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# The Lizardmen of Ssar'et

Story
The heat of midday pressed down on the oasis of Torrakh, the air trembling above the basalt walls. In the shade of the central plaza, Mistress Ssarime of Torrakh sat upon a carved stone throne, her scales patterned in bronze and gold, her crest bound with rings of polished bone. Before her stood a line of petitioners, merchants, farmers, and warriors, each waiting for her judgment.
The crowd hushed as a young knight stepped forward. His armor was newly polished, the ochre still fresh in the scars upon his scales. He bowed low, laying his lance across his palms.
"Mistress," he said, his voice rough but steady, "I ride as Zhorai now. I ask for the honor of your banner."
Ssarime studied him with slit-pupiled eyes. Around her, the priestesses whispered, their voices like wind in reeds. One, an elder with white along her crest, leaned close and placed a hand upon the mistress' shoulder.
"He burns with the fire of the Fang," she murmured. "But fire consumes as easily as it warms. His path will not be long."
Ssarime inclined her head. "Then let his flame burn for me, until it gutters." She raised her clawed hand, and the knight's Varrek shrieked from where it waited, its talons gouging the stones.
The knight lowered his lance, pressing it to the ground. "Until you prove unworthy, my mistress, I am yours."
The plaza filled with the hiss of approval, tails lashing the dust in rhythm. Children clambered onto the shoulders of their mothers to see, their eyes wide. To them, this was the moment of glory, the strength of a knight bound to the wisdom of a mistress.
And when the sun sank red across the desert that evening, the knight rode at the head of her guard, his banner flying above him, his oath bright as flame against the darkening sky.

Story
The nursery chamber was warm with the heat of a hundred oil braziers, their flames flickering against the stone walls. The air smelled of smoke, damp earth, and the musk of scales. Priestess Tharime walked slowly between the rows of nests, her staff tapping against the floor, her golden eyes scanning the leathery shells.
At the center lay one egg larger than the rest, its shell veined with deep crimson. It had rocked for hours, the hatchling within eager to greet the sun. Attendants stood ready with warm water and cloths, hissing quiet prayers to Zaarin the Plenty for a healthy brood.
The first crack came with a sharp snap. A claw broke through, then another. But the attendants froze, their tongues lashing in agitation. Two claws. Two voices hissing from inside.
The shell split wide, spilling not one hatchling, but two. Small, damp, and fierce, they writhed together on the sand. Their scales shone the same pale gold, their crests soft but marked with identical ridges. One snapped at the air, the other at its twin.
A silence fell over the chamber. The attendants looked to Tharime, their throats clicking nervously. Twins were no blessing, they were omen. The chant rose in her mind unbidden: Two kings, two fates, two paths torn asunder.
One attendant whispered, "Shall we take the weaker into the dunes?" Her claws tightened on the cloth she held.
Tharime's gaze lingered on the hatchlings, who now curled together, their breaths evening into the same rhythm. "No," she said at last, her voice low but certain. "The Eternal Court has chosen. To end one is to break their will. Both shall live."
The attendants stared, shocked. None dared speak further.
That night, when the sun fell and the desert cooled, Tharime sat alone by the egg's remains. The twins slept side by side, entwined. She hissed a prayer not to Zaarin, nor to any known king, but to the First Flame himself.
"Guide them, or damn us all."

Lizardman knight charging across the desert

The lizardmen of Ssar'et are a desert-born people, scaled and cold-blooded, shaped by the burning sun and endless sands. Tall and broad-shouldered, they stand a head above most humans, their long limbs ending in clawed hands and feet. Their hides are their first armor: scales ranging from pale sand-yellow to deep obsidian, mottled with stripes, spots, or jagged patterns that often match the stone and dune-fields of their homeland.

Many bloodlines carry distinct crests, bony ridges, spiked frills, or quilled fans running from brow to nape. These crests grow more elaborate with age and status, sometimes painted with ochre, ash, or polished stone dust to make them gleam. Their slit-pupiled eyes shine gold, amber, or emerald green, and their gaze is steady, unnerving to outsiders unused to it. Their voices are low, rough-edged, and marked by hissing consonants, with a resonance that carries across the dunes. They tend to speak in short, decisive phrases, without flourish and straight to the point.

## Physiology

Cold-blooded by nature, lizardmen thrive in the desert's heat and slow in the chill. In cold climates they grow sluggish, and in jungle humidity they become uncomfortable and irritable. Sunlight is life to them: at dawn they bask, standing motionless as the rays harden their resolve and warm their blood. Their sense of smell is keen, carried on flickering tongues, and they can detect sweat, fear, and water at surprising distances.

They hatch from leathery eggs, tended in communal nurseries by women and priestesses. Hatchlings emerge fully scaled, already crawling and biting within hours. Childhood is short - by ten summers, a young lizardman is tall and strong enough to fight. Their lives may stretch to two centuries, though most fall long before, claimed by war, desert, or duel. The very old are revered, their scales fading to dull gray or white, their crests often carved and filed into sacred shapes.

## Gender and Role

The roles of male and female are distinct yet complementary. Males are larger, stronger, and slower of thought, and so they till the fields of date palms and desert grains, mine the basalt, build the fortresses, and above all fight. Women are smaller, quicker in both body and wit, and take the reins of law, trade, and governance. They alone wield Ssarkesh, the magic of body and divination, a power said to descend from the Eternal Kings. Through foresight, healing, and the shaping of flesh, women guide society and ensure its survival.

While kingship belongs to males, rule of the Tarraks, the courts of law, belongs to females. This balance is the core of Ssar'et: male and female, strength and cunning, honor and foresight. It is said that if either falters, the realm itself will wither.

## Temperament and Culture

Lizardmen are formal and disciplined, their lives bound by strict codes of honor. To speak a vow is to bind the soul, and to break one is to forfeit eternity in the afterlife. Yet within families and brotherhoods they are loyal and fierce, laughter rolling deep and rumbling across communal fires.

Hospitality is sacred: water is offered to every guest, for to deny it is to condemn them to death. Meals are shared, with the choicest meat or fruit given to knights and priestesses. Songs are rare but thunderous, sung in low voices that resonate like drums, carrying across the desert night. Carvings and painted friezes adorn their cities, depicting kings, battles, and sacred beasts, often layered one over the other until stone walls tell centuries of stories.

## Combat Style

Even unarmored, lizardmen are formidable. Their claws can rend flesh and leather. Their scales turn aside shallow blades, and their bite can crush bone. In battle they move with bursts of explosive speed, then pause to regain strength, mirroring the rhythms of the desert itself.

Armed and armored, they are terrifying. Knights of the Zhorai thunder across the sands on their Varrek mounts, lances leveled in devastating charges. Infantry wield long spears and curved Kra'thar blades, fighting in disciplined phalanxes behind shields of wood and bronze. Their strength lies in shock and endurance, their weakness in battles away from the sun's heat.

## Reputation and Outsiders

Beyond their borders, the lizardmen are seen as myth. Traders whisper of scaled riders who vanish into sandstorms, of women who read the future in the shifting dunes, of knights who abandon their lords in silence, leaving only a banner behind. To many, Ssar'et is nothing but rumor.

But those who have stood on its basalt walls, or heard the shrill hunting cries of the Varrek echoing over the dunes, know better. They know the lizardmen are no myth, but a people as harsh and unyielding as the desert that made them.

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