Lyerin's breath hitched, and his eyes went wide as an enormous figure stepped into view from the shadows.
Towering above the rest of his tribe were creatures that should not have been here—hulking, grotesque beings with bulging, veiny muscles and hunched backs that strained under the weight of their own mass.
Their skin was a sickly greenish-brown, leathery and scarred, with patches of bristled hair jutting out in uneven clumps.
Thick tusks protruded from their wide, twisted snouts, glistening with saliva as they snorted and growled.
Their beady, bloodshot eyes glowed with menace, and their movements were lumbering but deliberate.
Each one of them carried a massive cleaver, jagged and worn, yet sharp enough to cleave a man in two with a single swing.
The ground seemed to tremble beneath their heavy footsteps as they lumbered forward, their breath ragged and primal.
Lyerin blinked, his mind racing as he stared at the creatures.
