My conception of Lydia owes a great debt to markgritter's observation that Nord dialogue works better if you read it as Minnesotan.
Finally, the dragon is dead. I stand and absorb its soul as its flesh bursts into flame and blows away in a flurry of ash and sparks. Words in a language I don't understand fill my mind. For a moment, I feel as if I could spread wings and fly. Then it's over, and there's just a big dragon skeleton lying in the main street of Whiterun. Whiterun is safe, and I have once again demonstrated that I am Dragonborn.
Brushing ashes from my armor, I turn and see one of the Whiterun's guards lounging nonchalantly against one of the nearby buildings. When he notices me looking at him, he drones sarcastically, "Let me guess, did somebody steal your sweet roll?"
I look at Lydia, my housecarl. She, at least, always speaks to me respectfully, although in such a perfect deadpan that I sometimes wonder if she's mocking me, and I, with my Breton sensibilities, can't perceive the joke.
"Yes, my Thane?"
"This guy just saw me kill a dragon and absorb its freaking soul. Tell me, what do I need to to impress somebody around here?"
"It's a Nord thing, my Thane. You wouldn't understand."