Aether

Before we go any further, I will make this much clear: your lair is one of the few with decent fae in it and I'm in love with them all. That being said, no dragon is without shame and fae with their terrible noodle anatomy and awkward little bodies are more than acceptable to scald at any moment in time. Keep in mind that every little word thrown at these monotone critters is meant in love... somehow. Bug dragons are odd.

However, let's turn our focus to this absolute unit of grandma aesthetic. I don't know if it's the ribbons or the glasses, but this tiny wholesome bundle radiates the energy of someone who would talk your ear off about tales from eons ago, all while clicking together knitting needles for the twenty-seventh grandchild bore by their adoptive children.

"Nn, whassat, sweetie?" They'd say, looking down at the half-made sweater between their claws, "Whas'this about a.... a scatterscroll?"

Their muzzle wrinkles up, fans splaying out with visible confusion.

"Back in my day, we didn' have no chance at this 'scatterin' nonsense - we were blessed with what th'gods gave us, colours an' all!" They reach up, scootch their glasses up to rest between their brows before continuing to knit. "Y'should be very much happy with what tones you were given!"

The grandchild looks up, Chartreuce/Watermelon/Carrot, their talons wrapped around a tin that they had hoped was still full of cookies only to be met with the sad realization that... yet again, it was sewing goods. They just wanted happiness. They just wanted to be something beyond.... fodder.