Phoebus
The sun had just begun to set when he calls for him. He’d been hugging the volcano’s base, staring at the lava as it came down in flowing cascades down its sides. His father used to take him here, used to let him stray ( “not too far, Phoebus...”), used to let him admire the beauty that was Tephra.
He loved this land like his father had. It held his heart - he knew no matter where he went, he’d have a piece of Tephra with him. He’d taken his leave, saw the rest of Beqanna, met with a few interesting horses, but he knew -
It was time to dedicate himself to his home now. It was time to protect it.
With the reveal of this “Morty” character taking an evil hold on Sylva, he had to protect what was his. What was his father’s ( “Ellyse brought me here, my boy, she showed me this wonderful home...our home.”) dream was now his.
But his father was gone now, his mother gone too. He was never taught the ways of a warrior, never taught how to protect. It came naturally to Diable Rouge (he’d fought his entire life), but Phoebus was raised gentler, with a kinder approach. He’d been too young to join the alliance, and too young for Longclaw’s training session, but he was not young now.
He’d grown to be a large sixteen hands like his father had been. Muscles protruded from the crimson of his coat, and lanky legs could carry him long distances. If it hadn’t been for the blue of his eyes and the armor on his coat, he’d be a mirror image of his father. But now, there is only one man he knows here that can tell him what he must do.
“Warrick!” He calls out, fire armor blazing with the heat of the volcano. Hopefully he’d come, hopefully he’d listen.
He just wanted to make Rou proud.
Boy of Fire