Azaralor, duke-templar of the clan Suncore-Sword, and a sour dragon even by dragon standards, steamed up to sleep last Thursday in his usual lumpy-cuddly nest of human-warrior bones, and lay there, fuming. It had been a sour Thursday, even by Azaralor’s standards, and he looked forward even less to Friday.
His thousands of jade scales, each as large (and twice as hard) as a knight's shield, flowed smoothly with his ancient river weight as he clattered this way and that, trying to relax. Harsh yellow light from his reptile eyes lit the chamber.
“Women,” he muttered.