I am here with some mundane personal purpose. I come from a mountain village of dragon shepherds and yeah, I know how to grow a dragon from its very birth to maturity, when the beast is ready to survey the borders of country, the order in the villages, and the overall happiness of the people.
Yet, having this knowledge isn’t a bright piece of something when you come from a village where the cries of baby dragons can be heard from every yard; I’m yet very young and there’s a lot of things in my head which want an order and place small diadems of experience upon them. Well, I’ll tell you that those things want the gadgets pretty badly, so badly in fact that I had to listen to the advice of my best friend. “Go write your stories on the leaves”, he told me. “That’s going to help you focus on your own thoughts and arrange them properly, so that instead of logical chains they become logical wings”, he told me. “Heh”, thought I and went away to look for an appropriate pen.
Oh, sorry, will you wait for a while?
I beg your pardon; Whinie’s whining again. Not that it bothers me too much, they all do when they’re kids, but she’s whining in a different tonality today, so I think I’ll have to leave with her for a couple days. Hope that’s going to make her better.
And so, I’ve found my pen. It looks nice, the pen, I’d say. It’s silver, scaly, and there’s a fork at its top. Its point is of a gently transparent blue, flickering a little when I touch the leaves of the trees with it. I think such pens aren’t usually made by gnomes living in neighbouring villages, but I may be mistaken.
O leaves, I hope my humble writings upon you will fringe your green faces with some minor jewelry which you will not find repelling. And he who is reading, well, heh, I hope stories which baby dragons find captivant, won’t be of too much boredom to you either.