The Dragon was dead-or almost so…
"TURN FROM THIS PLACE," the bronze-shelled corpse said. "FLEE TO
Madness. Madness and more madness.
But there was always more world than explanation. To come so far… so close… There was no turning from this place.
"May I beg but one dispensation?" Achamian cried.
A hissing pause. "GRASPING," the dead beast said, shadowy and mountainous. "MEN ARE FOREVER GRASPING."
"I search for a map," the old Wizard said.
Cleric regarded him.
"But what use could you have of trinkets and baubles?"
"I will not!" the old Wizard cried, casting his frail voice against the Dragon's booming echo. Thought and passion raced panicked through his soul. All at once, he found himself marvelling at his own stubborn courage, weighing the mad consequences of his baiting, and wondering-wondering most of all-that a Dragon could be dead, yet speak and breath still…
"I cannot!"
The Wracu laughed, a sound like a thousand hacking lungs.