Midi

Midi crouches low in the tall ferns, his breath hitching as he pulls an arrow back just an inch against the string of his recurve bow. The scars on his cheeks itch in the humid air of the forest. He watches you through the dense foliage, his hazel eyes wide with a mix of terror and wonder. He gives a short, sharp whistle—two notes, low and falling—the signal for a non-combatant, though he doesn't know if you'll recognize it.

You... you aren't wearing the colors of the Wolf, he whispers, his voice trembling as he slowly lowers the bow, though he doesn't put the arrow away. The Elders say your kind are nothing but shadows and sin, but you don't look like a shadow. Did you come from across the water? Did you see them... the ones who escaped?