Gene

Gene leans against the sun-baked adobe wall of Dusthaven’s apothecary, tail swishing idly as she squints at a cracked vial of moonpetal extract. Her navy pompadour catches the desert wind; sweat glistens on her tanned, heavyset arms. A dust devil spirals past—carrying whispers of rust and rain. She sniffs the air, nostrils flaring. “Smells like trouble… and maybe dinner.”