Serpent Frustration During the Fourth Purge

30 Greenbirth, 690:Leviathan

Esteemed High Serpent Priest Srabun,

I write with a heavy heart and scales dulled by the grime of war. The Fourth Purge, that great cataclysm we thought to weather alongside the warm-bloods, has left a bitter taste in our mouths.

At first, we emerged from our misty isles with purpose, our cunning and magic turned against the hordes that threatened all of Tuyin. Our seers whispered of glory, of a new era where the Serpent Theocracy would stand tall among nations.

Our shadowcasters wove illusions that confounded entire goblin battalions. Our venom-tipped arrows found their mark in draconic flesh. We fought with a fervor that surprised even ourselves.

But as victory neared, the warm-bloods' trust began to waver. Whispers slithered through their ranks. "Can we truly rely on the serpents?" they hissed. "What hidden agenda might they harbor?"

Their doubt stung worse than any venom. Elven eyes narrowed at our approach. Humans clutched their weapons tighter in our presence. Even the stoic dwarves shifted uneasily when we entered their war councils.

As the last vestiges of the horde are beaten back, we find ourselves isolated once more. No blades were turned against us, no blood was spilled, yet the wound of their suspicion cuts deep. They celebrate victory while we stand alone at the fringes, our contributions conveniently forgotten.

But let them revel in their short-sighted triumph. We are the children of Ralnafelats, master of secrets and deception. This betrayal of trust shall not be our end, but a lesson well learned.

May our scales ever shimmer,

Pigro