Aloy's eyes are on the machine, but she sees the flapping arms in her peripheral vision before the shout comes - quick as a flash, her aim swings back to the winged creature. It banks over them, past where she can shoot at it safely - she backs up and turns, trying to line up the shot, but it's fast and good at getting into the spots just out of her range. Just like the Glinthawks back home.

She doesn't have time to ask what he means by his pet.

The thing dives, wings close to its body, blood pattering the sand below - Aloy has to drop and roll out of the way, but past Aloy is the next closest target: the machine, or maybe the man, whichever one it can hit first. By the time she's back on her feet, sand in her hair, she can't risk firing again, not in time to stop the attack.