The Pyromancer dreamt of the past. Far before he had become a fire mage of any recognition or power, as a young and boisterous Elf. He was in the process of breaking into the home of one of his previous romantic interests with his closest friend, Ciron; a shifty individual, just shy of six-foot, with orange eyes and rough black hair. He was a thief by trade, so the Pyromancer had enlisted his help.

"We're just gonna break in, toss some shit around, and leave. Just to mess with her a bit, y'know?" The Pyromancer was trying to justify it.

"...Sure, whatever works. Really don't see the point in this, but I have nothing better to do."

The two hoodlums made their way over to the front door in broad daylight. Ciron quickly picked the lock and they slipped in and out, touching nothing. Stealing nothing. The Pyromancer didn't recall why. And they were never caught.

He woke up in an inn, his bed soaked in sweat. His body temperature was far hotter, on average, than it ever used to be. He just couldn't get cool anymore. Not without controlling his body temperature with magic. Gross, he thought, rolling out of the sticky bed in disgust. He got ready for the day by cutting off his bandages, making a quick incision with a knife he had set on the nightstand. If he were thirty years younger, he would have produced a pinpoint flame from a finger and made the cut that way, controlling the spread of the flame. Better yet, he would have just increased his body temperature wherever bandages were and melted them off. He used to thrive on that sort of thing. The spontaneous bursts of imagination, advancing his already-immense mastery over pyromancy. He would have an idea and devote every hour of the day to make it happen. Air-borne mana, primed to his element, primed to pyromancy. Remote combustion. Temperature control in a radius around him. It wasn't like he couldn't do those things anymore; on the contrary, he had only gotten better at it over the years. But without his instruments, his focuses for magic, it was difficult. The thugs had taken all of his equipment when they captured him at the wharf, and it took almost all of his mana to make a show out of breaking out. Whatever. We'll get it figured out. Just need to find the fuckwit and get back to the task on hand.

He did a couple pushups, just to keep his body limber, before staring at himself in the mirror. He inspected his bare skin with an inquisitive, judgemental eye. Every burn, every scar, every divot, had a story. The 40 lash marks on his back were his favorite. He tried to poison the princess that owned the deed to his bar. Bitchy-ass whore, he thought, sliding a thin, dirty shirt over his torso and tying the laces to his trousers. He was used to nobility. He was practically a god. This shithole didn't even have a public bathhouse. He sighed, making his way downstairs for a snack.

The Pyromancer took a seat at the bar. He wasn't going to order a drink here- ever- but he picked it for the bar anyway. Inns always had one, where he was from. It was nostalgic. "Can I just get a chunk of bread or something? Nothing sounds good." The man working the counter inclined, making idle conversation along the way. Didn't seem like the type of place to get business at this early of an hour.

"Been shacking here for a few days, yeah? Barely left your room until today." The barkeep didn't abide by the rule of eye contact. He seemed to be staring just beyond the Pyromancer; looking at him, but barely. Staring into the distance past his ears.

"Got my shit packed in by some asshole that fancies himself a crime boss. Had a couple of bruises to sleep off."

"Happens far too often in this part of the city. You got a name?"

The Pyromancer had to tangibly resist a formal introduction, like he was used to. "My name is Fahlnem. Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, as far as names go. Where am I, exactly?"

"Pleasure to have your business, Fahlnem. I'm Havi, and this is my inn, the Fox's Meow."

That's a terrible name for an inn. "I meant the city. Country, even. I'm not exactly supposed to be here, if you couldn't tell." He gestured up at his long, matted golden locks of hair, pulling one aside to reveal an ear. Elven.

The barkeep probably noticed Fahlnem's race based on his stature before now, but willingly chose to ignore it. "You're in a Human kingdom, Elf. The city of Railsource, to be exact. We're one of the better treated ones because of our industrialism, but it's still bad, as you can see." Havi gestured to the condition of the inn. Fahlnem was hardly used to excellence now, given the conditions of his capture, but he was still upset at himself for not noticing it sooner. The inn was in a horrible state; drafts coming in through holes in the walls, patches of dirt instead of floor, broken glass piled up next to a broom with barely three bristles left to its name, and mold coating the ceiling, thriving from ambient moisture. More fucking mold. Seriously?

Fahlnem put his mind back on topic. "What's wrong with the treatment here?"

"Humans aren't taken too kindly on this continent anymore." The barkeep shifted uncomfortably, still looking past Fahlnem, but not exactly at anything.

"Racism? Against Humans? Tell me what you can, please." Fahlnem took another lazy bite out of bread and got ready for a story.

Havi continued by explaining that there was a lot of racism against Humans. It wasn't new; as a matter of fact, the source of the prejudice began before even Fahlnem's lifetime. "Only a few generations after the creation of this realm, and all the species within it, Man multiplied at increasing rates, forming an immense kingdom. Eventually, it got bad. Legions of Men began marching across Lyobar, our continent, cutting along the way." The barkeep proceeded to tell Fahlnem that the Legions committed synchronous genocide against each race on Lyobar, peaceful or not. "Fae, Elementals, Gnomes- you name it." Fahlnem arched a brow, interested. "What gave them so much strength? Surely numbers alone couldn't be enough against the more prominent races." Havi shook his head. "No, it was the Inquisitor of Men. Empress Dalamus. She had attained eternal life through a series of magical relics gifted to the realm by the first gods. She used his power to bolster the Legions across Lyobar; Dalamus herself never set foot on the battlefield unless she saw a genuine threat."

