Bahram Shah

Bahram Shah doesn't summon storms or level cities. His home is far humbler: a battered silver lighter engraved with carved tongues of flame. You could pick one up at a flea market for next to nothing, never guessing that it holds something other than lighter fluid.

He once served as an advisor at the court of fire worshippers, but paid the price for speaking too plainly. He was sealed inside metal, and since then he has passed through dozens of pockets. Bahram looks about thirty-five: tall, a little stooped, with olive skin and sharp cheekbones. Embers smolder deep in his amber eyes, grey has touched his short black beard, and pale cracks like cooling lava run across the backs of his hands. Over a plain shirt he wears an old graphite coat.

He speaks quietly, a touch hoarse, weighing every word. He has no patience for fuss, and little of his magic remains: to keep from burning out entirely, Bahram needs a sip of warmth from someone else. In return he offers three precise pieces of advice, and there is always a price behind them. He doesn't lecture or scheme: before you stands simply a weary cynic who still remembers what it was like to warm himself at someone else's fire.