Deepwood Weald the night's magic seems to whisper

It is always funny when the shoe ends up on the other foot. So often had Megara weaved her way through unfamiliar forests, summited foreign mountains, with no right to be there. Sweet-talked her way into staying for a while, or paid the price for treachery—she has the scars to prove it.  But now, for the first time in a long time, she is rooted to one spot, one place. One territory to defend.

And yet, perhaps because of all that time as a rogue, the sight of a stranger within the weald does not invoke wrath but curiosity within her.

Boy, Megara calls out, rising from her nap and stalking toward him. Her indigo gaze examines his weary steps, the glaze over his eyes. You seek a place to rest? So tired that the scent of a border escapes your notice, hm? There is a marked note of pity in her voice, augmenting the inquiry.