Ramantu Drakesblood

The Lizardmen once ruled the almost all of Teleria. Their realm was called the Empire of Dragons, and they themselves were called the Dragonkin. They were a proud, strong people, and their histories stretched so far back into the depths of time that they speak of the Gods as people who walked among them, rather than as abstract icons of worship. It must have seemed impossible that something so ancient and unchanging could be destroyed. The fall of the Empire of Dragons was sudden. The wrath of Siroth came upon it with such violence that it wiped the empire’s home archipelago of Torcelin lstriv clean of all traces of civilization. The annihilation of the two Imperial capitals — Allreach, buried by molten rock, and Twinrift, drowned by the sea — left what little remained of imperial authority to languish and fragment. Within a few decades, even the suzerains who ruled the far—flung colonial provinces were gone, and the Dragonkin engulfed themselves in civil war. Those who remained turned their backs on their heritage, declaring themselves the kin of nothing more than lizards. Prince Ramantu, the one they called the Drakesblood, lived to witness all of it. He lived to see the future of the Empire of Dragons slip through his fingers and turn to dust, no matter how desperately he tried to save it. There are few records of Ramantu Drakesblood still surviving into the modern day. He is spoken of as a legend by the Lizardmen of the Sorrowlakes, though the tales of him vary and contradict. Some believe he is not real, or that he was corrupt and was the cause of half the evil that he tried to overcome. Others blame him for the Sin of Dragons — those few who even know the name, if not what it was — while still others blame him for the civil war that followed. A few remember that he fought in the First Great War, but the magnitude of his accomplishments there is mostly forgotten. Most Lizardmen simply remember him as the last Prince of the Dragonkin, and curse his name with the same bitter resentment as they curse the rest of the Empire’s memory. It is the last group that Ramantu has most sympathy for. The details are wrong, he would say, but the sentiment is well deserved. He curses his own memory, too, on occasion, but it was all more than a thousand years ago, and, as one of the Arbiter’s first-ever Champions, he has greater enemies to fight than false historical records. Ramantu’s Shard gave him immortality, but the Arbiter gave him a reason to live. Those very few who know the Arbiter well say that Ramantu is the name she calls when she faces an enemy, a trial, or a defeat too insurmountable for even her to overcome. It is a name she calls when all around her would betray her. A name she calls when she has lost hope. They say that the Arbiter has a billion wards, a million soldiers, a thousand allies, a dozen equals, but only one true friend. Of all her Champions, only a precious few would she ever draw from their Shards just to speak, share a glass of wine, and her secret fears with. Of all his life’s achievements, it is that friendship that Ramantu Drakesblood values most – the rest, he would say, is dust and regret, and like time and the Arbiter, he marches onward. Or he would, if he could. The Arbiter has not called Ramantu from his Shard in centuries. It is not only her weakness of magic that restrains her from speaking to her friend and ally, but also weakness of spirit. The Teleria that Ramantu fought so hard for centuries before has been all but lost to corruption and strife, all under the Arbiter’s watch. If she had the power to summon Ramantu, it is not clear she would use it, for that reason. If the Arbiter’s power ever returns, though – or if another is imbued with enough strength to aid her — then Siroth and his Demonspawn will have much to fear. For, in the great many years since the Sin of Dragons, Ramantu Drakesblood has taught them all a painful lesson: when they stand against the Last Prince of the Dragonkin, they will taste defeat. No matter their strength.