Air whooshed in and out of the titan’s lungs like enormous bellows. The sound flowed through the mountainous cavern with a sonorous resonance that would have entranced any mere mortal. Each breath built on and amplified the last, cascading into a hypnotic mellifluence that was both beautiful and terrible.

The titan lay upon an enormous slab of granite. Metallic bands, etched with the runes of an ancient, forgotten language, stretched across its sleeping form — one at the shoulders, one at the hips, and one at the knees. Four smaller bands restrained its wrists and ankles.

After aeons of lethargy, the titan had become overgrown with moss. Lichen grew from its ears and the corners of its eyes. Its skin had become calloused and rough, its nails cracked and blackened. Yellowed mucous seeped from its nostrils, and rivers of saliva dripped from its open mouth.

Of course it knew nothing of this, nor would it have cared. This once great titan, this sleeping behemoth, this Tzubletz’th slumbered on.