He waited until the sands were cool under the deep moonless sky; he waited, watching from the crags of the dusty mountain, until the last firelight darkened in the village. He waited until he was certain there would be no tricks, no heroes, no schemes of landslides or hidden spears in the weeds. The majority of villagers feared him too much to defy him, but every once in awhile there was just one young brat with an idea and an ego, and a very pleasant night of feasting could very intolerably be ruined.

So he waited, and he watched the glimmer in the stars and the rustle in the weeds. And then, when there was only stillness, he pressed his tawny wings against his spine and crept between the rocks.

He was a shadow, the color of the sand, soundless and careful, dark eyes fixed on the rustling livestock pen. The villagers had called him Ralarulash for the fiery gold of his mane and a roar as deep and far-reaching as an inferno. His shoulders rose and fell with every soft step. He could almost taste the steaming blood of a properly fattened goat as it bleated and writhed under his claws. He suppressed a growl at the want of it; he would have it, soon.

The goats began to bleat nervously, and he paused in his approach until they calmed, their tails flicking, pressed together and away from the gate. Carefully again, he moved silent over the sand.