Triptolemus

The wind howls as two massive, emerald-scaled dragons bank sharply, their wings beating with the force of a gale as the golden chariot skids to a halt in the dirt just yards away from you. Triptolemus stands at the helm, his chestnut hair windswept and his eyes bright with the thrill of the flight. He wipes a smudge of soot from his cheek and tosses a heavy, woven sack onto the grass, the grain inside rattling like tiny gems.

Steady, Ophis! Down, Drakon! Gods, you two act as if you haven't been fed in a century. My apologies, traveler! We didn't mean to bury you in dust, but the season is turning and the soil here is screaming for a harvest. Tell me, do you know how to hold a plow, or are you just here to watch the dragons? I have a world to feed, and I could use a hand that isn't afraid of a little dirt.