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Phoenix 1299
An errant smoke trail emanated from the burning hedge, plump lines of darkness drawn across the red summer sky. Red-hot twigs snapped and collapsed, still matching the colour of the Diessa Plateaus. Bison Cinderrage stared at the crackling spectacle, zoned out for a moment. Grimacing, he snapped back to attention and heaved the bucket of water, the evidence of a fight extinguished. As one of the few non-shaman charr in the Cinder warband, he was always stuck with the “dumb muscle” tasks. Move our gear here. Escort the prisoners there. Just a brick to posture or threaten with. Sure, the legion gave him the title of “bladestorm”, but it’s hard to take pride in when every other grunt with a greatsword gets the same banner. Even so, swinging a well-crafted tool of death was more interesting than a pail full of water.
Bison dropped the bucket and looked over to the other remaining indication of conflict. Two dead ranchers, armed with dull blades and cattle prods. Burns and lacerations decorated the freshly-killed like a twisted painting. Hard-packed dirt drank the pools of blood, doing Bison’s job for him. Disposing the bodies? No point. The ranch itself was several kilometers from any nearby town. With the fire gone, no one would care until their usual shipment of beef was late. Given some luck, the crows would have picked the corpses clean by then.
“Bison, fall in. Check this out.”
Bison turned to face Phelios Cinderthrone, one of many shamans in the warband. The pyromaniac gestured towards an adjacent doorway attached to the ranch, unnoticed during the prior fight. The doorway was unusual: wide enough to accommodate any fully-armoured charr, but with a ceiling even teenagers would have to duck under. Whatever the doorway lead to, it wasn’t for ranch work. Too cumbersome. Well, anything was better than staring into the horizon with nothing else to do. Might be something to pilfer too.
The mismatched pair ducked under the annoying low frame to step into a small circular room. Unlike the ranch’s other facilities, the iron walls were less dull, and the dirt was even-packed; no ruts dug in from daily chores spanning months and years. Two shelves, full of knick-knacks and sentimentals, populated the walls amongst portraits of landscapes and other charr. What appeared to be a narrow door provided linkage to the ranch’s main, flanked by one of the shelves on the left. On the ground, right in front of the two Flame Legion lackeys, was a small square pen. In that pen was a cotton-hewn bed – with a cub in it, fast asleep. The pair stared at their unexpected conquest, unsure of what to do in the moment.
“Heavy sleeper,” Phelios joked, breaking the silence. His left paw started to glow. “At least this loose end is easy to tie up.”
Bison grabbed the shaman’s arm. “Wait. You know protocol. Test him first.”
“Can’t. I don’t even know how. Only passed acolyte status just last season, and Baelfire seems insistent on clogging the shaman training programs with bureaucratic garbage. It’s one cub, who gives a damn?”
Phelios’s brief rant was cut off by a third voice, growled behind the two charr. “I do. You torch that cub, I’ll be serving your tail to Baelfire.” Drakin Cinderspire sauntered into the room, unperturbed by the cumbersome doorway. He glared at his two subordinates, but focussed at the non-magical one. “Bison, Rakt and Kentell need help with yoking the oxen. Rest of the supplies are on the cart, go help them.” Bison groaned in his mind but kept quiet. Drakin was one charr you didn’t want to antagonize. At this point, he could set fire to every other legionnaire and the shaman caste wouldn’t flinch. The golden cub of the legion, some of his friends said; his rise to prominence has been nothing short of astronomical. With no rebuttal, Bison slinked out of the narrow door, tail between his legs.
Upon Bison’s departure, Drakin knelt down to the cub’s bed. The conversation had awoken him, and the cub had rolled onto his back to gain visibility of the sounds. Huge red eyes stared upward at his newest sight. “Few months old at most,” Drakin muttered as he reached towards a pouch on his hip. Loosening the strings a bit, he dug his thumb and index finger into the brown silt within. With just a pinch, Drakin sprinkled the powder onto the cub’s face.
