Pyromancy

Pyromancy is the ability to create and manipulate fire with one's will. It is one of the Fyrian Arts. Master pyromancers are invaluable on the battlefield, able to control superheated torrents with ease. In enemy territory, they can also drain the land of its resources by using the local flora as fuel for their magic.

Capabilities

Teachings & Control

Scholars say that pyromancy is as much about life as it is about flames. Fire resists, it pushes and pulls as it pleases. Some believe it cannot it even truly be controlled, only suggested upon. A strong will and a versatile mind is a necessity.

Fuel

All fire requires fuel, even that pulled into existence by mortal will. The fuel is life, either the wielder's or that surrounding them. Most often pyromancers will utilize nearby flora to fuel their magics. The life of animals, including humans, can be used as well and are generally more potent, but only if the creature is already in a near-death, such as suffering a mortal injury or grievous illness. This is stated to be due to the soul's natural resistance to external manipulations.

Tools of the Trade

Pyromancy requires no tools, but humanity is inventive and they have sought to enhance their natural capabilities with manmade creations.

• Tempered cloth: A thick material that is well known for being incredibly flame resistant. Unlike Fyrians, even the most skilled pyromancers are not immune to fire. Tempered cloth is often a necessity when working closely with hotter flames, though will not stand long against the magics of an enemy pyromancer.
• Filters: Similar protective equipment, filters are masks intended to protect one from smoke inhalation.
• Wellspring vials: An assortment of vials holding various concoctions. Alchemy is a humble art, but pyromancers made great use of it, either learning the craft themselves or employing devoted alchemists. Some effects pyromancers make use of include highly flammable liquids, acids, or oxygen evaporators (for putting out fires).

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Art of the World

Keline breathed in, anticipating the warmth to blossom in her chest. She waited a heartbeat. Then another, and another. Her master would want her to wait for another hundred beats, but she exhaled. It shouldn't be this hard, she thought. She opened her eyes to see the vibrant red rose clasped in one hand. "You are still alive, I see," she said, forcing a tired smile onto her face. She looked at her other, open hand, palm facing upwards. It was gloved with a heavy, leather-like material, dark as gravel and about as pleasant on the skin. "And you are not on fire."
She looked between her two hands. "We've all had a long night, so let's say we work together. Mr. Rose, your job is easy," she said. "You die. Your life essence or your soul or whatever drained away. Mr. Glove, you're supposed to stop me from being burned. Again, shouldn't be tricky. Probably easier than dying, even. Between the three of us, I've got the hard part. I've got to balance your lifeforce, Mr. Rose, channel it out into the world and bring it slamming back to life in the form of fire, right in the air above Mr. Glove here. Then I've got to maintain control so you don't blaze out of control."
She looked back up the dawn-lit pass, up the stone steps leading to Master Arkin's house. Assured of his lack of presence, she resumed her lecture. "All that to say, I don't need much. Just a little acquiescence, really." She was going to say more, but she looked up at the rising suns peeking through the leaves. She didn't like this mountain valley. Really, she didn't. No luxuries or accommodations compared to the city. Still, it had a decent view. The light rolled off the treetops, the wind sending the red and brown leaves rolling like little waves of fire. It wouldn't be long before those autumn leaves would wither and fall, the twin suns obscured by the winter storms. But then they'd return stronger than ever with the summer-rise. The cycle of seasons.
She supposed it wasn't all too different from pyromancy. Life would wither, perish, for a time—it probably only felt like a moment to the world—before returning again in a blaze of summer winds. The world's own expression of the Fyrian Arts, the power of life itself.
"Alright," she said, suddenly breathless. "Maybe I was a little off." The rose would die, but its lifeforce was still of it. Its essence was not and would not become some simple energy, but the rose's identity and being would pass on through its lifeforce. As she breathed in, her thoughts raced. The rose withered. "You aren't kindling." There, the warmth bloomed in her chest. She exhaled, slowly at first, before snapping her attention to her gloved hand.
The fire sparked to life in her hand. It was not a grand eruption of power or some crowning radiance, but a simple, soft flame wavering in the breeze. But to Keline, it might as well as have been a third sun cresting the horizon. "Welcome back, Mr. Rose," she said, holding it against the sun. Against the backdrop of the valley beyond, it almost looked like an inferno. But it wasn't. It was just a flower that chose to become a flame, for a little while.