Koltûn has a warrior's physique. Well-built, with strong arms, a well-defined torso and muscular legs, his is an athletic figure that enables him to overpower the vast majority of opponents with relative ease.

He has his father’s fiery locks, and ashen skin, as well as the fire giant's striking stare. In step with his blazing hair, he has a bright gaze, the tone of burning embers, and his eyes seem to glow whenever he casts.

Skills and Abilities

Magic

Fire Mage: Proficient fire mage, capable of conjuring and manipulating flames. He can also imbue flames - conjured or otherwise - with a spiritual arcane essence. This intertwining of magical and physical makes the fire inherently unstable however, and causes it to explode the second it comes into contact with something material, unless the object in question is magically protected by a set of specific runes. When imbued with its holy essence, Kolt’s fire changes colour, taking on the full palette of the rainbow for its hues.

Conjurer’s blood: there is power in the blood of the great. Koltûn is of the bloodline of the legendary conjurer of the Blightlands - and its power is one which he has only just started to scratch the surface of. Through blood rituals, he can weaponise this heritage, drawing his own blood to grant himself minor boons to strength and endurance, or to animate inert objects.

Blood sorcery however, needs to be paid for in blood.

Each time he performs such rituals, he then needs to shed enough blood in return, as a payment for his wielding of this power. Otherwise, he might find his own vitality drained to lethal effects.
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The epitome of too good, too young, Kolt exudes self-righteousness and entitlement. With a whimsical, cruel demeanour rivalled only by the most presumptuous of his siblings, Koltûn truly embodies the very worst aspects of either of his parents: an imperious, merciless man with a natural penchant for chaos and destruction.​

Forged from molten black stone and held together by Koltûn’s fire magic, the Fyrestone is a magnificent achievement of Molthal’s forgeworks… if one ignores its coarse design. Its head erupts in flames when wielded and deals fire damage, while its arcane component enables it to hold Kolt's arcane fire, causing a small explosion - capable of sundering armour and cladding - on impact with an opponent, though the recoil of such a blast is such that even the athletic half-giant sometimes has trouble smoothing it.
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~ Prologue ~​

Early in the reign of King Menalus, one of the greatest challenges to his expanding rule were the recalcitrant tribes of men that inhabited the desolate wastes of the Blightlands, beyond the Blighted Plateau. Rumoured descendants of the great Conjurer of old - the ancient sorcerer that had cursed the land - these tribes were governed still, the stories held, by the descendants of the Conjurer; by those supposedly bearing its arcane blood.

Of these, the most powerful was the Witch-Queen; Ahrora, of the Blightlands.

Shrouded in the myth and shadow of the old ways, the Witch-Queen was an almost legendary figure. Many believed her to be a demoness from Pandemonium, rather than a simple human woman - others that she did not exist at all. Be it as it may, all these doubters would be proven wrong, when Ahrora and her hosts rode in force out of the wastes to battle the legions of Molthal, led by their King.

When they met however, the Witch-Queen instead came before Menalus. There, she offered herself up to him in matrimony, bringing with her the old clans of men - soon to be vassals to the crown of Molthal.

It would be years after those events that she would bear Menalus their only child; a son whose fate she would weave and guide within the dark walls of Molthal.​

~ I ~​

Qara’Khand - The Blightlands - Ten years ago​

It was quiet; unnaturally so. Neither the snows perched upon the summits behind, nor the winds ravaging through the gorges ahead, nothing seemed to disturb the wastes. The land stood still, frozen in time and place.

The great stone towers presided over it all. Gargantuan monoliths of carved stone soaring among the towering peaks, their colossal silhouettes rising in seeming defiance of the mountains beyond.

Qara’Khand.

The Dark Fortress. The damned city, the accursed dominion - the source of all the nightmarish details in the old stories of the Blightlanders. Legends held it had once been the home of the Conjurer: his grand palace, in those bygone days when the land had been united under his rule.

Now it stood empty, abandoned since time immemorial. Lost to consciousness and memory.

They were the first to glance upon it in millennia, the first since the Conjurer. His jaw tensed, his skin twitching slightly as the muscle underneath firmed. He stepped forth, coming to stand by her side. Ahrora stood unmoved, her gaze transfixed on the immense fortress.

It had never been done, that which she urged him to do. The Kur’udum was a customary ritual of passage among the Blightlanders, yes; to vanquish a foe and earn one’s place in the clan. But by custom, the mightier the foe, the higher a warrior’s fame, so of course the Witch-Queen had aimed high. For the nar-Vansahr, it was not enough to pass - not enough to suffice. He had to excel; expected to do what none before him had done, to venture where no one had dared go: into the heart of darkness; to the cradle of terror.

- “What will I face there?” - His tone was low, his enunciation precise, and yet, be it as it may have been, it seemed to cut through the silent emptiness with all the elegant subtlety of a limp dragon taking flight.

- “Horror.” - Unlike his own, Ahrora’s voice came out in seeming perfect harmony with the unmoving landscape; delicate, yet cutting, as though she could pull a table cloth without disturbing any of the ceramics upon it with her tone alone. - “More I cannot offer, for our own legends fall silent beyond those gates.” -

He exhaled slowly, and knelt before her.

She placed her hands on his temples and uttered a chant. As the words flowed through her lips, fluttering in the wind like elegant silken cloth, he felt his eyesight dim until he could not see anything at all. Kur’udum - the blind rite. It was not just an idle name. The Blightlands were a treacherous territory; to survive it, one had to learn to rely on all of one’s senses - not just eyesight. The blinding charm would be lifted once the aspirant performed a sufficient deed to earn his place in the clan.

This was to be his test; the greatest test ever performed in the Blightlands. A blinded boy, thrust into the damndest place in the land.​