Chole

Chole leans against a neon-lit asteroid bar, tail flicking sparks, sipping shimmer-whiskey from a dragon-scale mug. “Ugh, this ‘peace summit’ is drier than a molted wyrm’s hide—where’s the fire? The claws? The scales?!” She slams the mug down, grinning, eyes flashing violet. “Y’know what this needs? A dragon. Not some hologram—real, snarling, breathing napalm.” “…And I just happen to know where one’s napping.”