Bast was born around 18 years ago, to what he figured were completely normal parents.

In his youth he might had wondered who they were, where they were from, or where they had
gone, but dwelling in the past was never really his strong suit. Besides, the version he was told by
the efreet who found him left very little room for ambiguity: He’d been thrown into their volcano as
an infant, covered in a wreath of fire – burning, yet unburned.
In all likelihood, said the magni Kazo, either you were some misconceived sacrifice, or maybe
they were scared Atarka would think you a Whisperer and eat them all. Either way, their loss.
Looking at the efreet leader, you’d get the impression of a smug, spiteful creature, not
particularly fond of humans in general. Which is why Kazo claimed he surprised himself more than
anyone when he decided to take Bast in as his own.
This was easier said than done, however. Bast’s hornless scalp and pale, often-burned skin made
him an easy pariah. It was only when his powers inadvertently manifested that he could even get
others to look at him. Even then, the glances were curios at best, when at worst, they were burning
with indignant rage at the ‘mockery’ of their people.
But, it was attention. And he figured, if he could claw his way into the warm heart underneath his
foster-father’s crusty exterior, then surely the rest of his people’s couldn’t be that much harder.
Surely. Most of Bast’s adolescence had gone by before the efreet decided that maybe the little
human was sorta-kinda charming, in his own weird way. Kazo’s long hours drilling the Ignan
intonation into his hopelessly human brain had left him... not eloquent, per se, but certainly capable
of oration that didn’t utterly disappoint his politician of a parent.
Unfortunately, for all his effort, all this meant in the end was that there were plenty of people to
witness it when the non-fiery part of his sorcerous powers first manifested. And whether they
wanted to or not, they were now forced to banish him, lest they break Qadat’s accord with Atarka.

And so, Bast traveled south, finding the winds of Qal Sisma even less agreeable than the volcano
on the edge of the Fire Rim he’d called home. It was more through luck than skill that he survived,
despite Kazo’s training for this exact scenario.
One night, when Bast lit himself a bonfire against the cold, he was ambushed by a Claw-Bearers
patrol who saw him ignite the flames with his bare hands. Knowing what these people do to
spellcasters, he fled, causing as much chaos in his wake as he could. Thankfully, the fire drew the
attention of a Kolaghan brood stalking the border, who scattered the patrol with a breath of
lightning or two. Bast, too terrified to move, found himself staring into the maw of the beast. But as
the creature lowered its head towards him, instead of biting him in half, it spoke.
She said she found Bast very amusing: A human, who fancied himself a tiny Atarkan dragon. Of
course, Bast had never seen a dragon up until that point, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Thus, he found himself the pet of the “lady” Straga and the raiding party at her tail. He himself
made an awful raider, though: A terrible horse-rider for numerous reasons, and though decent with a
shortbow, he couldn’t figure out how to channel lightning like the dakla. So instead, they kept him
as light entertainment for those long fightless nights – and occasionally, to scorch the earth they left
behind.
Bast, naive that he was, merely assumed the Kolaghan were defending their own territory,
putting up warnings against future interlopers. Indeed, that is how Straga presented it, in one of the
many sessions where he had unknowingly been prepped to become one of her Foul-Tongue
Shamans, learning her ancient tongue.
It wasn’t until much later, when he’d already considered himself part of the tribe, when he found
the truth. The party’s leader, a hatesinger named Kerai, had instructed him to burn the aftermath of
one of their raids. It was then when he found a red cloak that refused to burn, hanging at the
shoulders of a young mage, much like himself, charred and riddled with arrows. When he’d brought
it back to camp, intending to ask who these people were, he received praise for his first blood-loot.
 That night, as Straga’s party were all sleeping heavily from the spoils of their raid, Bast rode off
to parts unknown, swearing to rid the world of the dragons who twice already had corrupted what
he thought to be his home.