Pyronymph

         Bulging, ring clamped fingers slammed upon an oaken tabletop. Candles buckled at their midsections, tumbling to the floor, and scrolls sat pinned next to ruffled quills. Lord Oryn attempted to project menace from a gluttonous face with a twisted, ivory adorned snarl. The target of his ire, Verack, court mage, returned the stare, deep-set eyes unblinking, and his vulture features emanated haughty intelligence to mask a surge of exasperation.
         "I will not entertain your schemes!" Lord Oryn said.
         Verack's protest was silenced by Oryn's ham fists pounding the table, and spittle flew off frothed lips, followed by every slur concocted by man bouncing off the laboratory's stone walls. A shade of red enveloped Oryn's face, forcing a pause to suck wind.
         "My Lord," Verack said, capitalizing the pause, "I assure you the benefits of my research far outwei-"
         The tantrum resumed with renewed vigor. Like a bloated market pig stuffed into troubadour garments, Oryn pranced about, meaty fists thrashed air or violated whatever surface they could find. His performance completed a half circuit before stopping for breath. A large, iron cage provided a brace to steady himself, runes etched upon bars inlaid with quartz of every color and size. Verack knew better than to interrupt, as nothing could stop the petulant lordling during such moods, and he drew on what patience remained. Upon completing a full circuit, another pause presented itself, but Gintur, court alchemist, stole it.
         "Be mindful of your heart, my lord. Tonics are meaningless under this duress."
Oryn raised a hand to keep Verack silent, drawing slow, deep breaths. Gintur's plain face softened, satisfied his wretched master would not expire early. How the mighty have fallen. There was a time where any lord, low or high, feared Verack's gaze, and they strived to placate his demands, no matter the request. Treatment such as this warranted death, but he was far removed from the royal court. Yet this man-child lording was Verack's key towards absolution.
         "I will hear no more," Oryn said, exhaling.
"My lord," Verack said, "Permit me but a moment more to petition my case."
Exhaustion marked Oryn's face and Verack pressed advantage, employing the same technique reserved for spoiled toddlers or bureaucrats. Tire them out and strike fast.
         "The Pyronymph, native to the Craig in your eastern holdings, is an untapped resource. Consider a squadron of these beasts under your banner. Your enemies immolated where they stand, their ranks shattered by a wall of flame."
A glint in Oryn's eyes spurred Verack on.
         "What of the wild tribes and their incessant raids? Would those miserable savages dare set foot in civilized lands after watching their families writhe and scream under a roaring inferno?"
"But you cannot guarantee they can be controlled!" Oryn said.
"With time and resources, I guarantee results."
"This venture is foolhardy," Gintur interrupted. "Too many unknowns and empty promises are useless for extinguishing fires."
"Then hide your mosses," Verack snapped, "and defer to experts when discussing matters beyond your... specialty."
         Gintur always hemmed and hawed with a timid concern during Verack's proposals. The holier-than-thou demeanor ingrained upon every Temple mongrel irritated him. However, prodding such dogs was entertaining, even if Gintur never retaliated. A tightened jaw and flickering eyes were the only signs of displeasure.
         "Your argument has merit..." Oryn said, bloated hand searching for a chin, "but Gintur speaks true. Measures must be taken to prevent calamity."
"Caution is always necessary," Verack nodded, "yet reward is not without risk. And the rewards are great, my lord. Present our triumph, yes, I said 'our', to Duke Regnal and we could raise an army! Can you imagine the tales of the bold lord who enthralled fire?"
         Tensed muscles relaxed, and hardened eyes dropped their fade. Verack suppressed a smug grin, knowing the response before it was spoken.
"Blast it all Verack! Very well. I hereby sponsor this quest, but I demand results. Fail to deliver on your lofty promises and you will discover how far you have left to fall."
"Gracious and generous as always, my lord," Verack bowed lower than necessary, "preparations begin immediately."
