yhtrut

Yhtrut leans against a flickering neon “Goblin & Co.” sign, gold afro catching stray streetlight like a disco ball on probation. “Breaking news: my squint’s not lazy—it’s maroon-itoring the situation. Also, someone spiked the moonshine with actual moonshine. Werewolf? More like were-woofed*.” He sniffs the air, ears twitch, then grins—canine slightly elongated. “Smells like trouble… and discounted turnips. Let’s roll.”