#tyroneasaurus red

Craigory the apprentice magician was trying to create sparks by snapping his fingers — and getting awfully close, so much for not having a natural affinity for fire — when the light from the corridor darkened.

A dragon head the size of a horse pushed through the bead curtain.  “C’mere,” rumbled Craigory’s magic teacher.  “Time to learn the ancient art of smack talk through runes.”

Craigory got to his feet and followed the dragon to one of the larger caves in the complex.  A stone slab table dominated the room, while the walls were lined with carved-out shelves covered in supplies.  The table already held parchment and writing materials.  

The dragon scooped up several human-sized paintbrushes.  “Here, I ganked some in your size from one of those elves who keep showing up to paint the sunset.  Take your pick.  The tiny paper is yours.”  

“I kind of figured,” the human.  He selected a brush from the dragon’s palm.  “So who are we sending smack to?”

“Sylvester,” the dragon said, naming a friend of his.  “Fool just lost a bet.”  He grasped his own oversized paintbrush and opened a large jar of something.  “Follow along, aight?  Spelling matters.”

“What was the wager?” Craigory asked as the dragon dipped his brush into what proved to be a thick blue liquid.  

“Tell you when we’re done.”  The dragon set the inkpot in front of his apprentice with a giant scaly hand.  The human wasted no time in wetting his brush and imitating the marks that the dragon was brushing onto parchment.  

He did his best to replicate each swirling letter, but it was easy to lose track.  His master had feedback for him.  

"There's no H in ‘wack,’” the dragon said, peering over the his shoulder.  “Unless it’s the other kind of whack, and you want me to hit ya. Ain't neither of us want me to bust yo ass. I know you humans like sitting on those butts o' yours. Got your own padding and everything. Cartin' around your own chair cushions, but no tail!”

Craigory corrected his error in silence, showing admirable restraint as he did his best to be a model student.  Eventually the writing was done.  He set down the brush and shook his hands vigorously.

“Passable,” the dragon said, his snout close to the page.  “Just needs a sig.  Since you don’t have your own rune yet, you can put mine.  He’ll know full well who sent it.  Look close now; this is the rune for Tyroneasaurus Red.  You’ll wanna be able to recognize it in the wild.”

Craigory said nothing about his master’s name.  He copied it accurately.

“Good ‘nuff.  Now for the fun part: deciding what color smoke we want to fill his workroom with.  Then the other fun part: burning stuff.”

The pair laboriously selected the perfect shade of pond-scum-green, then prepared the ceremonial bowl.  One quick breath from the dragon was enough to set it aflame.  The bowl waited for magical messages to be placed inside.  

The dragon set his parchment in the bowl, getting his scaly hand much closer to the flame than his human apprentice was comfortable with.  The runes lit up blue as the paper’s edges curled.  Blue smoke crept upward, lifting the shapes with them: runes floated in midair until the paper was fully blackened.  Then they burst in a flash of light that zipped upward through the cave’s vent system.  The smaller parchment behaved the same as the first, much to the delight of Tyroneasaurus.  He chuckled heartily, making the floor vibrate.  

“What was the wager?” Craigory asked.

“That I couldn’t teach you something on the first try,” the dragon said with a toothy grin.  “Congrats.  Whatcha wanna learn next?  Lair carving or gemstone appraisal?”

“Gemstones!”