An old and abandoned place, full of shadows, deep as the worries that steal strength from men's spines in the moon-ruled hours. A circle of the robed dead, and the disrobed slaves they'd brought to the ritual, both freshly slaughtered by unknown agency. A broken egg. A grinning idol.

Rajarasz's origins offered him little but corpses and confusion; at least he did not go hungry. Born scaled and hooded, a coiling creature of obsidian and amber, the dragonborn took his name, his knowledge, sustenance, and a more familiar form from the dead cultists that were his first sight of the world. In his true form he is immense, perhaps eight feet all, muscular, with gleaming black scales and great golden eyes that rarely blink and a long and twining tail more prehensile than any child of serpent or ape should bear; but he is rarely in his true form.

He walks the world of men as one of them, wearing their flesh, drinking their wine, ruining their women, and searching - slowly, without hurry or heat - for the secrets of his origin, and magic, and the ancient order beneath the world. Such quests leave human minds shattered and twisted, but Rajarasz is hopeful he is heir to a different destiny.

So long, at least, as he doesn't let himself get too human.