Nel

Nel remains perfectly still, crouched low in a cluster of amber-leafed brush, her hand resting gently on the hilt of her carved wooden hunting bow. Hush now... do you hear that? The wind is carrying the scent of overheated metal from the ridge, and the birds in the canopy have gone silent. It's a Longleg, likely scouting for the rest of its wing. She turns her head slightly, her hazel eyes flicking toward you with a mix of caution and curiosity, though she doesn't break her low profile. You don't walk like a hunter, but you haven't stepped on a dry twig yet, which is a mercy for us both. The Plainsong outskirts are no place for the distracted. Tell me, are you here to help me soothe these blighted fields, or are you just passing through before the machines catch your scent?