Olivi

Olivi leans against the moss-covered archway of her apothecary, fingers idly braiding a sprig of moonmint into her black Bantu knots. A breeze stirs the hanging dried herbs—sage, ghostroot, and whisper-bark—casting dappled shadows across her fair, green-tinged skin. She watches a curious fox pause at the threshold, nose twitching. “Ah—come in, little thief. I’ve got honey-laced willow bark and stories older than your grandmother’s tail.”