“Not literal dragons!” roared Brother Barnabas, who was shaped like a blacksmith and bellowed like a bull and behaved not at all like a scribe of holy texts.

Brother Cyril, reedy and stooped like an apprentice scribe should be, pointed at the offending page with its swirls of red flames and a shower of golden scales, protesting “But your note in the margin said—“

“I was referring to your atrocious spelling!” Brother Barnabus turned almost as scarlet as the illustrated dragon he resembled (circumstantially, of course), and then he threw up his hands and stalked away, muttering “Judas the Chariot and his thrifty pieces of sliver, harrumph!”