A dragon will see the rise and fall of many civilisations before it has to face its mortality. The most ancient dragons are born into the stone halls of people so long forgotten that our ancestors spoke of them in myth and legend.
A Dracolich may live for many millennia longer than that.
These dragons are mysteries to the living. You won't see them flying over cities in petty acts showing off their chromatic scales and hoping to be written about in song. No, the Dracolich pities these dragon runts who thirst for the fear and praise of mortals. The Dracolich inhabits halls where pharaohs once claimed to be gods but whose bones are now sand. They collect arcane objects forged by angels and play with them like trinkets. If you spoke to one it would hardly hear you or recognize your existance. Indeed, the words and deeds of mortals rot before a Dracolich like leaves in fetid water. A flea holding a sword, a mote of dust in a wizard cowl.
But reality hates a great power to be kept secret. So as is the quirk of things every so often a map is found in the deep places of the world. A map so old it is written in faded petroglyphs, rubbed smooth by time. A stone carved with ancient nails and dyed with ochre. A faint ochre scrawl marking of the way to a vault of ancient treasure. A vault guarded by a giant dragon. A dragon of made of nothing but bones and greed. A greed that defied death. A death that should have happened long before anyone you've heard of was ever even born.
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