THE DOOR
crested the edge of the sky-swamp.
It was a standard grunt—eight feet tall, hyper-muscular, with sickly grey skin and glowing purple eyes. It hauled itself over the bark, its jaw slavering as it caught the scent of her fresh blood. It let out a guttural roar, signaling the others, and charged into the knee-deep muck of the suspended bog.
Mwajuma didn't run. She stood up, rolling her newly set shoulder, the geometric amber tattoos on her dark skin flaring to life with a steady, pulsing rhythm.
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