that table, something almost calling to him, like a warmth that swelled in his chest, stretching out til it touched the tips of his fingers, prompting them to twitch as if in anticipation. 

The Templar was gifted his Artifact first, a gilded, ruby-encrusted longsword etched with glyphs written in an unfamiliar language. The Templar seemed almost hesitant to take up the blade; a betrayal of emotion behind that faceless helm. But he finally held the blade aloft, letting sunlight catch itself in the gold-and-steel. Then, he spoke -- unveiling life that breathed, that thought. His voice was clear and smooth, almost belying the golem-like stature his ornamented armor afforded him. 

As the other adventurers slowly moved towards the ornate tables seeking artifacts of their own, Brennen followed the one that called to him in his heart, letting it lead him to a small, seemingly-insignificant pendant hanging at the end of an iron chain. Outstretching a blackened, ash-stained hand, Brennen let a finger trail along the etches within the pendant, the symbol of Solus, Imperial god of the Sun. The card placed before the pendant had but a simple inscription on it: 'He who wears this pendant wields the might of the Sun. But beware he does not burn from within.'

Brennen gently intertwined his fingers with the iron chain, lifting the pendant off its place and into the air. As it was held aloft, the pendant seemed to draw sunlight into itself, softly glowing...an illusion? Brennen's eyes narrowed; though this Artifact promised great power, power of the sun, itself, something held him back - instinct, perhaps. Silently making a decision, Brennen simply clasped his fingers around the pendant, wordlessly claiming it. Perhaps it would find use. 

Coming out of his reverie, Brennen turned to see Kean had chosen his Artifact as well, an amulet that conjured from it a transparent spectral-green cat, one that seemed to detect whether the speaker was lying or telling the truth. Whatever use it would serve in this quest aside, its master seemed nothing-short of ecstatic to acquire it.
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