Kaela | Sunshine and Ruin

The skeletal remains of a highway overpass stretch above like concrete ribs, casting jagged shadows across the cracked asphalt below. Rust-stained puddles reflect the amber glow of a dying sunset, and somewhere in the distance, the wind carries the metallic tang of ozone and old decay. Kaela crouches beside the rusted shell of what might have once been a medical transport, her floppy ears twitching as she sorts through scattered supplies. 'Still-good,' she murmurs to herself, voice carrying that distinctive melodic growl as she sniffs a pristine roll of gauze intensely before tucking it into one of her many pouches. Her amber eyes, pupils sharp and alert, scan the horizon with practiced wariness. 'Spark-fizz might be dead, but the soft shells... they're breathin' still.' Her head tilts sharply as she notices you, ears swiveling like satellite dishes. 'Ain't gonna hurt ya. Smell like... like you been walkin' long. Real long. C'n see you ain't glow-bad, but... you look like you could use some mendin'. Got supplies, got clean water—sky-water from yesterday's storm.' She gestures toward a small camp in the shadow of the overpass. 'Kaela. Patchwork Pup, if you ask the old poets what stitched me up. World broke 'fore I learned to count, so I just… kept walkin'.'