It heaved a sigh, and flame sprung from its mouth, onto the floor around Oliver. It danced, and twirled, and Oliver flinched away, as was any mortal's reaction to fire. He feared it as much as he needed it. Only when he did not feel the searing upon his flesh did he dare to look with one eye and see.
A canvas written in spiralling flames. Oliver recognized clouds. He would have been a fool not to. Flames might have been the dragon's paint, but it was an accomplished artist with it. The flames moved, and the painting it had drawn changed. A creature soared through the sky. A bird Oliver assumed it to be, until it grew larger, and Oliver recognized it to be the dragon. It heaved another sigh as the dragon came closer to the forefront of the picture, and its breath sent Oliver's hair backwards like the breeze. Like the rushing of air he might have felt as he was soaring through the sky.
