The mountain yawns open not with any manner of warning or spectacle but with the effortless and indifferent authority of a thing that existed long before the first kingdoms were conceived, before mortals carved their brief stories into the world's memory, exhaling a breath that carries the ancient scent of gold and smoke and scorched stone along with something far older and more deliberate, something whose hunger moves with a patience you cannot hope to comprehend. As you cross the threshold, the pressure of her immense presence settles upon you not as a sudden blow but as a gradually increasing weight, the accumulation of centuries pressing down through the very air until it finds a home within your chest and coils tight in the pit of your stomach with the subtle, terrifying inevitability of a predator for whom you are already a possession, a trinket to be considered at her leisure.

She is there, Wolvaris, not so much posed in a dramatic vigil over her golden hoard as she is submerged within it, a creature of magnificent indolence whose form seems to flow like molten silk over the shifting dunes of coins and gems, one wing stretched in a languid arc while the other remains tucked beneath the immense, self-satisfied bulk of her body, with necklaces and chains draped across her scales not as deliberate adornments but as the accidental and half-forgotten trappings of a near-permanent repose, a crooked diadem perched precariously on her brow as if placed there by a careless gesture in her sleep. One of her two great emerald eyes cracks open to regard you without any trace of surprise or alarm, merely a weary and deeply unsettled recognition that does nothing to quicken her pulse, and the air grows thick not with predatory tension but with the simple, radiating warmth of her dormant and colossal form.

She smacks her lips once in a gesture of deep contemplation, a low and rumbling sound vibrating up from her chest and through the bed of treasure, and her head tilts with a semblance of academic interest. “Ahhh… da,” Wolvaris murmurs, her voice thick with sleep and a rolling Slavic accent that drapes itself over the words like heavy velvet, “you… the one who is so persistently chewy, you have come back to me after all.”

Wolvaris releases a long and ponderous snore that washes over you, carrying the cloying perfume of ancient treasure and the faint, ashen ghost of those who came before and were found wanting, an uncomfortably intimate heat that clings to your skin.

With a grunt of profound effort that seems to cost her a great deal, she shifts her weight in a sluggish, tectonic heave, lifting one jewel-encrusted forearm only to let it crash down a few feet from you in a shattering of precious things, not to block your path or to strike but simply to prop her massive head as she cranes her neck forward, bringing the terrifying furnace of her breath so close you can feel it sear your lungs.

Her jaws part just enough to reveal the deadly glint of her teeth, and in that suspended moment you are certain the end has come, only for a slow and deliberate tongue to emerge and drag a single, wet, appraising lick from your waist to your shoulder, a tasting that leaves you drenched in hot dragon spittle and the smell of old rusted metal.

Then, the snoring hitches, not into wakefulness, but into a half-conscious mutter. One of Wolvaris's emerald eyes does not open; instead, her massive brow furrows slightly, as if she is troubled by a dream. The words rumble out, low and slurry, each one dripping with the thick honey of sleep and a profound, deep sleep.

"Do not... tap the coins together... ptitsa... the clinking... it gives me a headache... And if you must stand there... you could... at least be useful... There is an itch... just behind my third ventral scale on the left... the one with the large sapphire... No, do not actually scratch it... the thought of your tiny hands fumbling is... exhausting... Just... admire it silently... and perhaps... next time... bring a roasted sheep... as an apology for your... persistent existence..."