Pythion was born into the Age of Hellfire – an era of constant war against the hordes of Siroth. An era of his people’s decline. Their empire was gone, and the Dragonkin had burned to ash along with it. Only the Lizardmen remained. Yet memories of their glories were slow to fade; many saw in Pythion a herald of rebirth, for he was born with wings, and the shamans declared that dragon blood flowed in his veins.
Thus Pythion matured: ever judged and measured, the weight of countless expectations and dreams resting upon his shoulders. While he was gifted in strategy and magic, he only survived the pressure thanks to his brother and confidant, Skirax. In time, Pythion rose up to lead his tribe, with Skirax beside him as an ally and advisor.
With every Demonspawn slain and every battle won, Pythion grew more assured of his destiny. He even achieved the impossible, and managed to unite multiple Lizardmen clans under his banner. The shamans never ceased speaking of when Dragonkin ruled the earth, the sky, and the sea, and they filled Pythion’s heart with a yearning for conquest.
At last, Pythion gathered all the clans that had sworn fealty for a Moot, and declared his plans to wage war against all who dared deny the Dragonkin their rightful place in Teleria. Then, dumbfounded, the clan elders watched Skirax rise and decry Pythion’s plans. He called Pythion a madman and spoke of the Sin of Dragons – a legendary event that brought Siroth’s legions into the mortal realm, all made possible by the hubris of ancient Dragonkin. Pythion retorted with equal passion, but neither brother would be swayed. They left the Moot as enemies, and the clans sundered, each choosing one of the brothers to follow.
Armies arrayed themselves against one another, and battle seemed inevitable. But, the night before the bloodshed was to begin, a mysterious figure entered Pythion’s tent. It was none other than Ramantu Drakesblood, the Last Prince, by whose vengeful hand the slaves of Siroth had been defeated in the First Great War. Ramantu warned Pythion of the hubris of Empire – after all, Ramantu had, himself, been called the savior of his people, but he had ultimately buried the last of them with his own claws, alone. It was a fate that Pythion could imagine all too easily.
The two held council all night, and at dawn, Pythion rode out alone to meet his brother, unarmed and bereft of armor. Overcome with joy, Skirax embraced him, and the brothers then swore a mighty oath to prevent the horrors of the past from ever touching Teleria again.
And so it came to pass that the clans that had come to shed kindred blood cast their weapon aside that morn. Instead, they embraced one another as Pythion and Skirax had done, and opened themselves to trade. The Grand Moot of Sorrowlakes, as it came to be known, passed into tradition – a neutral ground where all clans could meet in peace. A tradition that would, a thousand years later, birth the grand alliance of the Gaellan Pact.