As I was wandering trough the mystical forest, I heard a voice:
"I will never be able to write a book. I can't hold a pencil and nobody likes my tales."
I wondered where the voice came from. I didn't see anyone. I only saw some trees and a rock
Once I asked whether there was anyone or not, the rock began moving.
When I looked better, I saw a dusty, gray dragon; mourning because he couldn't write.
"Do you want me to write your stories down?", I asked.
"I would be grateful." , the dragon said.