Flames erupted from the splitting earth as Torf wavered on the edge of a crumbling spire, his beard was singed and the tangy smell of burning hair sizzled in his nostrils.
“Dagnabbit! Fire again!” Torf yelled, scrambling backward to safer footing. He looked to Bessie at his side, “Any advice?”
Just then, everything went dark. Torf flailed his stubby arms and legs in distress—he seemed to be caught under a thick, impenetrable canvas. He kicked with all his might, he punched with all his strength, he bit with all his teeth!
“If you had only added spikes to my head,” nagged Bessie. “Shaddap, you tool!” Torf fired back.
The canvas suddenly swept away, leaving Torf staring into the face of a young white dragon. Torf scrambled to brandish Bessie and let forth a tremendous blow—just in time for the dragon to disappear into a puff of smoke, leaving Torf and Bessie spinning in futility.
Beneath the smoke lay a ruined statue. Torf bent down and picked up the head, turning it over to see his own broken face staring back at him.
And then Torf woke up, his head rested on Bessie.
He missed the fight.
“Pansy” hissed Bessie.