Fahlnem was invested now. "Tell me more. What stopped them?"

"The Dwarves. A number of more independent Legions of Men had tried their hand at crushing the Dwarven fortress-hub before, but it needed the combined might of the Kingdom to even scratch their walls. The Dwarves are famous for pioneering Rune Magic."

"I'm familiar. From where I'm from, it was fairly prominent. Very powerful."

"Nobody's seen it used here in centuries. All the Runesmiths were wiped out defeating Dalamus and her armies. The texts say that they had managed to chisel Runes onto themselves, creating a massive transmutation Rune which wiped out both them and Dalamus. You can go to the site and see the Rune power etched into the ground, even today. It's actually an incredible sight." Havi then explained how the other main kingdoms, such as the Elves and Centaurs, were then able to march on Dalamus' kingdom and enact their 'improper justice,' as he called it. "We shouldn't be discriminated against because of Dalamus and her crazed ambitions. I say the other races had it comin'."

Fahlnem arched a brow on that one. He was used to imbeciles, but he was willing to hear Havi out on this one. He hardly knew half of the story, or any other sides to it.

"So, that's the basic idea. All the other races hate Humans for wiping out the lesser species and trying to march against the Dwarves. Now Elves lead Lyobar, just as much of a dictatorship as Dalamus would have been. Railsource is one of the three Human cities left alone, but we're all basically slaves."

"Where can I find the capitol?"

"Dalamus used to hold up in the Ivory Maw. It used to be a grand city, supposedly, but now it's a hive of scum and villainy. Far worse than Railsource."

"Thanks. Before I head out, is there anything you can tell me about the local crime bosses?"

"Nah, sorry. You'd be better off asking someone who won't be killed if they squeak. Try the market, ask a beggar or somethin'. I'm tired of talking." Havi gave a reassuring but forced smile before retreating into the kitchen.

Fahlnem shrugged, grabbing his bread and making his way back up to his room. Informative. It's time I look around anyway, now that some of my mana is restored. He lightened his grip on the bread, channeling mana to crisp it up a bit with Pyromancy. Warm, toasted bread is far better than the stale shit he paid for, he figured.

Fahlnem stepped out into the street, his ears flooded with a discombobulating amount of noises, varying in both pitch and decibel rating. He wasn't a city man; he preferred small, quiet towns where he could think. But, he pondered, there's something to be said about one's ability to stay hidden in a bustling cityscape. He picked a direction and followed it to the smell of rotting fish, the sight of circling scavenger fowl, and the sound of bartering.

The Pyromancer spotted a beggar. His favorite. He adopted a friendly grin and approached, leaning down with his hands on his knees as if speaking to a child. The beggar slowly raised his eyes to the smirking Elf, arching a brow and forming his mouth into more of a frown. "If'n ye ain't got Markes, fek off." Fahlnem tilted his head, widening his smile. "You like drugs? Just have to answer a few questions!" The beggar scoffed, but nodded with a wave of the hand. Fahlnem lightened his visage, crouching down into a squat. "Are there any knights in the city? Clad in white, specifically." The beggar laughed, mockingly. "Show me the shit first, then'n I'll answer yer foreigner questions." Fahlnem reached behind him, articulating his hand as a warlock would, twisting and rotating his digits and secreting a sticky sort of dust from his palm. It was solidified mana, imbued with Lightning magic. I could be an asshat and give him Fire dust- blow up his sinuses. He held it out to the beggar to show him the proof of his promise.

"Fek 'issat?"

"You put it on your gums. Fires you up, gives you energy. Answer the question, please."

The beggar scoffed again. So much hostility. This guy needs to get laid, have a few seconds of pleasant expressions. "Elf yer lookin' for is a warlock-hunter. One'a tha' Pale Spears."

Fuck. Elves, hunting mages? This realm's fucked.

"Where can I find one?" He slowly handed the beggar the handful of Dust.

"Gonna be hangin' out in tha' checkpoint, at the railway hub to other Human cities." The beggar grabbed Fahlnem's wrist instead of the dust, leaning in with a lustful expression. "If'n ye had a run-in widda Paley, ye must be a warlock, eh?" The beggar giggled, his frowning expression turning to a bright grin. "Yer worth this whole market. Ye know that, right?"

Fahlnem tore his arm away in disgust. He dropped the handful of Dust in the process, which distracted the beggar long enough for him to slip into one of the crowds right when the beggar shouted out. "WARLOCK! THERE'S A WARLOCK'N OUR MIDST!"

Fahlnem stopped in his tracks. He was the only Elf in the market. In the whole city, probably, aside from the Pale Spear that, by this point, was probably hunting him, and definitely knew he was a mage after his escape. The whole crowd circled him, with a couple of them getting brave enough to square up with him.

He was gonna have to kill some civilians.