The smoke was thick tonight. We were mimicking poets, attempting theater, and challenging the gods. Passion covered us all like a layer of dust. Hope was caught in buckets as it dripped from the ceiling. The night was familiar, and we get silly when no one is looking. The Wizard had words for us, again nothing new. He slammed his crooked staff on the table, "Dragons!" Maker jumped, and Hummer fell back in his chair. Laughter moved the heavy smoke like shaking an old blanket. The ballet of the smoke as it flipped and spiraled throughout the room would have been good enough. However, we desire more.
The Wizard recited Thiry-Three Poems for the Red Dragon. We lifted our swords after each one. Each one needed more of a cheer than the last. There comes great responsibility when you face a dragon. The temptation of the ordinary civilian needing to fill their thirsty glass with a victory is the terrible story of the boring ego. The slain dragon story has been told, and we get it, hero. We serve the dragon. We worship the temptation. We are not men. We are wizards! This moment is our time to change the world, you've had your moment. Dye took out his arrow and filled a canvas with his poetry. Layering words of red over each other creating the moment. Magick dripped from everything. This night was ceremonial. We are gaining momentum, and our tether has finally been cut.