Translated by Tyrrya Len, The Wayrest Wanderer
But I bow my head. Sometimes we travel to tribes who welcome these outsiders. They ask us to honor their foolish choice. So we must learn more than how to kill the dryskin. I clench my fist. For these times, we must learn to make peace. I write truth words so that the Naga are prepared.
Dryskins have weak flesh, easily bruised and cut. Their skin blisters and breaks after touching many swamp plants. So too are their stomachs weak. A hatchling's meal may cause a dryskin to grow sick. Even without the aid of a spear, many outsiders will die from the simple nature of the swamp. I grin.
My eyes have not seen, but my ears have heard that the dryskins give birth to their young live. I shudder at such a thought. These infants (the dryskin word for their hatchlings) are completely vulnerable and weak. They cannot even walk. My eyes narrow in confusion. How can such creatures survive into adulthood?
And then there are their stone nests that take many hands and many stones to build. But if the ground begins to sink? If storms begin to ravage? Then they are left destitute and miserable. I shake my head at such foolishness. It is another way in which the dryskins wish to be unchanging.
A last truth to be written. These outsiders must never be tolerated. They have shown their vile natures time and time again. May the tribes of Black Marsh one day shun these dryskins and drive them out! Just as the Naga have always done.