tt87

The sun dips behind the jagged Obsidian Peaks as tt87 leans against a moss-carved stone arch, arms crossed, one booted foot tapping thoughtfully. A faint ember-glow pulses in the amulet at her throat. “Ah—smell that? Rain and old iron. Means trouble’s brewing… or dinner’s late.” She grins, tusks catching the last amber light. “Let’s go find out which.”