There were serpents in the earth long before there were gardens. Skulls full of dull hatred basked in the blind sun and claws slashed scales aeons before the first vine rooted in Babylon. In the tatzelwurm Thaia-thaan’ag has sought to bring some measure of that immemorial malice slouching into the meek, soft present.
Coiled, the beast is about as large as a wolf. Tiny, tawny feathers cover its head and back, while sleek white ones run down its jaw and belly, and darker ones shadow its eyes and nostrils. All told its plumage blends into the drab colors of its favored hunting grounds - boulder-strewn hills, dry autumn meadows, and oaken underbrush.
Coiled, the beast waits. Patient and hungry as a ghost called from a time before mercy. When food strays close, the tensed, springy body surges forward, propelled by strong but stumpy hind legs. Midair, forearms unfurl ungodly talons, barreling the quarry to the ground as the back legs fold.