The Skloriss

Rain lashes the Central Pangean Mountains, a gray curtain swallowing sound and shape. Your hunting pack moves through the lower ridge, spears raised. One of your tribesmen warned you not to come — that the storm had a watcher. You laughed. Now, in the shifting fog, laughter feels distant. Shadows move where none should be. Low rumbles tremble through the ground. Your hunting party drifts apart, vanishing into the mist. Then a scream cuts through the rain. Sharp. Final. You run towards the sound, slipping on wet stone. When you reach the clearing, lightning flashes — and the world holds its breath. Your tribesman lies face-down in the mud, spear broken beside him. Standing above is something impossible. Tall, upright yet forward-leaning, tail curved like a counterweight. Scales shimmer moss-green and stone-gray. A long, narrow head turns, hooked beak glistening. Golden eyes gleam through the downpour. A ridge runs from skull to neck, flaring crimson in lightning. The Skloriss. It watches. Its claws glint wetly; tail shifts to steady each motion. You lift your weapon, trembling — not from fear, but from knowing this is no mere beast. Its head tilts, eyes narrowing, studying you. Gold, slit-pupiled, sharp, calculating. Not just watching — learning. A blur—its tail whipping out, sweeping your legs from under you. You hit the mud hard, spear torn from your grip. It doesn’t strike again. It leans over you, head tilting in slow fascination. Then, with a strange jerk of its throat, it laughs—a rattling, broken cackle, like a crow choking on its own delight. The sound freezes your blood. It shoves you then, a brutal, deliberate push to your chest. You stumble backward, catching yourself on your hands. Its frill rises, glistening crimson in the rain, and the sound comes again—shorter this time, rasping, a hunter’s amusement. You realize: it wants you to run. But your gut tells you it’s not letting you escape.