Pitiful fools, the lot of them.
Andraste lay upon mountain ledge, sun beating down and warming her scales. Her long tail ticked in idle boredom. A way to pass the time, to count the passing of the hours until the next fool would come pray to her for guidance. The next peon to worship her. Each a sacrifice waiting their turn.
They came soon enough. They always did. Her hunger was insatiable and she grew fat on their offerings. Some a mere pittance compared to others, but all sufficed for now. Until they asked for more.
She huffed at the sight of the man who called himself Kolgrim. The one who'd named her Andraste. He came, bowed low and dropped to one knee. Power, he asked for, power and the means to spread word of her name.
A toothy, scaly smirk danced along dangerous features. Wings spread wide, body hefted up to full height as she swept downward off her perch. There she bade him stand, her velvet voice curling and slithering like a snake. For their devotion, she would reward them. One spear-like claw raked across her own forelimb, blood pooling and seeping from the wound onto the rocks beneath her. A chalice for the wine they'd make of her essence.
'Drink,' she instructed, 'drink of the blood and find power.' So he did. And as Andraste resumed her lazy vigil upon her perch, more came and more drank of her blood. She purred in approval as her minions gained power. Purred at the mere notion that better offerings were on the horizon. Well she would be when her time for breeding arrived.