The three Dragons begin to compare scales, enabling the one newly emerged to take notice of er own details.
Rainbow-hued, clever of line, Saga reflects: the meaning of the narrative, the Meaning of The Narrative, the Meaning of the narrative, etcetera.
Ageless of form, almost smooth, Grymmatos recalls from a place of strength: the regularity of the tap of foot upon surface, size matched to size, simple steps in aggregate symphony echoing down in time.
A color that is the opposite of every color, both shining and absorbing, Acamar evanesces: the transformative pause, an opening that is a nothing, a not-thing.
Near their space, a blue flare bursts fountaining, a recognition of a uniquely relevant occurrence, requesting inclusion. Reading the signature, Saga knows who this comes from. “This Dragon who wishes to join us has many friends who fear you hatefully. It’s good to let things occur as they should, and this one suggests ‘e should be present, but you may disallow it. This began as your tabulum.”
“It’s been a good meeting. Let it continue, as requested,” says Acamar with a natural bow of admission.
