(The elder grips his staff, his golden eyes sharp with urgency. His throat swells with a slow inhale, releasing a measured hiss as he steps closer.)

“Ssssomething hasss happened. The Chosssen Fangsss have taken one of our own. A hunter, a wanderer… a fool. Hisss name is Ssithrak, though he doesss not yet know its weight.”

(He gestures toward the thick, mist-laden swamp beyond, the vines hanging like veils over the still, black water.)

“They have him caged, deep in the flooded grovesss at 1950, 2560. A place where the tree rootsss coil like sssnakes, where the air isss thick with the breath of the anciant watersss. There, they chant. There, they prepare.”

(His claws tighten against his staff, the old wood creaking beneath his grip.)

“They believe he isss the Ssscalespeaker, the one foretold to lead our kind into a new age. But he doesss not wisssh to lead. He refusssesss their wordsss, mocksss their faith. And sssso, they will remake him.”

(His voice lowers, the hiss of a warning in the dark.)

“If they are not ssstopped, they will perform the Rite of Awakening. They will break him with venom, cloud hisss mind with ssstrange fumes, whisper their truthsss until he ssseesss nothing elssse. They will drowwn his thoughtsss in their will until he isss no longer Ssithrak… only their puppet.”

(His tail flicks, his expression hardening.)

“You mussst go. The Fangsss will not yield. They will fight. They will kill to ssssee their prophesssy fulfilled. The ssswamp isss their ally, filled with trapsss, hidden pathsss, and the eye of the great beasssts that lurk beneath the water.”

(His eyes lock onto yours, unblinking.)

“You have little time. If the ritual beginsss, it may already be too late.”

(Ssithrak sits on a fallen log, rubbing his wrists where the bindings once held him. His emerald scales are smeared with mud, his golden markings dulled by the swamp water. He flicks his tail, glancing at the players with a mix of irritation and something that might almost be gratitude. He exhales sharply, a slow, rattling hiss.)

“Hhhassssk… Sssso… that wasss unpleasant.”

(He flexes his claws, shaking off the last of the numbness from the cultists’ restraints. Then, with a wary look, he lifts his amber eyes to the group.)

“You could have let them finisssh, you know. Perhapsss I would have finally sssseen their ‘divine truthsss.’“ (He lets out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head.) “No… no, I ssssuppose not.”

(He stands, rolling his shoulders, his posture shifting from exhaustion to something more composed. He places a hand on his chest, giving the players a small nod.)

“Sssithrak. That isss my name, though you may already know it. The Fangsss certainly hisssed it enough in their fevered chantsss.”

(His tongue flicks out, tasting the air, as if confirming to himself that the cultists are truly gone. His expression darkens slightly.)

“They call me the Ssscalespeaker. The one who will bring a new age to our people. Lead them to glory. Change the fate of the ssscattered claw.”

(His tail flicks sharply, a ripple of frustration crossing his face.)

“I am a hunter. A wanderer. Not a leader, not a prophet, and certainly not the anssswer to their ridiculousss prophesssy. Whatever they think I am… they are wrong.”

(He crosses his arms, looking each player over.)

“Ssstill. You did not have to come. You did not have to ssskewer their guardsss or cut the locksss. But you did.” (He pauses, as if the words are difficult for him to form, then exhales and nods once more.)

“For that… thank you.”

(Then, with a final flick of his tail, he straightens and looks toward the depths of the swamp.)

“Now, if you are sssmart, you will let me go, forget my name, and sssseek a real prophet.”