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My grand-sire was chained within these very walls. He spoke a sharper tongue than I, but his heart was filled with the same venom. Taken from his home, the Imperials tried to bend him to their will. To break the unbreakable spirit of a Naga warrior.
They failed. Every insult hardened his resolve. Every lash of their whips sharpened his claws. Every chain they shackled upon him only added to his strength. He gathered his egg-siblings, and he sang a warrior's song into their hearts. Together, they took Blackrose Prison from the very Imperial scum who had wrapped them in chains.
But when the other tribes heard such a warrior song, they shrank back in fear. They looked upon the venom in my grand-sire's heart, and they thought him poisoned. They bid him to forget his anger, to forget the Imperial's transgressions. To dance once more beneath the leaves of the Hist, content to only gaze longingly at the horizon.
My grand-sire saw this for the foolishness it was. He had become raj-kaal, the war chief of a new tribe. He reclaimed the tools of those who oppressed them. Reclaimed the dryskins' prison to be his fortress, their weapons to be his strength, their armor to be his protection. And so the Blackguards were born, wielding the very chains that once confined them.