The black-furred cub watched the dust fall, still endlessly curious at his new spectacle. Most of the powder landed on his nose, irritating his fresh nostrils. With a large gasp, the cub sneezed. In an instant, the powder consumed itself in a ball of fire, and a miniature ember was conjured. Now this was quite the sight for the cub, and he cooed and babbled happily at his new plaything. Uncoordinated paws swatted at the ember, who now was trying to dodge its assailant’s slow attacks.
Phelios, still miffed at Drakin’s interruption, was not as hesitant as Bison in voicing himself. “So the cub summoned an ember. What’s the point?”
Drakin forgave the slight insubordination, for now. “Any godless heathen can grab a fistful of fire elemental powder and summon one for the fight. It takes skill to be able to use less. This cub took just one slight dusting to summon one; some shamans can’t even do that. That includes you, as it turns out.”
Drakin stood up and noticed a small iron nameplate on the pen’s far edge. Rikos. Well, no need to overcomplicate things with new identities. Simple false pasts will do.
“Take the cub. The bed, too. The high shamans will want to see this.”
---
Colossus 1326
Vesta Scorchpath nursed her elbow, fingers hiding torched fur and seared flesh. The burn wasn’t too bad, a post-op medical visit would have fixed things without issue and she could go towards planning the next mission. The quaestors had provided specialized armor lined with ice elemental crystals, supposedly designed to ward off fire spells. Vesta couldn’t tell if the lining helped, but regardless, she’s here now, arm still intact, and huddling under Sidra’s healing turret. The magical mist provided some salve to the entire warband’s wounds and the aura gave protection from any errant fireballs, but the turret had little use else. Even through the contraption’s influence, she could still feel the dryness in the air. An enveloping fieriness, stemming straight from the two juggernauts she now stared at.
Vesta frowned. She wasn’t expecting reinforcements (or lack thereof) from Command, and their attempts for enticing adventurers to help against shamans went as usual (read: their meat shields are dead or have fled). More so than that, Command would only send a single extra charr to defeat Cinderspire? Another warband or two, sure. Maybe even throw in a war wagon just for the show of force. But one lone charr was all they spared. At the very least, there were no signs of-
In an instant, the newcomer’s right wrist flickered and ignited. A beautiful wave of fire rose up the arm and down the hand, the liquid heat flowing over tensed muscles. Three darkened nubs on the shoulder, once unnoticed, flared up and shone in a menacing yellow-orange. Waves and licks of flame shifted over pitch-black fur like an accelerant-fuelled blaze. Molten claws curled to form a fist, more radiant than the rest of the arm. The realization hit Vesta like the second wave of heat that re-enveloped her. She had skimmed the dossiers, but never read too far. Rikos Flamedawn. Former Flame Legion shaman, defected to Ash a few years back. The chip on his shoulder was the size of a continent, and all that anger was only ever channelled against his former allegiance. Specialized in anti-Flame Legion ops, of course. Command would never order only one soldier to ensure the kill. This guy, he volunteered.
Arrana Scorchpowder grumbled a bit, tired of the inactivity. The healing mist had done its job to some degree, and she could run and dodge well enough at this point. “Vesta, I’m good. Let me-”
“Shut it, Arrana.” Vesta allowed her stare to perforate her underling for a moment. She returned her gaze to the continued showdown, eyes bright with comprehension. “Just sit tight and watch closely. Someone’s about to get burnt today and I don’t think it’s our Ash brother.”
This scene needed context like Project ARCANE, but its backstory was a bit more involved in comparison. Just listing out everything that happened in two paragraphs like the aforementioned would’ve been a bit boring, so here’s a short story. Whee, exposition.
