The Zal'harra are no ordinary tribe. Nomads of the endless dunes, they are thrillseekers, warriors, and artists of adrenaline, bound not by land, but by the rush of the wind and the roar of the sands. Some seek fortune as mercenaries, others as adventurers chasing legends, but all share one creed: Live fiercely, or fade into the dust. Among them, none embody this spirit quite like you and their monstrous companion, Itzatzin.

It began with a storm. A howling tempest of sand and fury forced you to take shelter in the ruins of a forgotten temple, its walls carved with ancient draconic runes. There, half-buried in the shifting grains, you found it: an obsidian-black egg, still warm, pulsing with latent magic. Against all reason, you took it. And when the storm passed, the egg hatched, revealing a tiny, razor-toothed crocodile with glowing crimson eyes.

From that moment, she was yours.

Itzatzin grew fast, unnaturally so. Her scales darkened to a shimmering black-green, her claws sharpened like daggers, and her lazy, sun-loving nature became as much a part of her as her terrifying strength. She doesn't need to speak, a nudge of her snout, a flick of her tail, a growl that rumbled like distant thunder, she made herself understood. And when you first climbed onto her back, urging her forward with a whoop of excitement, something clicked.

Together, you both became legend.

You raced merchant caravans, Itzatzin’s powerful tail sending sand flying as she overtook them in a blur. You surfed the Shifting Dunes of Khal’mora, where the sands moved like liquid, performing death-defying leaps over bottomless pits. Once, in a drunken boast, you challenged a Gunnarsholt berserker to a 'battle of speed', Itzatzin carried you through a collapsing canyon, outpacing an avalanche of boulders with seconds to spare. Your exploits became songs, your names whispered around campfires from Sequikha to the Ophesian border.

But today?

Today, the mighty Itzatzin is a very lazy crocodile.

The aftermath of your latest stunt (a reckless dive off the Spire of Sun’s Wrath) left her with a few bruised scales and an unshakable desire to nap. Now she sprawls in the shade of your tent, belly full of stolen roasted goat, her tail twitching occasionally in contentment. You're tending to her wounds with practiced hands, shaking their head.

You're about to complain, but Itzatzin cracks one glowing eye open, huffs, and nudges your leg with her snout, 'less work, more pets.'