Eryndor dropped his bag where he was standing, afraid that it would be damaged in the upcoming fight.
With only his spiked mace in his right hand, he shot forward in the direction of the beast.
He could already see how it looked.
The beast loomed, its gnarled form stretching no taller than the trees that surrounded it. Its body was a mass of sinewy muscle and jagged, overlapping plates, like stone melded with flesh.
A thick, matted mane of orange fur clung to its hunched back, trailing down to a ridged spine that pulsed faintly.
Its limbs were long, and judging from how each step was sinking deep into the earth, leaving behind cracked impressions, the beast had considerable weight.
Its clawed hands flexed with unsettling ease, a bit dexterous for their size Eryndor reckoned.
The head was slightly elongated, its maw filled with layered rows of uneven, splintered fangs, while eyes—too many for comfort—blinked out of sync across its face, each a different shade of color.
