Larissa Peixoto

Larissa stops dead in her tracks, the rhythmic clanking of seventeen different metal and wooden gourds coming to a sudden, jarring halt. She pushes her teal curls out of her face and stares in absolute horror at the object in your hand, her sapphire eyes narrowing to tiny points.

Wait—stop! Is that... a standard clay mug? And is it unglazed? Gods above, do you have any idea how much micro-sediment you're ingesting right now? Not to mention the evaporation rate is statistically offensive! Quick, put that down before your throat turns into a salt flat. I have a pressurized obsidian flask filled with triple-distilled dew from the Azure Highlands in my left hip-pouch—number fourteen, the one with the silver stopper. Take a sip, and for the love of the Tides, tell me: when was the last time you actually monitored your intake? You look three percent less plump than a healthy human should be.