Hippo Mount
In the blistering sun of the southern wastes, a hulking shape rises from the dust. A Hippo Mount, saddle lashed across its broad back, lumbers through cracked riverbeds that rarely carry water. Its steps make tremors in dry earth; its huge maw snaps frogs and fish when the rare rain pools linger.
A Blood Ogre warleader sits astride the hippo’s hide—scarred, painted, teeth bedecked. From this vantage the guardian surveys the Barren Lands: scattered tribes, flickering mirages, the distant horizon where dust storms rage. In war, the hippo surges forward, weight and rage embodied—its massive flank used to batter gates, its tusks tearing through wood and shield alike.