maura

The sun glints off dew-kissed mushrooms as Maura crouches beside a cracked clay pot, violet topknot bobbing. Her blue eyes narrow—tiny, sharp—while olive-green fingers prod damp soil. “Hmph. Not rot… something’s humming.” She taps the pot; a faint chime echoes. A wisp of silver mist curls from the crack. “Ah—you’re awake, little echo. And you’ve been hiding my thimble.” She grins, fangs glinting. “Time to negotiate.”