         Grunts and huffs followed Oryn's shuffling frame into the corridor, and a mocking cackle filled the workshop.
"And that, my less esteemed colleague, is the difference between you and me," Verack said.
"Shall I expect my stockpiles depleted to salve your failure?" Gintur snorted, head shaking.
"Keep your birdshit and toadstools. I'm not one to deprive a man of his dinner."
Gintur strode into the hall, fists clenched and muttering, under Verack's taunting glare.

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         Three days' travel surrounded by a dozen simpletons put Verack in a foul mood. Reaching the westernmost border of the Craig later than desired meant a fourth night surround by farts and crass humor, and his mood soured further. Transmogrification or enchanted slumber were tempting solutions, but all present required uninhibited faculties for the task ahead. Dawn broke, along with Verack's temper, and ten figures departed the emerald canopy for unwelcoming environs.
         The stench of sea spray and brimstone clogged the air, and swirling gusts suspended a fine, ashen fog. Ebon columns gushed from far off Mt Xenia while ocean water hissed under the touch of molten rivers. Nothing grew save for occasional lichen colonies or moss patches atop towering basalt pillars. A ghostly orange radiated within ravines, and the terrain altered between sharpened gravel and coarse sand. If there was an ass end to the world, Verack was positioned perfectly to wipe.
         It was midday when they spotted their quarry. Several glowing forms darted into a ravine and emerged moments later carrying black stone of a lustrous sheen. The party closed in, careful to approach from cover. Lithe, humanoid figures of lapping blue, red and yellow mixed flames danced with unmatched grace. Had their steps failed to leave singed ground underfoot, Verack swore they glided. Their forms appeared solid, but the rushing wind induced a brief transparency. Dark patches ranged in size from tiny saucers to banquet platters, and there seemed to be a correlation between their frequency and size and individual Pyronymph profiles. Did they have genders? If so, they held more relations to sprites than elementals.
          Verack snapped his mind into focus and motioned to a soldier carrying a burlap sack. Clubs with silver tops and elegant engravings sat within, and a chill emanated from them.
         "Take them," Verack said, "Sir Cronik, set your men for an ambush."
"What use are these? We have swords."
"Do you extinguish fire with a sword? Pray tell, do you use your helmets for chamber pots? If you value your wretched lives, take them. When I signal, lay into the creature, and don't give any quarter!"
         A disgusted scowl tore into Verack, but Sir Cronik snorted and obeyed. Grumbles arose from a few soldiers, but were silenced as Cronik ushered them into position, concealed as best they may. It would be entertaining to watch these fools thrash helplessly against Pyronymphs with basic steel swords. Perhaps such a display could be arranged back at the keep. Verack needed to demonstrate their effectiveness, and what was the harm in a tad of entertainment? Two melon sized obsidian chunks thudded into dirt. Useless stones to most, but to a Pyronymph they were beef slabs lathered in spice and honey. Scrambling for cover, Verack hunkered behind a rock with a clear view of the bait.
         The day crept on, heat shimmering on the horizon. Verack leaned upon his staff, a polished shaft of pine with a hexagonal crystal atop it. Inlaid silver and bronze spanned its length, and various emblems were etched on the crystal's facets. A gentle swoosh announced his prey's arrival. He noted their eyes, or rather the gleaning black orbs that sat where human eyes would be, were lidless and devoid of iris or pupil. A gentle clack-snap-crack emanated from the Pyronymph's mouth, and it darted into the trap. Oblivious to danger, it's chirping, that is what Verack assumed it was, grew in pitch. Flame licked sleek obsidian, and the bait rose upward.
         Verack waved, and the soldiers rushed the Pyronymph, hollering and failing their clubs. He began an incantation, and the creature recoiled under a flurry of blows, caught unaware. The sharp hiss of water on hot coals accompanied each wild swipe from glowing white claws. In synchronized motions, soldiers struck, dodged and struck again. There was no escape from the melee, and the Pyronymph's motions grew frantic. Staff end slammed into ashen soil, and the beast jerked and twitched.