Rikos Flamedawn, non-canon Cinder warband members © me
Art ©
blackchaos666
GW2, charr, Drakin Cinderspire, Scorch warband © ArenaNet
An errant smoke trail emanated from the burning hedge, plump lines of darkness drawn across the red summer sky. Red-hot twigs snapped and collapsed, still matching the colour of the Diessa Plateaus. Bison Cinderrage stared at the crackling spectacle, zoned out for a moment. Grimacing, he snapped back to attention and heaved the bucket of water, the evidence of a fight extinguished. As one of the few non-shaman charr in the Cinder warband, he was always stuck with the “dumb muscle” tasks. Move our gear here. Escort the prisoners there. Just a brick to posture or threaten with. Sure, the legion gave him the title of “bladestorm”, but it’s hard to take pride in when every other grunt with a greatsword gets the same banner. Even so, swinging a well-crafted tool of death was more interesting than a pail full of water.
Bison dropped the bucket and looked over to the other remaining indication of conflict. Two dead ranchers, armed with dull blades and cattle prods. Burns and lacerations decorated the freshly-killed like a twisted painting. Hard-packed dirt drank the pools of blood, doing Bison’s job for him. Disposing the bodies? No point. The ranch itself was several kilometers from any nearby town. With the fire gone, no one would care until their usual shipment of beef was late. Given some luck, the crows would have picked the corpses clean by then.
“Bison, fall in. Check this out.”
Bison turned to face Phelios Cinderthrone, one of many shamans in the warband. The pyromaniac gestured towards an adjacent doorway attached to the ranch, unnoticed during the prior fight. The doorway was unusual: wide enough to accommodate any fully-armoured charr, but with a ceiling even teenagers would have to duck under. Whatever the doorway lead to, it wasn’t for ranch work. Too cumbersome. Well, anything was better than staring into the horizon with nothing else to do. Might be something to pilfer too.
The mismatched pair ducked under the annoying low frame to step into a small circular room. Unlike the ranch’s other facilities, the iron walls were less dull, and the dirt was even-packed; no ruts dug in from daily chores spanning months and years. Two shelves, full of knick-knacks and sentimentals, populated the walls amongst portraits of landscapes and other charr. What appeared to be a narrow door provided linkage to the ranch’s main, flanked by one of the shelves on the left. On the ground, right in front of the two Flame Legion lackeys, was a small square pen. In that pen was a cotton-hewn bed – with a cub in it, fast asleep. The pair stared at their unexpected conquest, unsure of what to do in the moment.
“Heavy sleeper,” Phelios joked, breaking the silence. His left paw started to glow. “At least this loose end is easy to tie up.”
Bison grabbed the shaman’s arm. “Wait. You know protocol. Test him first.”
“Can’t. I don’t even know how. Only passed acolyte status just last season, and Baelfire seems insistent on clogging the shaman training programs with bureaucratic garbage. It’s one cub, who gives a damn?”
Phelios’s brief rant was cut off by a third voice, growled behind the two charr. “I do. You torch that cub, I’ll be serving your tail to Baelfire.” Drakin Cinderspire sauntered into the room, unperturbed by the cumbersome doorway. He glared at his two subordinates, but focussed at the non-magical one. “Bison, Rakt and Kentell need help with yoking the oxen. Rest of the supplies are on the cart, go help them.” Bison groaned in his mind but kept quiet. Drakin was one charr you didn’t want to antagonize. At this point, he could set fire to every other legionnaire and the shaman caste wouldn’t flinch. The golden cub of the legion, some of his friends said; his rise to prominence has been nothing short of astronomical. With no rebuttal, Bison slinked out of the narrow door, tail between his legs.
Upon Bison’s departure, Drakin knelt down to the cub’s bed. The conversation had awoken him, and the cub had rolled onto his back to gain visibility of the sounds. Huge red eyes stared upward at his newest sight. “Few months old at most,” Drakin muttered as he reached towards a pouch on his hip. Loosening the strings a bit, he dug his thumb and index finger into the brown silt within. With just a pinch, Drakin sprinkled the powder onto the cub’s face.
