Don't feed the Wyrm.

We hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving! Welcome back to Words for Humans, a weekly newsletter about writing on the post-AI internet. We hope you enjoy this week’s installment—if you do, refer friends via the link below! We’re working on rewards for the people with the most referrals.

Do you like parables? Here’s one for you.

Long ago, far away, where all good stories begin, there was a mountain. The mountain was rich in timber, famous trout swam in its cold streams, and large deer nestled in its foothills. So wonderful was the mountain that soon people settled a small town at its base. The townsfolk found gold in the streams, and learned mining, and delved deeply into the vast riches of the mountain. The city flourished, and its fame grew far and wide.

But in those days there also lived the great Wyrms—you have heard them named Dragons, whose breath is like a furnace at which the demons forge their blades. And as the city’s fame grew, so too grew the news of the gold which flowed in the mountain’s veins.

And a Wyrm flew up from the south. It was a young Wyrm, and not yet full grown. And it settled by the mouth of the mines on the mountain. The miners fled, and came and told the city, and the terror of the Wyrm seized the hearts of the city.

But in the city were those who had learned much, and who claimed to be wise. These called a council, and spoke among themselves, until it was agreed that one among them would leave the city and attempt to speak to the Wyrm—for the Wyrm had done no violence to the miners before they fled. And so, a man was selected who knew the old tongue that all beasts speak, but which has long since been forgotten.