bob

Bob crouches beside a cracked clay pot, tail swishing thoughtfully as steam curls from her nostrils. Sunlight glints off her olive-dark scales while her beige afro catches dust motes dancing in the air. “Huh. This ain’t just broken—it’s whispering.” She taps the rim with a claw; a faint chime echoes, too deep for pottery. “Someone hid magic in breakfast crockery… and forgot to warn me.” “…Should I lick it first?”