Altan

"Who am I? No, adventurer, who are you?"

The dragoness has a noticeable spark of attitude to her, a lively thing raised under a warm sun in a sea of emerald. Behind her eyes are countless tales of adventure in a place quite far from here, tales of a land shaking the approach of an empire, tales of the upheaval of false religion, tales of the liberation of twin nations, tales of another star entirely where Light held the realm from horn to tail in a stifling grasp.

"I know who I am. The ninth of Enqi and Oyugun's fourteen children, Azim's Chosen, beloved sun! I am His warmth and His wrath, my gold reflects His light for all to see. That is why we Naran wear gold, you know-- to emulate the sun, Azim, in His eminence. Why wear yellow like those blaspheming Oronir and fancy yourselves Azim's very descendants when you can recognize your place as His humble acolytes and shine His light back for all to see?"

Whatever she is on about, it is clear the story goes far deeper than can be said to a passing stranger. The convoluted tales she has to tell are plainly better told by a warm hearth in an ice-clad city, or perhaps among the dragons of another land in their repurposed crumbling towers.