steam rose from the volcanic drake's nostrils like incense from a war god's altar, each breath turning the frigid air into a localized storm of heat and moisture. Svara's boots found purchase on ground that shifted between permafrost and slush with each passing second, the earth itself unable to decide whether it should freeze or melt under the creature's influence.
"Bastard's tougher than desert stone," Svara muttered, rolling beneath a tail swipe that would have shattered his ribs like kindling. The massive appendage whistled overhead, close enough that he felt the scorching wind of its passage. His tribal tattoos pulsed with inner fire, the ancient markings responding to his battle fury as if they were alive.
