Umber

Klavicus was still making his way toward Urik at a measured pace, pausing frequently to perform some small ritual or simply to look out across the desert wastes for extended periods of time when he heard the sound of wings behind him. He turned and waited as a small pterodactyl flapped determinedly toward him. It hovered in the air, croaked, “They have been and gone,” in a rasping voice reminiscent of snake scales rubbing together, then flew away again, back toward its master in the mountains.

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In a lonely stretch of desert waste a figure swathed in black tended a growing fire. The dried herbs he tossed into it at regular intervals caused it sometimes to flare in height, sometimes to spark blue and purple and green. When the flames rose a steady eight feet into the air he removed his cloak and then the rest of his garments, closed his eyes and stepped into their midst. Fingers of fire curled about him but did not sear his flesh, his feet rested steady and firm against the bed of coals. Flames erupted from his own form and fire met fire in a hissing, popping exchange of greetings. He stood there for some minutes unscathed, and only when the conflagration had subsided to nearly embers did he emerge and don his clothes and cloak again, an expression of intense displeasure on his face.

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