Fissure grinned. Shadow was very agreeable. It was so easy to get along with someone like that. "Diarow is very careful with that sword." he said gravely. "If you touch it without his consent, he'll likely have your beating heart in his mouth; it's his most prized possession. He does keep it away from the ground though. You can imagine if he dropped it, the ground would swallow it up as fast as anything. Even each of his gloves weighs at least 2,000 pounds─he stays in good shape─the only reason the world doesn't tremble in his wake is that one of the enchantments he put on himself let's him put only as much weight as he wants on the surface that supports him. Oh, but that blade, it has so many magical abilities, effects and properties. Draknar the Fickle is the name of his blade, and it's the key to the form that Diarow and I would take in the worst of situations: it's the form we would die in, and it incorporates us both, along with that sword..." The dragon grinned, knowing that the sword was as important to him as it was to Diarow. That blade was named for his father, because it was made from his father's very essence (along with Diarow's father, being that the creation of the blade was the blow that ended the greatest war in Hell, wiping both of the opposing leaders out of existance, and replacing them with a blade greater than either of them). "My fire?" Fissure said, looking around. "This isn't the best place for a demonstration─" the dragon breathed a large smokescreen that filled the air "─I'd incinerate half the forest..."