[[There is an illustration of an Anan-Si holding an eagle staff.]]
Creation has been good to me. I think in fact, too good. Many of spent their lives in search of gold, of glory. They have weaved together tales and deeds so legendary, it takes a mountain more time to rise then it does for legends to fall. My parents and grand-parents are distant memories now. Shades of thoughts. They spent their lives in the trees of a forest, playing music on their webs and singing out the tales of Anan, of Taran, of Creation Herself. And I decided to leave that, in search of medicines.
I was always so nosy, seeking out strangers, outsiders. Some of them could whisk out plagues, reset bones with a glance and trade skin for wounds. I held no such magic, but I could learn something from them. I sought to make my mark as healer. After a string of failed apprentices, tt wasn't long before such aspirations turned. I spent years studying the innards of every race I found. I would, and I say with shame, follow bandits and thieves. I would live in the wake of monsters to find their slim pickings, and I got cocky. Soon, I felt my knowledge would be easily applied. That's when I found an Anan-Si village on the outskirts of the Draconi Forest.
The only person there was sickly and old, and it seemed it had been some time before he last interacted with the living. I made it to him, and he could not speak. I asked him what was wrong, for his eyes were milky. As I examined him, I realized he had not moved for years, possibly. The webs covering the village were not memory-silk. They held no stories, only the carcasses of prey. As I pulled my hand back from him, I saw black spots on his chitin, and my claw that touched him. It was Taran's Bite. He was not in a village for living, he was outcasted. Plagued. Cursed. Bewitched.
My life had finally seemingly gained a purpose. I would wrestle this form of Taran, or I would simply perish. I pray the former. --Anan-Shen
