Dragons Never Die, They Just Get Better at Hiding…Granny Frass..

Dragons Never Die, They Just Get Better at Hiding…

A Message from Beyond by Granny Frass (with commentary from 🐾Sir Percival, the Afterlife’s Premier Cat)…

Now listen here, love.

All this talk about dinosaurs being dragons? You’re not just sniffing around the truth, you’re practically dancing on it in muddy boots. And I say that with pride.

You ever notice how people in every corner of the world, long before the internet glued us all together, had tales of winged beasts and fire-breathing serpents? Different names, same creatures. They carved ’em into stones, painted ’em on cave walls, passed the stories down like family heirlooms. That’s not fiction, darling. That’s ancestral memory.

Back then, magic wasn’t some vague concept for hippies and YouTubers. It was in the earth, the trees, the bones of the land. People knew things. They felt them. And dragons? They weren’t monsters; they were keepers of secrets. Protectors of gateways. Occasionally, yes, they’d scorch a village, but only if someone poked their hoard. Which, honestly, serves them right. Don’t poke what you don’t understand.

But then came concrete. Clocks. Factories. Noise. And humans stopped listening. The magic seeped out, like soup left too long on the stove. The dragons? They didn’t die, love. They just packed up and moved sideways, into another realm, another layer, where humans couldn’t muck things up anymore.

(Cue 🐾Sir Percival, tail flicking with mild irritation)…

“If I may interrupt, Granny Frass, your version is charmingly quaint, as always. But let’s be honest, humans rarely recognize anything subtle unless it bites them in the arse. Dragons were obvious, sure, but do they see the Fae anymore? The shadow folk? Even us cats?”

Granny Frass chuckles, not bothering to argue.
“He’s right, you know. Cats have always seen what’s hidden. Why do you think they stare at corners or sleep on your chest during nightmares? They’re keeping watch.”

🐾Sir Percival lifts one velvet paw and continues:
“Dragons didn’t die out. They evolved. Got clever. Some of them now masquerade as storms, volcanoes, even certain rock-stars. One lives in the clouds over Bolivia. Another took refuge beneath Iceland and occasionally burps up lava just for fun. It’s all very dramatic.”

And I’ll add this, just because you don’t see bones in a museum doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. Some things aren’t meant to fossilize. Some things are too powerful, too ethereal, to be pinned down like butterflies in a glass box.

So go ahead. Keep that spark alive. Keep dreaming of dragons, listening for the rustle of wings in the wind. That sense of awe? That’s the old magic remembering you.

And me? I’ll be out in the garden with a spade and a flask of elderberry cordial, muttering old spells and keeping my eye on the sky. Sir Percival will likely be asleep on the fence, pretending not to care, but don’t be fooled. That cat sees everything.

Because here’s the truth, love:
Dragons never die. They just get better at hiding.