You are right to ask, we have come to the time of the telling. All who bear the mark are expected to tell the story in their thirty-second year. It is how we keep our history alive. It is how we pass our secrets to the next generation.

I bear the mark above the back of my left hip. Upon first glance this mark is taken as a tattoo, but this mark was not placed in my flesh by mortal hand; this mark grew until it pressed itself to the surface and those with the site can see the magic embedded in the design, marking me a priestess, marking my duty to preserve and protect our history. It is fortunate that ink goes unnoticed in this world we inhabit. It has become common place, and as such, it is overlooked. Were it rare, our marks would stand out, set us apart from those we work so hard to blend in with.

For survival it is imperative we blend in.

The young do not understand the necessity of this, but those who have lived long enough to lose their loved ones to ignorance know, for the bloodline to survive, we must be believed to be human.

We are as old as the land we inhabit, older perhaps. Some say we stood witness to the lava rivers that formed this land, taking a hand in the shaping of the world. Others say we waited in the depths of the earth till she had finished forming, and only then came to the surface. Whichever side of the story you fall, we all agree, we have been here from the beginning. We watched the land twist in blues and greens. We watched life spread from leaf, to feather, to fur. We watched man evolve, watched him turn on the land, on the balance of life, watched him rule with a tight fist all that was not his to rule.

We stood in protest. We fought for the balance, but our souls are not violent, and we could not face the bloodshed required to win such an uprising. Man villainized us, taught their children to fear us, wrote ballads praising our demise while glorifying the violence of their knights. They drove us into the shadows, where we hid, learning to disguise our appearance with the magic we held sacred. We covered our scales with soft flesh, taught our pupils to round, our wings to recede, our tongues to reform - and yet they still tempt and entice . We are gifted with words, this we are unable to hide; words are the remaining way our magic spills forth, undiluted. And it is words that keep us strong, keep us fighting to restore the balance stolen from the land. We must hold to the strength of a voice, the power of the outspoken. We must stand firm in the refusal to be silenced.

The mark of the serpent is so we never forget the power that courses through our veins, the magic that remains, even as we mix. Though human we may appear, and part human we may be, we are still, as we were before, Dragon.