They are dragons.
Oh they may be crimson, but a color alone does not capture the full magestry of their existence, in deep and silent observation of the rise and fall of days and seasons and empires. While small lizards crawl in caves, puff steam and heal-to when mortals call, the crimson have remained silent. As even wyrms grow cowardly the ground has trembled at their unsease, at the insult to the pride of their mighty blood.
But now have come the whispers of those who know their names, who respect their legacy. From the shadows, they heard a summons, a call to show themselves at last to upstart mortals who would hold the name of dragon cheep. Seduced by the mantle of being great marshals of chaos and ruin, they have come forth from elder lairs and woe be upon those who would treat them lightly as they devour the wealth of nations.
They are dragons.
( er ... sorry ... just practicing

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