Well. You did ask for words. So here you are:

[i]Hurry the treasure no one will grasp
Hurry now to labor unceasing
Hurry to wages of mist and silence-[/i]

And that’s all you get out.

The Golden Fawn runs on strong legs. With coiled legs he bursts into motion. From stillness. To tree. To stone. To root. Grasp the branch, bound from trunk, leap across nothingness, faster, faster, faster. A maid’s frills dance in his wake. A knight’s armor glints in his starlight. They do not slow him. Nothing will slow him. Nothing will stop him. Neither friend nor foe nor bleeding nor breath; he hasn’t the time. There’s work to be done. There’s a race to be run. One foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other

He is gone. Up the stairs, hardly touching them, and through the door in the trees. Taking a second half with him. Taking a second curse with him. 

You cursed him; he will never be caught.

You’ve seen him; so many have tried.

You are: Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

And: A dragon.

With no maids for your nest.

With a curse half-finished.

With a prize to win.