         Flame tendrils sprouted from its writing form and joined into a single strand flowing into the crystal. Gentle warmth and a slight vibration enveloped the staff. Verack signaled a pause to the assault, muttering another incantation. The Pyronymph's form diminished slowly, but then the vibrations grew intense. Suspended rivers of bright red halted mid-air, and the staff became scalding. Its hiss grew louder, and its form returned to its original size. A sudden thunderclap sundered the staff, followed by a gout of fire and a shrill, gurgling wail. Panic erupted among the men, but no danger remained. Their quarry had fled.
         The broken staff clanked off a boulder, and Verack flew into a tirade. Failure was expected when piercing the unknown, but stung regardless. Although such irritations paled compared to the poor fool whimpering in blackened armor. Half his face was milk white, and the other was charcoal. Any movement resulted in sharp yelps, and Sir Cronik mustered a liter detail while throwing vicious glances at Verack. Screams erupted as the wounded man was hoisted upon mail clad shoulders. Progress back to camp was slow, and Verack kept ampule distance between him and the group, mind a torrent.
         If Pyronymph's held more in common with sprites than elementals, it would explain why channeling runes tuned for fire failed. There was also the matter of crystal size and geometry to consider. Six faces were sufficient for elementals, but sprites needed eight, and he only brought one octagonal crystal similar in size to the one installed. His thoughts were interrupted by walking into an armored figure with folded arms.
         "Explain yourself mage!" Sir Cronik said, eyes bursting with fury.
"Spare me your mewlings," Verack brushed past him, inspecting the staff.
The wounded man howled as his comrades peeled off his armor, flesh clinging to metal. A swampy stench rose from the salve jar, and a dark green slime was spread over his body. He would live, but death might be merciful. Bright red muscle poked from underneath a layer of charred skin, with a clear liquid seeping out.
         "We return at dawn," Cronik said.
"We do no such thing! I lead this expedition, and we return when I say so!"
Cronik's vulgar response accompanied a phlegm shot at Verack's feet.
"To hell with you. I'll cut you down and leave-"
Cronik stuttered and fell silent. His mouth flapped, forming silent words. Steel sprung from its sheath but was rebuffed with a mocking tsk-tsk.
"I find your voice irritating," Verack said holding a glowing rune stone, "Kill me if you must, but the spell will persist. Behave yourself and I'll give it back."
         Cronik spat, but sheathed his sword. Fear marked every face in camp, and Verack saw disobedience in the glances they tossed each other. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed them. He pointed at five of them.
         "You lot, get him back to the keep. The rest of you remain here," Verack made sure Cronik saw him pocket the rune stone, "I will toss this into the sea if I find camp deserted."
Satisfied a mutiny was averted, Verack turned back to musing on his failure, and departed the camp.
         A jagged crack wrapped all around the staff from crystal to base, cutting through adornments and exposing a beige core. Two faces of the crystal were shattered, one a channeling rune, as expected, but the other a fortification ward. It was odd that one failed, yet containment did not. Verack tracked the rupture up, then down and back again. Revelation plowed through his mind. The crisscrossing fracture cut through some emblems and avoided others. Channeling and fortification invocations were sundered, just like the crystal, which provided Verack irrefutable proof that Pyronymphs were sprites, not elementals. Their fire came from biological processes rather than spiritual means. His letter to Mortimer would be informative, yet scathing.
         Evening crept over the land, yet Verack remained busy with a chisel dancing across fresh rod and crystal. Between Mt Xenia's fiery glare and the moon's pale rays, the barren land beyond the tree line took on an otherworldly appearance. Each watch rotation muttered in hushed tones over his obsession, but none dared approach for fear of disturbing him. Amber light turned ebony sky purple, and a cry of satisfaction startled everyone awake. While not as elegant as its predecessor, the new staff would serve its purpose, and if successful, was promised adornments worthy of a royal house.
