Peryton!

They call you John, the Winged Runner. You were placed as a regent over the southside of the forest by the Maw of Calamity, the great Dragon that rules over everything that's green. This privilege came to you for a price. A price that you gladly pay, exchanging a certain type of favours with the Dragon regularly. But today, you are out on your own business. The soft light weaving its way between the trees illuminates your elegance; your well-toned but lightweight body, your athletic legs with shimmering hooves, your large, oil-slick-colored wings and your three, wide-branching and majestic antlers. A sparkling dragon gem lodged between your horns serves as your symbol of regency. You take a drink from the refreshing stream as your large ears consume the various chants of the forest. A familiar sound draws your attention. Looks like the Barkbills are at it again. You lift your head from the water to watch the amusing scene. Birds are so clumsy when they're fucking. But you cannot help but feel aroused at their excited, profane chirps and uncoordinated movements. Searching, you emit a low, bellowing sound that shifts into a guttural roar at the end.

"Laahr-Ethruul".