The Pigments in Dragon's Tears The struggle of nations, wrought in crystal

The ceaseless mill turns ever round, crushing the days and months into years, and the years into decades.

The machinations of man and dragon remain much the same, one into the next, ever onward.

They play a game, eternally competing in a contest that even the ancient Wyrms don't know what they play for, nor whom. Man, for their part, plays against all comers; both themselves and the dragons, only to turn around and request the dragons assistance when it suits them.

Each move ticks away the sand of the hourglass, and soon the final moves of the game will be afoot, with the players none-the-wiser.

Mankind was still in mud huts, cowering from the dark, when the first Wyrm appeared to us.

Tiamat. Mother Wyrm, First of Her Kind, and Patron to Humanity. She took us, as a species, underneath her wing. She taught our ancestors of the sciences, as well as of art. Not just dictating it, but cultivating our own underneath her motherly gaze.

With her assistance, we crawled out of the mud, and when her first brood was born into the world, we reveared them in the same way, for their Mother guided them as well.

Then Tiamat left, and her children were now responsible for guiding the world. A responsibility they, debatably, failed. With the death of one of their siblings, all that humanity built beneath them descended into a war so devastating it brought everything that had been built low.

We have only just begun to regain our grandeur.