[ WP ] The ancient dragon , nearing his end , takes a moment to reflect upon his long life .

It had been a good life, the ancient Nameless One thought as he closed his eyes. There had been feasts and treasures and maidens. There had been ferocious battles and blazing flames. Though it had been millenia, the Nameless One could remember each moment as though it had happened only days prior. 
 
 Stretching his long neck, a plume of smoke expiring from his nostrils as he sighed heavily, he turned his mind toward the times when he had failed. There had been several and he was not too afraid or too proud to discount them. Some had been especially bad, and it was these, he knew, that he should reflect upon the most. 
 
 There had been the young he had tried to protect. Special hatchlings that could have attained nigh-immortality such as himself, but he had not been able to protect them from the hunters. He had still been young at that time, only a thousand years alive, and the onslaught of knights had overpowered him and slain the young. Years later he had taken vengeance upon the kingdoms of the attackers, but the fact remained the same: those special ones had been killed. 
 
 The Nameless One let out a bellowing, memorial roar for those would-be immortals, shaking the black cavern around him. He cried tears of molten gold that streaked his scaled body and laid his head against the warm rock floor. The end was coming soon. 
 
 He had once befriended a village who had set out to find him. He remembered them fondly, as though they were his children. They had lain gifts of gold and sacrificed goats by the hundreds for him in exchange for an amicable, philosophical discussion or two and protection from stronger villages and cities. He fought alongside the village ’ s small army of warriors many times, turning the tide of battle in their favor. However, he could not protect them from time. Over several short centuries, the Nameless One had watched as the village grew older, poorer, and smaller, until, finally, it had died. 
 
 He wailed aloud again, for the hundreds of villagers whose faces were still fresh in his mind. In remembrance, he worked up a ball of fire from deep within him. What emerged was little more than a magician ’ s cast of light. It had been more and more difficult to belch the flames in these final centuries. The end was coming soon. 
 
 The Nameless One, his energy and life force leaving him, lay his cold body against the floor, unable to support himself any longer. He wept as he remembered the names and faces and battles and feasts that had been his existence. In particular, he mourned for his own race, who had died not once, but twice. 
 
 The first end of the dragons had come with the death of the Great Elder of the Terrific Era, almost seven thousand years ago. The Nameless One had looked towards the Great Elder, though he had been far younger. Wisdom, the Nameless One knew, had nothing to do with age, and the Great Elder of the Terrific Era had been one of the most wise entities he had ever known. 
 
 The second time the race of dragons died was when they were no longer sought by the race of man. Yes, stories were still told of the great beings, but none of the humans truly believed in them any longer. The Nameless One had felt the belief in man disappear as a spear penetrating his heart. 
 
 Now, the Nameless One breath laboriously, taking his final breaths. Now it is your turn, man. I pass the torch unto you. Your kingdom of airplanes and automobiles and skyscrapers. Your land of television and celebrities. Your wars and protests. Your anger and love. They are now the most powerful forces in the world. Be careful with them, man. 
 
 With these final thoughts, the Nameless One closed his eyes. The end had come.