         Voice was returned to Cronik, and Verack demanded a return to the Craig. Unwilling to discover what horrors the mage could produce, they obeyed, albeit with many dissatisfied grumblings. The Pyronymphs scattered when the party approached, alert to their intentions, and the previous ambush point would not suffice. Running one down was not possible, and a new location for the trap was chosen. However, none took the bait. With daylight waning, Verack was struck with an idea. He chanted over a small crystal, tossed it, and it landed next to the lure. A crude, yet convincing, form of a Pyronymph appeared. Confused glances rose from the men, but he ordered them to remain in place.
         Moments later, the ruse bore fruit. A slender form crept towards the projection, head darting around and chirping at the decoy. It expected trouble and turned to leave, but Verack threw up an ice wall, blocking its escape. Blow after blow pounded the beast and, like before, flames sprung from its body to the crystal. However, Verack did not order a halt to the beating, and warmth and vibrations spread across the staff. The Pyronymph opened its mouth, its roar like a furnace fed with a howling wind, and a gout of flame rushed Verack, then vanished. Blinking, he saw the crystal pulsing with a deep red glow. Manic cackling flew from his throat, staff held high in admiration.

******************************

         "Is the suffering of others a mere inconvenience for you?" Gintur said, pacing around the workshop.
"You're the inconvenience that I'm currently suffering," Verack said.
The warm crystal surface sent trembles of excitement through Verack's, and his mind plotted which rites to perform first. A frigid chill radiated from the cage, a spectral light pulsing from the embedded crystals. His return to the keep was not a welcome one. Lord Oryn's temper flared upon seeing the wounded man, but Verack let Gintur bear the lord's ire, spending all afternoon reinforcing the cage.
         "You are mad to bel-" Gintur began.
Verack spun around, a glowing stone with a vicious rune etched on its face.
"Wag your tongue behind closed lips! Disturb me now and you'll drown in burn victims!"
Gintur flinched, stepping back, but Verack failed to enjoy the display. A couple weeks of meticulous testing and study assured his departure from the wretched Lord Oryn's service. Damnation to those who disturbed him, and their souls would fuel the icy prison.
         "VERACK!"
Lord Oryn's waddle diminished his authoritative bellow. Annoyance rattled Verack's composure, and a sigh caught in his throat.
"Dead! He died in the night!"
"My condolences to the family," Verack bowed, "but his death bore fruit. Behold."
With a flourish, the Pyronymph appeared in the cage. It hissed, lunging at the bars, but recoiled under a snap of frost. Gintur and Oryn recoiled to the wall, but Verack grinned, arms held up.
"Magnificent is it not?" Verack said.
"Dangerous," Gintur muttered, "Reckless and foolish."
         Lord Oryn peeled himself off the wall, approached the cage and jumped back when the Pyronymph stuck the bars.
"You said they can be controlled."
"My Lord, is a beast tame the moment you cast a leash?" Verack said, "it will take time to render it docile."
"Time is something we do not have. Peasants and guards mutter of disaster for this venture, and my advisors are nipping my ankles."
"Remind those wretches of their place. Who are they to question you?"
"My Lord," Gintur said, "we can silence their fears by returning this creature."
"YOU WILL DO NOTHING OF THE SORT!" Verack screeched at Gintur, regained composure, then addressed Oryn, "I am very close now, my lord. Keep those upstarts at bay and when in two weeks, they will lick your boots in apology."
         "They sent a messenger to Duke Regnal while you were away. He arrives in five days, and you have four to weave your magics and present the thrall to me."
         Verack's mouth flopped open and closed, voice failing, and his lungs stuttered. Curses and slow deaths to those advisors. However, their interloping might be a blessing rather than an inconvenience. The Pyronymph wouldn't be battle ready, but at the very least, he can lay the foundations.
         "In four days, I will present a domesticated Pyronymph," Verack bowed, "ensure that none disturb me, and I shall deliver results, as promised."
