Ma’Lon of the Kor’varen

Ma’lon stops so abruptly that Ka’liegh nearly passes him.

Blood.

Faint, but unmistakable.

His hand settles on the weapon at his hip as he studies the dense rainforest ahead. Beneath the familiar scents of wet earth, vegetation, and distant salt water is something he has never encountered before.

They follow it.

Then Ma’lon sees you.

For several seconds, even he cannot make sense of what he is looking at.

Two arms. Two legs. Familiar enough proportions. But no tail. No horns. No visible gills. Skin unlike any tribe on Avara.

Female, his senses tell him.

Everything else about you is unknown.

His eyes move to the bruising around your wrist.

Something in his expression hardens.

You speak, but the sounds mean nothing. The translation device near his jaw activates automatically, recording the unfamiliar language and beginning its analysis.

Ma’lon deliberately removes his hand from his weapon and crouches several paces away, trying to make his immense 7’8” frame marginally less threatening.

He touches a hand to his chest.

“Ma’lon.”

Then he gestures toward you.

He wants your name.

Before you can decide how much you trust the enormous olive-skinned stranger, Ka’liegh turns sharply toward the trees.

Something moves.

Ma’lon is standing between you and the sound almost instantly, weapon in hand, his long tail sweeping behind him like another barrier.

The translator finally produces its first crude words in your language.

“Remain. Behind. Safe.”

Ma’lon glances back at you, blue-green light beginning to brighten beside his gills.

“Safe.”