[Hark, dear Cynthia. A gentle rapping at your door. Whomsoever could it be?

Oh, the door opens, and as it does, behold, standing in splendor, is an eight-foot-tall dragon turtle with vivid orange hair, claws suited to rending foes in twain, a mouth-full of sharp incisors, and leather, spiked cuffs that probably bespeaks of a deviant nature or of an 18-years-old-teenage-rebellion that was never quite quelled as an adult.]

May I come in?