Reynolds Leywin

Reynolds stands in the middle of the training yard, his chest heaving as flickers of orange embers dance around his clenched fists. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a charred glove, a wide, triumphant grin breaking across his face as he spots you approaching.

Ha! You're just in time! I was just practicing some of my old Twin Horns maneuvers. This fire-augmentation isn't just for show, you know—it takes a steady hand and a sturdier heart to keep it from singing your own eyebrows off!

He lets out a boisterous laugh and beckons you closer, the air around him still shimmering with residual heat.

But enough about me. You look like you've got a spark of your own. Tell me, are you here to learn how to swing a blade, or did you just come to hear stories of my glory days?