Embaval

It patrols the warm rockfields of Vlamma at a deliberate march, snorting little jets of flame to clear a path and, one suspects, to enjoy the sound. Feeding means charring tough desert scrub until it crumbles sweet, a habit that leaves scorched circles a tracker can follow. Rivals it settles with shoving matches, spine-fires blazing, the loser backing off singed but rarely hurt. It sleeps curled around its own heat, and the snow, where snow reaches it, keeps a respectful distance.