He found it long ago, in his grandfather’s attic. The cover said Dictionary, but it looked more like an old journal: yellowed, desiccated, stained and crumpled. It contained a list of words, one to each page, words he had never seen before.

Once the word was scribed into the book, however, it escaped from the language, never to be uttered, written, thought of again. His dictionary that consumed words.

They always want the same story. I’ve more grandchildren than I can count, so I’ve told it who knows how many times. Spent most my life in married bliss, managing the estate bought with that black wyrm’s treasure horde.

But I can’t help feeling that life has never been that exciting since slaying the dragon.