Once upon a time, there was a wyrm who died. The wyrm was an old storyteller who lived many lives, and felt compelled to write each one. Over the years, he crafted many great stories, ones like the mighty tales of villains and heroes. One day it occurred to the wyrm that never once was there a story of love.
“Love, yes, love!” cried the wyrm.
“This will be the greatest story yet.”
The next night, the wyrm disguised himself as a young and beautiful prince. He came down to the village to join them in the Danse Macabre (donce-mah-cohbr) and was delighted and excited by each partner who took his hand. At the final beat of the song, the prince joined hands with a lovely village girl with a face round like the moon.
They decided, in secrecy, to meet each other every night onwards.
The wyrm, giddy as he was, realized one fatal flaw: he was lovesick. His scales became harder to shed, his dead skin suffocating, his claws overgrown, and his belly empty and sunken, like his clouding eyes. He forgot something very important about wyrms– love makes them hungry.
The wyrm, for the first time in his very long life, felt ashamed of his form.
On their final night together, the wyrm looked at the village girl wearily and asked her to lay down with him before the morning came. He never got back up.