But she probably will.
Mewra sat down. She began to groom her shoulder. Then, without hurry, she coughed up a hairball. cat god amphibia
Her name was Mewra, though the mud-skimmers called her She-Who-Purrs-Below . She arrived not in a clap of lightning, but in a dropped fish bone—a stray cat, half-drowned and utterly unimpressed, paddling onto a lily pad the size of a dinner plate. The bullfrog chieftain, Glot, found her there: a ginger tabby with one torn ear, licking brine from her paw as if the entire swamp owed her a better meal. But she probably will
And if you’re lucky, she might not cough on you. Then, without hurry, she coughed up a hairball
She walked to the edge of the Gullet, tail high, and stared into the dark. The black bubbles popped. A whisper slithered out: “Flesh? Fear? Or something… softer?”
That was the first miracle. The second came at moonrise.
In the rain-slicked swamps of the Amphiwood, where the mangroves grew teeth and the mist remembered, there was no god above the peat line. Until there was.