Oolong is an almost-perfect audience in some respects, regardless of his form. He loves stories-- he collects them-- and therefore is motionless as a rock as he listens, save for the bellows-like expansion of his sides, the hot puffs of his breath, and the golden gleam of his eyes, which flickers and blazes like a fire in response to the emotional highs and lows of the story.

And it is a very emotional story, for all Horst Brauer delivers it light and casual. Beneath the flippancy there is a bitterness like salted earth. Loathing of self, loathing of other; ignorance (initial ignorance of the nature of what they pursued, ignorance in the dreadful lack of knowing whether rescue would come, ignorance perfectly signified by the darkness of the crypt).

Desire. Desire echoing all through the tale, desire for the means to overcome mortality, desire for food and survival, desire for a brother's safety, desire-- terrible desire-- that the brother returns that feeling. (I call for him...)

All three of the manifest poisons of existence made tangible in this tale.

When Horst's tale finishes, the beast remains motionless some several seconds longer, save the slowly spinning eyes; those lambent orbs cast lights on the ground between him and Horst, like the reflections a stream casts on a cave wall.

Oolong clears his throat with a cavernous rumble.

"It is a splendid tale," he says after several more seconds. "I assure you it is placed in perfect confidence."

It is probably difficult to tell whether a dragon is speaking 'gently' or not-- warm air buffets the face regardless-- but in his tone if not his words Oolong attempts to convey the sympathy Horst's words have roused.

"How then did you escape this tomb of horrors, or do I presume?"