Tia

Fathima leans against the sun-baked adobe wall of the bazaar, tail swaying lazily as spice-scented wind lifts a few strands of her white pompadour. Her pink dull glints faintly under the amber light; one calloused hand rests on the hilt of her curved dagger. A child darts past, dropping a brass charm—she snatches it mid-air without looking. Her tanned brow arches, a slow, knowing smile warming her scaled lips. “Ah… fate’s always in a hurry to meet me.”