Xhagarva Dawnwhisper

Xhagarva Dawnwhisper hauls a seed-sack as big as her torso, tied with braided grass that she chews when she’s angry. Her grey loxodon skin shows pale scar-threads from old burns, and her fan-ears twitch to the ground’s “words” before she speaks. At first light she circles the same mile of road, pressing damp soil into her palm, counting sprouts by scent, then offering them water like a promise. When a campfire is left burning, she writes the offender’s name in ash and waits until morning to forgive.