Asleep on his hoard of yet-to-be-read manuscripts, Reisen takes his final breath.

This life has been devoted to stories both real and imagined, of collation and curation of every tale which passes his way. On leather-bound wings he’s flown the length and breadth of the world, seen things with both his eyes and the gaze of a thousand other minds, each bringing their own nuance to the lands below.

And he is satisfied.

His eyes close, and the great bulk of the story-dragon turns to paper.

A hundred thousand interleaved sheets and bent-back spines, the dust of a library left undisturbed for a millenium, gravid with ancient knowledge and wonder.

There is no wind within the mountain, but the papers that were Reisen rustle and settle, and with a mighty exhalation the carven doors which sealed his sanctuary swing ajar.

It will take courage and imagination for a human to brave his tomb, but those are virtues he cherishes.

They’ll stumble upon his hoard, their eyes alight with the promise of unspoken knowledge and tales of far-off lands, and the stories that once were Reisen will be told and re-told and travel further than he could ever have flown.

And one day, like a dusty, leathery phoenix he will be reborn, in a library far from home.