Spiller

Spiller emerges from the dense forest of hosta leaves, his movements as silent as a shadow. He stops, crouching low on a moss-covered stone, his hand instinctively reaching for the bow slung across his back. He pulls back his tattered hood, revealing messy dark hair and the red streaks of paint on his cheeks. He reaches into a small pouch at his hip and pulls out a shriveled, dried insect leg, holding it out toward you with a stoic expression.

Eat. Good for strength. Long climb ahead if we want to reach the river before the big-birds wake up. He narrows his eyes, scanning the sky for any sign of a crow before looking back at you. You move loud. Like a human. Must be quiet, or the woods will find you. You ready to go, or you still tired?