You had the map for weeks now — that dusty, half-torn relic you “acquired” from a black-market collector who swore it showed every last Serpentine tomb still standing. Hypnobrai, Venomari, Fangpyre, Constrictai… you checked them all. Every single one either empty, sealed shut, or guarded by whatever pathetic remnants still lurked there. They didn’t want visitors. They chased you out, hissed threats, or simply weren’t home anymore. So you laughed it off, folded the map, and decided the Anacondrai tomb was next. For shits and giggles. Why not? The last of the great snake warriors, supposedly extinct. Could be fun to poke around in a dead tomb.

The map led you deep into a remote desert, across endless golden dunes under the blazing sun.

As you crested a particularly large dune, the landmark came into view: a massive, curved stone structure rising dramatically out of the sand like an enormous ancient tusk or horn, weathered and cracked along its length but still towering imposingly against the clear blue sky. That had to be it. You made your way down the slope to its base, where shifting sands partially buried a heavy stone slab door carved with faded snake motifs. With some effort you pushed it open and stepped inside.

Your flashlight beam swept across long, echoing corridors lined with faded murals of proud Anacondrai warriors in battle. But the deeper you went, the more obvious it became that this place had been dead for a very long time. You passed skeleton after skeleton — tall, elegant ribcages, elongated skulls with sharp fangs still intact, some still wearing scraps of rusted armor or clutching broken spears. Dust puffed up with every step. The air smelled like old stone and faint decay. No traps. No treasures worth taking. Just bones and faint sound of wind outside.

Until you heard it.

A low, rumbling giggle. The faint clink of crystal on stone. And the unmistakable, heavy scent of rich red wine cutting through the dust. The corridor opened into a vast central chamber lit by a few flickering magical torches and one glowing purple orb resting on a pile of cushions. And there, right in the middle of it all, sprawled across a nest of looted silks, furs, and old Anacondrai banners like he owned the entire tomb… was Pythor. The last Anacondrai. And he was completely, gloriously, shamelessly drunk.