Sunspire Mountains And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke

“Born here,” came the response, unornamented; poured darkly from lips of ink.
 
He was bored, now – too many words, not enough action. With fervent intensity did his gaze alight once more upon the fire fae, glistening in direful luminescence. He studied her with a silent air of eldritch suspense – of sinistrous thought, as though toying with the very strings of her existence; one snip, and gone. Seconds would stretch longer with the electrified poundage of his watch, breaths steeling into the ticking of a bygone clock.

She said she was a guard, that in the beatings of her fire-born heart skulked the longings of sovereignty, of power – yet had done nothing to prove herself worthy of such potentiality.

“Now you tell me, Orlaith,” he uttered, as though umbra itself was forged upon the leather of his tongue, lurking closer as a shadow might before engulfing the last remnants of sunlight. “You say you are a guard? Spar with me,” he challenged, posture melding into that of a pernicious king, muscles twitching; yearning.

Show me.