from Chapter 3
Then came a response from the brume. Its sound was seismic, whalesong basso profundo, of underworld pipes moaning out through their welds. Its organ was ancient, and long abandoned, pressed back into service as bolthole of speech, as when one whose arms and legs have been chopped away, and his tongue ripped out, beats head against floor, spelling out the dots and lines of an obsolete code. Whether it was the Beast speaking, laughing, or simply readjusting the coiled miles of Its body, they could not tell. Only an immortal might recognize it as language, the rules of whose grammar antedated the laws of starbirth. For everyone else, it spelled madness.
All about and above them the great Thede-Eater stiffened. Its neck snaked to a clef, and the scutes atop its body floated outwards on a rising tide. What it did there, they learned, was to draw breath, and what Avarnok made of that breath was nothing less than alchemy. The hammer of its noise brought clots to the eyes, that which had no name but Roar, and from the edges of its strike leapt that bright, ashing agent whose worldly echo is fire.