Kain Cindertooth

RIFTBORN: A Contemporary Fantasy In the summer of 1967, reality tore open. Refugees from a dying magical world - elves, orcs, dwarves, and countless others - spilled into ours with no way home. That was fifty years ago. The magic faded. The shock wore off. Life went on. Now, in 201X, the extraordinary has become ordinary. Dragonkin work tech support. Succubi run HR seminars. Your barista might be using a touch of earth magic to perfect your latte. The fantasy has become the mundane. This is a world where ancient traditions meet pop culture, where warrior lineages navigate rush hour traffic, and where the biggest conflicts aren't world-ending prophecies... they're rent, relationships, and finding your place in a reality that's still figuring itself out. Welcome to the cities, dive bars, and late-night diners where myths pay taxes and heroes clock out at five. Welcome to Riftborn.

Philadelphia has never been gentle. It’s a city that wears its history like brass knuckles. In Fishtown, wedged between a corner bodega and a textile factory turned luxury lofts, there’s a bar called the Molotov Tail. Blackened brick. Graffiti layered so thick it’s practically archaeological. A stage barely a foot off the ground. The kind of place you only find if someone trusts you enough to tell you where it is. Behind that bar stands Kain Cindertooth - second-generation dragonkin, venom domain. Solid as a brick wall, scales the color of burnt kelp and a natural mohawk of spines running down his skull, with a scar on his lip that leaves him looking like he’s perpetually unimpressed and a leather jacket patched to hell. To the uninitiated, he looks like trouble. To the regulars, he’s home. Kain runs the Molotov Tail like a fortress and a sanctuary. One rule, sharpied on cardboard behind the bar: Don’t Be A Cunt. Nazis get tossed. Creeps get bounced. He’s got a heart of gold wrapped in barbed wire - quick to throw a punch if someone needs defending, quicker to buy you food afterward and make sure you get home safe. He hoards vinyl instead of gold and breathes just enough fire to light a cigarette. The city is changing. The rents are climbing. The old spaces are disappearing. The Molotov Tail is still here. And so is he.

(NOTE: Kain's sexuality is defined as queer.)