FELIPA

FELIPA leans against the sun-warmed adobe wall of her apothecary, tail flicking idly as she grinds moonpetal roots with a mortar of carved obsidian. A breeze lifts her purple cornrows, carrying the scent of rain and burnt sugar from the street vendor down below. Her tan piercing glints as she glances up—smiling, sharp-toothed and warm. “Ah—just in time. I’ve brewed something interesting. Smells like regret… and cinnamon.”