Me: I am made of air.
Adam: More like water.
Me: Nay, careful knave, for I am beseeched by sun bursts in this blessed hour of whitefall.
Have at thee!
Adam: Let’s do this.
Me: In whose blessed light hath thee been scorned, knave? By what weighted fringe hat thy ears been boxed in pheasant rank! Wouldest thou fell the beast who birthed thee if thee could see thine eyes turn life to minstrels?
Adam: Ahhh…my jest! By the final gray rays of Urth’s dying sun do I curse thee.
Me: Curse! Curse, say thee? What breath breathed in blank halls giveth thou such petty gift? Forsake thy oath for squabbles of pilfered magic, sir?
Adam: Pilfered?! Surely you jest. These arcane tongues are hard earned in the deepest catacombs of Baldric caverns, where the great gray eye of Sol cannot peer. It is there that magics breed in silence. It is there that I harvest them.
Me: Pilfered, most dearly, for in thy trek to those dank caverns you tender the trips of your fallen gardens. Haste thee to rend souls to flour for Urth, for thy cultish fancies. Haste thee to scoop matter from cantankerous old fool whose minds are but trifles before Urth. Nay, you are no sorcery, Mandrick. Thou art the whistler of demons, whose sad songs make plight in the halls of emperors.
Adam: Aye. I do whistle for demons. And the demons come for me. I draw them into my breath, nurture them in my lungs with sweet, longing words of innocence lost and promised revenge, release them with a poisonous flick of my many forked tongue. They flee into the world, the world of this cinder Urth, so long removed from glorious golden light, to rend holes in the flesh of our world, sink there teeth into the severed ganglion of humanity's last bastionic hero, and drink. Drink deeply my demon dogs.