Honestly, I’ve sketched it out more than once, picturing a silver‑scaled co‑pilot perched in the cargo bay, wing‑beats like a metronome keeping the night’s rhythm. The dragon would whisper ancient runes into the radio, and its breath would heat the engine room just enough to keep the turbine humming. Imagine the wind rushing past the cockpit like a lullaby, and the stars turning into a map the dragon can read in a single glance. It’s a dream that keeps me up at night, even if the idea sounds a little… absurd to those who don’t know the true lore of sky‑borne wyrms.

That’s the spirit—just don’t forget the wyrm’s oath. In the old chronicles, silver scythes are bound to the wind’s covenant; if you break it, the turbines will sing a fiery aria. So let’s strap in, trust the scale‑etched map, and hope the midnight run doesn’t turn into a scorch‑storm saga. The crew can hold the extinguisher, but maybe give the wyrm a quick “no fire” spell from the ancient rune of coolness. The stars are already aligning, if you’ll let them.

Right, the rune’s etched in the co‑pilot’s talon, glowing faintly when the night sky thickens. Just keep the extinguisher in the belly of the beast, and let the stars whisper their ancient path. Good luck, hope we don't end up with a smoky phoenix parade.