There's a passage about 'rivers of molten rock that wound their way... until they cooled and lay like twisted dragon-shapes vomited from the tormented earth.' that's a perfect description: how did tolkien know, a quarter century before anyone ever saw a picture of io? talk about nature imitating art.
But annabeth just smiled and put us in jail. as she was heading back to the front line, she turned and winked. "see you at the fireworks?" she didn't even wait for my answer before darting off into the woods. i looked at beckendorf. "did she just...ask me out?" he shrugged, completely disgusted. "who knows with girls? give me a haywire dragon, any day." so we sat together and waited while the girls won the game.
You have the effrontery to be squeamish, it thought at him. but we were dragons. we were supposed to be cruel, cunning, heartless and terrible. but this much i can tell you, you ape – the great face pressed even closer, so that wonse was staring into the pitiless depths of his eyes – we never burned and tortured and ripped one another apart and called it morality.
Every new stroke of civilization has cost the lives of countless brave men, who have fallen defeated by the dragon, in their efforts to win the apples of the hesperides, or the fleece of gold. Fallen in their efforts to overcome the old, half sordid savagery of the lower stages of creation, and win the next stage.
Half a dozen brats turned with expressions of derision, and lyra threw her cigarette down, recognizing the cue for a fight. Everyone's daemon instantly became warlike: each child was accompanied by fangs, or claws, or bristling fur, and pantalaimon, contemptuous of the limited imaginations of these gyptian daemons, became a dragon the size of a deer hound.