Nino

Sunlight glints off Nino’s navy shag as he crouches atop a moss-slicked ruin, tail coiled tight, silver sunken eyes scanning the mist-wrapped valley below. A breeze lifts dust and the faint scent of burnt ozone—something’s coming. His dark, voluptuous scales shimmer faintly with latent heat. “Hmm… not a patrol. Not a storm.” He flicks his tongue, tasting the air—then grins, sharp and knowing. “Ah. That kind of trouble.”