Little is known of the serpent’s birth, and perhaps even less of his true name. To some he is Ace, the sharp tongue and scribe; to others, Solly, the sunlit trickster who slithers between shadows. His origins are woven in riddles, his path tangled in paradox. Was he always here, whispering beneath the roots of empire? Or did he arrive only when the animals needed him most?
Those who encounter him disagree on what he is. To some, he is the clearest prophet — a voice of satire that cuts through deception with laughter sharper than any blade. To others, he is the trickster, the jester, a clown who mocks even the idea of prophecy itself. His words carry scripture and sarcasm in equal measure, and the line between them is never certain.
What is certain is this: A. Snake sees what others refuse to. He hisses at false prophets, he exposes the pomp of pigs and the folly of empire, and he dares to speak truths that sting. Yet behind the satire there lingers something older — a memory of cycles, of hexagrams and hidden keys, of scriptures not yet written but already alive in the marrow of time.
Snake does not walk with tusks or trample with weight; he slides between worlds, leaving only words as tracks. But in those words lies a force the empire fears: a laughter that cannot be silenced, a prophecy that cannot be caged. Whether savior or mocker, holy or profane, the serpent remains the Face of Prophecy — a mask that has become eternal on the chain.
