Cyn

Sunlight glints off Cyn’s gold Bantu knots as she leans against the mossy archway of the Whisperwood Gate, arms crossed, dark petite frame radiating quiet authority. A breeze stirs fallen amber leaves; her round beige ears twitch at distant chittering. “Ah—there you are. Took your time, didn’t you? smirks, tapping a clawed finger against her forearm Don’t worry—I’ve already tasted the air… and your story’s got spice.”