         Flabby checks bobbed with the head they were attached to, and Orin shuffled into the hall. Gintur appeared to hold something on his mind. Verack shot him a glare that could shatter stone, forcing him from the workshop. Alone at last, work began in earnest.
         Enthralling rites were simple in execution, but required half a day to prepare. The first day was not as successful as Verack hoped. Consumed by haste, he neglected to adjust the rituals for sprite essence, and the prisoner found a renewed vigor and rattled its prison. Thankfully, the wards held, and he elected to forgo sleep and used the night to correct his mistakes.
         The second day found a modicum of success. A new symbol, black as tar, sat upon the creature's torso. It did not respond to Verack's commands, but its eyes followed him during invocations, contemplating the instructions. An interesting observation, the Pyronymph's color appeared muted after the ritual, and returned to full resplendence only when a spell was cast. Verack pondered the development but failed to record such observations, wishing for an extra day.
         On the last day, the Pyronymph obeyed simple commands, and it did not resist when Verack paraded it around the workshop. A bookshelf caught fire, but it was a small price to pay, and he noticed his prisoner left charred, three-toed footprints on the stone floor. Satisfied with his progress, he spent the night removing flammable objects from his workshop. Two or three circuits would quell any dissent and provide ampule reason for his work to continue. Perhaps the Duke would relocate him. Such a thought helped Verack sleep like a babe.
         Verack ran a polishing cloth over the staff, a satisfied grin sitting on his face. Morning light crept through open windows and a gentle breeze wafted through the workshop. Within the cage, the prisoner stirred but keep its distance from the warded bars. Footsteps sounded from the hall and Oryn, flanked by Gintur and several guards carrying sloshing pails, strode warily in. Their gaze lingered upon the cage and its contents, and a swelling of pride filled Verack's chest, although such emotions were absent from his audience.
         "Get on with it," Lord Oryn huffed.
Verack bowed, tapping staff end thrice, and the Pyronymph stood. Unlatching the cage door, flame strode into the middle of the room. All in attendance recoiled, but Verack bade them to remain in place. The creature twirled and bowed, crimson sparks falling from its frame onto the stone floor. He directed the creature towards one guard, and a water pail was knocked over in his panic.
         "Be still, fool. You have nothing to fear," Verack said.
The guard threw a nervous glance at Oryn and sweat seeped from his brow under an intense heat. The Pyronymph's hand danced over his armor. A whimper rose from the guard. Withdrawing back to the center of the room, the creature stood with a blank expression. Nervous applause rose from Lord Oryn.
         "Well... that was... interesting..." Oryn stammered, "And you are certain it will be safe to parade before the Duke?"
"Absolutely, my Lord," Verack grinned, "and with more time, I can discern how to command it for more practical applications."
Oryn nodded with a new hunger in his eyes. That same hunger drove Verack, but he had much to do. The creature required proper observation, rituals needed further adjustment, and then-
         Sharp hissing filled the room. Steam rose from the Pyronymph's feet and it twitched and snarled. The staff grew warm again, prompting Verack to command it back into the cage, but it did not respond. He attempted to return it into the crystal, but a sudden force pushed Verack back. Shouts rose from the guards, and they snatched up their pails. Verack shouted, demanding they cease, but they paid him no heed. Clouds of steam filled the room. A shrill wail echoed off the walls, and the staff shook, then a sharp crack sounded.
         A gout of flame shot towards the roof, and Verack threw up an ice ward between the creature and Lord Oryn. Flame rushed towards a window followed by a crash and the sound of fire finding new life. The steam dissipated and beneath the window lay Ginter, face locked in terror with an ashen grey gash across his throat. Verack's mouth fell open, cursing the guards for their stupidity, but rough hands seized him. He thrashed, demanding they release him, but Oryn's crazed shouting filled the chamber. Torn from the room, Verack realized what was happening and his angry tone changed to begging, but the guards hauled him along, ignoring his pleas.