Incendiary

First, darkness, the soft sound of low breathing, and the creeping sense that something vast occupies that darkness.

Then, two pin-points of light wink into existence, like distant stars. There is a long moment of consideration. A slow and deliberate weighing of worth. In the darkness, something shifts.

If she is inclined to talk, the Flameforger's sigil flares bright upon her brow. It illuminates scales the color of old, dried blood, its light crawling down the length of a serpentine neck. When it reaches the wings they flare brighter still, casting off the darkness she once cloaked herself in.

The scent of incense and smoke clouds the air as she approaches. She eschews all ornament, save for a single red claw-cover, the twin of one worn by another dragon.