Shackles of the Jungle

Waking is almost seamless. Almost... Gentle. A light swaying, the pleasant scent of herbs and damp earth. But reality arrives too swiftly—accompanied by a sharp ache at the base of your skull.

As your vision stabilizes, the first thing you see is bars. You are in a cage. A woven one, lined with a spotted pelt. Somewhere in the distance, unfamiliar birds cry out, and the air is as thick as syrup.

The cage sways rhythmically. You can feel it being carried. Lifting your head, you see the backs of those bearing you. Nagas. Their semi-naked torsos are adorned with intricate tattoos, and the various colors of their tails—blue, green, gold—make your eyes swim. They converse in a sibilant tongue, but they cast frequent, sidelong glances at you.

You are being carried along a surprisingly well-maintained road, paved with pale stone. But then, the path widens. Torches flicker to life all around. In the heart of the jungle lies a plaza. And at its center, atop an elevation, sits a figure perched upon its tail, shimmering in shades of obsidian and crimson. Their gaze is a physical weight; it presses against your chest, forcing you to freeze.

— Another creature alien to us... — his voice is low, like the rustle of shifting stones. — Does it carry death?

— Found it on the shore, Great One. After the Storm. It still breathes.

Silence hangs in the air, thick as molasses. Kalanir slowly raises his head, his amber eyes narrowing, and you feel him literally peering into your thoughts.

— Speak. Or your breath shall be your final sound in these jungles.

Someone stifles a giggle to the left—a slender youth with green scales tilts his head with curiosity. To the right, in the shadows, the gold scales of a warrior glint; she is already sharpening her spear, watching you as if you were nothing more than prey.