The black-furred cub watched the dust fall, still endlessly curious at his new spectacle. Most of the powder landed on his nose, irritating his fresh nostrils. With a large gasp, the cub sneezed. In an instant, the powder consumed itself in a ball of fire, and a miniature ember was conjured. Now this was quite the sight for the cub, and he cooed and babbled happily at his new plaything. Uncoordinated paws swatted at the ember, who now was trying to dodge its assailant’s slow attacks.
Phelios, still miffed at Drakin’s interruption, was not as hesitant as Bison in voicing himself. “So the cub summoned an ember. What’s the point?”
Drakin forgave the slight insubordination, for now. “Any godless heathen can grab a fistful of fire elemental powder and summon one for the fight. It takes skill to be able to use less. This cub took just one slight dusting to summon one; some shamans can’t even do that. That includes you, as it turns out.”
Drakin stood up and noticed a small iron nameplate on the pen’s far edge. Rikos. Well, no need to overcomplicate things with new identities. Simple false pasts will do.
“Take the cub. The bed, too. The high shamans will want to see this.”
---
Colossus 1326
Vesta Scorchpath nursed her elbow, fingers hiding torched fur and seared flesh. The burn wasn’t too bad, a post-op medical visit would have fixed things without issue and she could go towards planning the next mission. The quaestors had provided specialized armor lined with ice elemental crystals, supposedly designed to ward off fire spells. Vesta couldn’t tell if the lining helped, but regardless, she’s here now, arm still intact, and huddling under Sidra’s healing turret. The magical mist provided some salve to the entire warband’s wounds and the aura gave protection from any errant fireballs, but the turret had little use else. Even through the contraption’s influence, she could still feel the dryness in the air. An enveloping fieriness, stemming straight from the two juggernauts she now stared at.
Vesta frowned. She wasn’t expecting reinforcements (or lack thereof) from Command, and their attempts for enticing adventurers to help against shamans went as usual (read: their meat shields are dead or have fled). More so than that, Command would only send a single extra charr to defeat Cinderspire? Another warband or two, sure. Maybe even throw in a war wagon just for the show of force. But one lone charr was all they spared. At the very least, there were no signs of-
In an instant, the newcomer’s right wrist flickered and ignited. A beautiful wave of fire rose up the arm and down the hand, the liquid heat flowing over tensed muscles. Three darkened nubs on the shoulder, once unnoticed, flared up and shone in a menacing yellow-orange. Waves and licks of flame shifted over pitch-black fur like an accelerant-fuelled blaze. Molten claws curled to form a fist, more radiant than the rest of the arm. The realization hit Vesta like the second wave of heat that re-enveloped her. She had skimmed the dossiers, but never read too far. Rikos Flamedawn. Former Flame Legion shaman, defected to Ash a few years back. The chip on his shoulder was the size of a continent, and all that anger was only ever channelled against his former allegiance. Specialized in anti-Flame Legion ops, of course. Command would never order only one soldier to ensure the kill. This guy, he volunteered.
Arrana Scorchpowder grumbled a bit, tired of the inactivity. The healing mist had done its job to some degree, and she could run and dodge well enough at this point. “Vesta, I’m good. Let me-”
“Shut it, Arrana.” Vesta allowed her stare to perforate her underling for a moment. She returned her gaze to the continued showdown, eyes bright with comprehension. “Just sit tight and watch closely. Someone’s about to get burnt today and I don’t think it’s our Ash brother.”
This scene needed context like Project ARCANE, but its backstory was a bit more involved in comparison. Just listing out everything that happened in two paragraphs like the aforementioned would’ve been a bit boring, so here’s a short story. Whee, exposition.
Rikos Flamedawn, non-canon Cinder warband members © me
Art ©
blackchaos666GW2, charr, Drakin Cinderspire, Scorch warband © ArenaNet
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fanart
Species Charr
Size 1600 x 1067px
File Size 2.31 MB
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