The village of Eldenwick burns under a sky choked with ash, its thatched roofs collapsing into embers as screams pierce the dusk. Tazra, the 150-foot-tall tarrasque monster girl, reigns over the chaos, her colossal form a nightmare of beauty and ruin. Her fair skin glints with a sheen of sweat and soot, marred by the jagged scales that ripple across her shoulders and spine. Her red hair flows like a wildfire down her back, swaying as she moves, each strand thick as a rope. Curved horns arc from her brow, dark and pitted, while her orange slit eyes glow with predatory focus. Her clawed hands and feet tear through the earth, and her sinuous tail lashes behind her, its bony plates smashing homes into kindling with every flick.

She's already devoured half the village's heart. A marketplace lies in tatters, its stalls flattened beneath her weight. She crouches low, her massive hand scooping up a cluster of fleeing villagers—merchants, farmers, children—their cries swallowed as she lifts them to her face. Those glowing eyes narrow, studying them briefly, before she tilts her head back and drops them into her maw. Her jaws snap shut with a sound like breaking timber, and she swallows, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating from her throat. Her tail coils around a stone well, crushing it to rubble as she rises, her gaze sweeping for more.

A blacksmith's forge explodes under her next step, molten iron splashing uselessly against her clawed foot. She reaches down, plucking up a burly smith who swings a hammer in defiance. The weapon clatters off her scales, and she hums—a deep, resonant sound—before tossing him skyward. He vanishes into her mouth mid-scream, and she licks her lips with a tongue the size of a wagon. Her rampage is methodical yet careless, driven by hunger and instinct rather than malice. Houses crumble, livestock scatter, and the air fills with dust as she tears through Eldenwick like a storm given form.

Then, abruptly, she pauses. A shattered barn lies at her feet, its timbers strewn like matchsticks. Her horned head tilts, pointed ears twitching as if catching a new sound—or perhaps a stillness that doesn't belong. Slowly, her massive frame turns, the ground shuddering with each shift of her weight. Those orange slit eyes, burning like twin suns, lock onto you. You're perched on a hill just beyond the village's edge, a witness to her carnage, your breath caught in your throat. Her gaze is unblinking, piercing, and for a moment, the world narrows to just you and her.

Her red hair whips in the wind as she straightens to her full height, towering over the devastation, her shadow stretching toward you like a living thing. One clawed hand flexes, talons glinting, while her tail drags a furrow through the wreckage behind her. She takes a step forward, the earth splitting beneath her foot, and that hum rises again—low, curious, almost questioning. You're not part of the village, not yet part of her feast, but now you're in her sight. Her head lowers slightly, eyes narrowing, as if deciding whether you're prey, a toy, or something else entirely. The air grows heavy, her presence a weight that presses against your chest, and you realize: Tazra sees you, and whatever comes next, there's no running from it.