“’Fire is a hazard,’ says the coward. ‘Fire is a tool,’ says the fool. I say fire is a weapon, a friend, a state of mind, and that the bold man and the craven burn just as fast.”
Pyromancers are destructive mages whose sole focus is the mastery of fire, from launching massive incinerating blasts, to trapping their opponents behind a smoldering wall of flame. No other Ascended can match the sheer destruction at the Pyromancer’s fingertips.
Pyromancers keep their enemies at bay with well-placed fire spells, until they can be immolated at the Pyromancer’s leisure.
Pyromancers excel at roasting their enemies from afar, and so must be wary of foes able to charge into melee quickly or defend themselves against searing flames.
“Stay here. Those tricks the Elves taught you won’t frighten the Storm Legion,” Phynnious Rothmann’s brother said, laughing.
Imbecile, Phynnious thought, watching his fellow tribesmen ride to battle. My tricks frightened even my teachers!
Sickly son of a Mathosian chieftan, Phynnious Rothmann was sent to study magic with the Elves — less to bring the arcane arts to his people than to stay out from under stomping, booted feet. But the Elves sent him home early: not because his research into fire magic nearly burned their sacred grove to the ground, but because the urgency of human youth made them uncomfortable.
Rothmann trudged over to the edge of the cliff to watch as slowly, the valor of the united tribesmen overcame the mindless discipline of Crucia’s Storm Legion. Suddenly, an electric blast erupted in the middle of the battlefield. Whether thanks to lightning or terror, the hair on the back of Phynnious’s neck stood up and he whispered, “Stormtouched.”
Crucia herself, dragon of storms, had possessed the Legion’s commander. Phynnious knew she could bring to bear superhuman tactics and storm magic that would eradicate every northman in that valley. He knew this even as he rode to the battlefield, quick as a midsummer fire through dry scrub. Leaping off his horse, Phynneous turned into a streak of flame flashed toward the front line just as the Mathosians quavered on the edge of disaster.
Standing on the front line, Rothmann conjured exploding fissures of magma, completing in mere seconds an incantation that took his Elf tutors minutes. White-hot flame lanced from his fingers, sending charred chunks of Legionaries flying in all directions. The Storm Legion’s rally became a rout.
An arrow slammed into Rothmann’s shoulder, jarring him into a state of sharp focus. The possessed Storm Legion leader advanced, aiming his second arrow at the mage’s heart. Phynnious screamed at his assailant, exhaling waves of flame that burned the bow away. The general drew his sword and charged through the flames. Two steps from Phynnious he stopped, a statue of solid ash.
Phynnious’s laughter blew the ash away on the northern breeze, joined by with the roar of his clansmen as they ran down the fleeing Storm Legion, even as a voice hissed from the sky: “I will kill you, little mage.”
Years later, as Phynnious fixed the keystone to Crucia’s prison, he taunted, “Remember what you promised me?” and laughed again, breathy and crackling like a bonfire.