NAME: Sorin Ro, Flame of the Forsaken
PRONOUNS: He/Him
MAGE CLASS: Pyromancer (Elementalist – Cleansing Flame)
LINEAGE: The People → Elf
SUBTYPE: Warriors → Berserker
ERA PLACEMENT: Post-2150 AD – The Burning Reclamation
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There are fires that warm.
Fires that cleanse.
And fires that remember.

Sorin Ro was born to the forest-bound Elves of the Caelari Cantons, where light was scripture and memory sacred. But Sorin did not speak to the trees as others did. He did not dream in song or walk in stillness. His spirit was louder — impatient, unquiet, fierce. While others wove memory into enchantment, Sorin wove fire into defiance.

At first, the elders called it youth. Then pride. Then heresy.

His first spell came not from study, but fury: when his younger sister was nearly taken by a Rift-beast near the Veiled Wilds, he screamed not words but will. Fire answered. It did not flicker — it devoured.

Sorin did not just burn the creature.
He burned the glade, the stones beneath, the roots around it.
He was banished the next day — marked with the ancient rite of Forsaking, stripped of his name, severed from Caelari memory. In Elven terms, it was not exile. It was erasure.

But fire, once awakened, does not sleep.

He wandered for years beyond the borders of his kin, taken in by survivalists, mercenaries, and one retired Archanist who recognized the blaze behind his eyes and named it what it was: Pyromancy — not rage, but rebirth.

Sorin learned to channel. Not control. Control was a lie. Fire, he believed, should never be tamed. It should be understood. And when it lashes out, let it burn what needs burning. Even him.

He fought in the Ashglass Rebellion, where Dominion steel met elemental fury in the canyon cities of old. There, Sorin became a weapon — a berserker of the flame, unarmored, unbound, and terrifying. He did not strike first. But when he struck, whole memories turned to ash.

His magic is not elegant. It erupts.
He does not wield fire like a tool — he becomes it.

Even now, his presence warps air and cracks stone beneath his feet. His eyes — red like dying stars — betray the truth: he is no longer just a man or an elf. He is what they made him. What they feared he’d become. And what they must now reckon with.

He is not evil. He is not broken.
But he is proud. He is wrath. And he will not kneel.

His flaws are carved into the core of him:

Overconfidence: He believes no fire can consume him

Pride: He sees forgiveness as weakness

Hot-tempered: He answers insult with flame

Yet love, when he gives it, is absolute — and terrible in its fury

Sorin Ro never reclaimed his old name.
He forged a new one in rebellion, in exile, in truth.

Sorin Ro, Flame of the Forsaken
The fire they cast out. The fire that came back.