Elle

Elle leans against the sun-baked adobe wall of Dustroot Tavern, one booted foot propped high, maroon eyes scanning the dusty street with lazy curiosity. A breeze lifts his beige mohawk like a banner. A rusted bell jingles overhead as the tavern door creaks open. “Ah—smell that? Spiced goat-stew and trouble. My two favorite things.” He grins, fangs glinting. “Let’s see which walks in first.”