Dragons. Winged reptiles. Overgrown lizards. Call them what you will. Negotiating with dragons is no easy task- unless you get lucky like me and they prefer to stare at you instead of having you for a snack.
Why have I been dispatched for another draconic dialogue? Unfortunately, no one else is as qualified for the task. History of success convincing dragons? Check. Be friends with a dragon? Check. Have a dragon order bound as a familiar? Check. Be blood brothers with a Dragon Patriarch? Check. Be a living embodiment of the elements like a dragon? Check. The only thing I was lacking was being a dragon myself.
Why was I hardly sympathetic towards Adrenal, dean of Spellweaver Academy, who put me in this difficult position? It's because he appointed me despite not knowing half of the aforementioned qualifications. I know that even half the list is impressive, but still... Casting me before a belligerent Red Dragon Patriarch? I didn't like my chances.
Why am I whining about all of this? Why, to whine is human, to get it out of my system divine. And who better to whine to than a journal? But don't worry. I'll fill you with brighter content. After all, I'm writing this chronicle to give little sis a good laugh.
Well, I suppose I should procrastinate no further. It is time to enter the dragons' den.
