Warrior of Nature, Wrath of the Blaze

[Kitsunestume]

The Cold Climb screams with a bone-chilling wind, another blizzard sweeping past the wrought-iron gates leading to Wynter Manor. Oblivious of the storm, a broad-shouldered man kneels beside the fire-pit, dropping a citrine and a packet of amber into the flames, before stepping back. The man chants a few guttural syllables, before stabbing at the fire will his spear. The embers fare to life, engulfing the wood, stone, and a decent patch of earth around it in brilliant smokeless flames. With another incantation, the man shares such properties, radiating visible waves of heat that turns the speeding snow and ice to steam and mist. Holding forth a pendant of twisted crimson amber, the man cries aloud; not the muffled shout over the wind, but in a clear tone, confidant that the cold fury holds nothing on his words.

"Upon this fire, I vow to prevent capture of the Firelord's servant Vulcan, such that he may get the opportunities afforded to his equals, who stand pacified by the will of the Ice Bitch of the Mount. For where only one is bound there is not balance, and where all are bound there is not life, and the fires of purity shall be unable to cleanse the land. Those in chains shall be freed; those who had strayed shall return; those who would hold shall be shown the light; and those who would freeze shall burn. This I pledge, in Kossuth's name!"

As he intones his last words, the man thrusts his spear into the air. The response is immediate, as a pillar of divine fire streaks from the heavens, exploding outwards in a ring of hallowed flame. The man pauses in his fevor, noting that of the offerings no remains exist, and grins.
Moments later, Charalath sets off down the mountainside with a joyful step, leaving the blizzard an arduous task of reclaiming the now-blazing campsite.

There was work to be done.

[Kitsunestume]

A large bear paces back and forth, its hide radiating heat and light as brilliantly as the sun it keeps glancing at. As dusk falls on the Crossroads, orange rays of sunlight trail across the nearby barn and homestead. After a time, the bright amber beams cast shadows on the side of the barn, the wind blowing them in flame-like patterns. The ten-foot-tall creature approaches the siding and traces the shadows with a massive paw, engraving the pattern into the wood. After scribing the entire side of the building and a few feet past each corner, the ursine backs off, before turning and studying its handywork. It was time for an offering of purification.

With a flick of its paw, the bear sheathes the limb in a corona of licking flames. With a guttural growl, the animal slams its flaming paw to the earth, and the engraving on the barn blazes to life as small beads of magma ooze between the creature's claws. Within moments, a sheet of flame is crawling up the wooden wall, hungrily lapping at the dry thatch roofing. The bear walks up to the barn, places both paws on the torched material, and mutters an almost humanoid phrase: "For you, my Firelord". As a pulse of divine energy flares outwards to bolster the already ravenous blaze, a familiar voice calls out behind the ursine, "Stop."

The bear sighs, patting the burning wood once before turning to face Bren. The former companion stood twenty paces distant with a disapproving look on his face and continued, "Step away from the barn." In the background, the bear saw a man in reddish armor approaching, and the owner of the property acting much like his over-domesticated livestock, crying 'Someone help, Help please!' rather than do anything himself. Bren turns to the farmer, asking "Is there anyone inside?" Being told only livestock are inside, the monk dashes into the building. The bear glances at the Tinskin, before backing up to the barn again to complete the disrupted dedication.

Returning to his former position, the bear places his paws back on the wall. "A gift to you, Lord of the Eternal Fires. May this sacrifice herald the the purification of this land and become a beacon to those within." As the bear grunts the last of the prayer, it scratches on the charcoal of the wall, leaving a rune shaped as either a pillar or tongue of flame. As the armored man swore and glared at him, Charalath gazed into the inferno around himself and grinned. Certainly the law would hate him, but Kossuth was pleased. The words of his mentor echos in his head, Find the true vision, the final goal of your life, and pursue it utterly. . . The reward of successful ambition is power. Ignoring the ravings of the unenlightened savage, Charalath turns towards his next offering.

There was always work to be done.