Think of me as your confidant. No, as your brother. That is the depth of my love for you.

What do you know of the Hunger, brother? Do you believe that every world must die, as a tree rots from age and decay? That the Hunger is dark sorcery – the work of greedy conjurers and demon worshipers?

No, no. This is not true. The Hunger is the embodiment of ordinary sin. Envy. Hatred. Greed. Lust. Ordinary sin that corrupts the heart of ordinary men, men no different than you. Men who live in darkness, and hide from Mother Church.

This is my service and my penance: seek out the shadow, expose it to the Flame of Truth and drag the sinful back into the Light.

Will you not admit your failings? Your village is aflame. Your family is gone. Your lies benefit no one.

Speak now, brother. I can make the pain stop. Tell me of your sins.


The red-skinned Elf whips his arms around him, a gout of flame splashing light across the walls of the otherwise dark temple. His eye shine with the fire of zealotry as he leaps and tumbles, his bare feet barely touching the sizzling coals beneath him.

The Nethari priestess lowers her head and whispers a chant in the name of Arkon, Prince of Light. Flames leap from her fingers, dancing across the skin of the figure kneeling before her and eliciting from him a low, haunting wail.

A shadowed figure emerges from the burning house, fur-covered flesh and clothing untouched by the lick of the crimson blaze. As he emerges from the smoke, his horned silhouette marks him as an Elken, the deer-headed scion of Prince D’Orion the Sky Hunter, and student of the flame.

The title of Confessor is officially sanctioned for use only by the Church of the Sun, but used colloquially to include the practitioners of fire magic across all cultures. Confessors spend their lives dedicated to the Art of Pyromancy, the memorization and recitation of ancient words of power that can be called upon to ignite wood, melt stone, consume flesh or char bone. Many claim these words to be divine in nature, though the stated source differs from one culture to the next: prayers to Prince Arkon the Sun God, incantations to the Lyessa, Mother of Wyrms, or perhaps even the divine language of the All-Father himself.

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