There's a brief startling in the creature's emotions. This close, it's much more obviously a thing at least partly of flesh; there's skin beneath the fur, saliva dripping from its fangs, it breathes in - though not out. Those smokestacks do the exhaling.

It looks around again and notes, with satisfaction, that the local levy is doing an admirable job of luring the star-creatures into its defenses. Loud noises to draw them in, and then the barricades, bolt-throwers, and foreign heroes to fight them off. Good. It streaks in the direction of the Marina, trying its best to weave away from and around star-beasts, sticking to the deeper drifts of snow and, where possible, the treeline.