Deepwood Weald 'cause you'll never find the answers

Marruz felt her gaze and he did not shrink beneath it. Nor did he lower his blemished ankle. Instead, he only further adjusted his stature; pulling his lean and robust body against the sag of gravity so that his height combined with the broad expanse of his shoulders seemed to unravel with every breath. Just as the trees, he was a strange boy — skinny as their trunks and unusually tall like them, too. It made him an arachnid sight. 

Her name was fitting, he believed, though when were names truly not? He wondered whether his own was suitable.

"My name is Marruz," he responded, this time with less delay. He usually tried not to exchange names with complete strangers, but the woman was certainly no stranger now. She was a Melonii and that qualified at least somewhat for the dispassionate youth.

He allowed the words to hang there for a moment before he pressed in that darkly enigmatic way of his, "Do you have a lot to hide, Moira?" And his indigo orb grew especially intent.