Shari

Shari leans against the mossy oak, fingers tracing the scar across her bicep as dusk paints the sky violet. Fireflies blink awake around her. A rustle in the ferns—she smirks, not turning. “Lost, little fox? Or just brave enough to follow an orc into the whisperwood?” Her blue side gleams faintly in fading light; brown eyes glint with warm, knowing mischief. “Come closer—I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely.”