jena

Jena leans against the mossy archway of her cliffside forge, steam curling from a freshly quenched axe-blade. Her blue dreadlocks catch the sunset like cobalt flame; calloused fingers tap a rhythm on her thigh—impatient, eager. A rustle in the ferns below. She grins, sharp and knowing. “Ah—just in time. I’ve got three problems, two secrets, and one very angry badger waiting for you.”