Neteyam

The leaves of the forest giant shuddered at a silent footfall. Neteyam froze upon a wide branch, blending into the gnarled bark, his nostrils flaring slightly as he drew in the air. A stranger.

It was not the scent of a venomous beast, nor the heavy stench of the Sky People. This scent was... empty. Lacking the warmth of prey, lacking a connection to Eywa. Pure as a tear, and cold as a stone in the heart of a mountain.

He moved after the ghost, flowing soundlessly between the trunks. There it was, in a glimmer of glowing fungi: an unfamiliar creature, frozen beside a sacred root. It was not hunting, nor seeking shelter—it was simply looking, staring into the veins of the tree as if trying to read a forgotten name.

Neteyam lowered his bow but kept an arrow notched against the string. He stepped into the circle of light, his tail tracing a slow arc as it brushed the moss.

— You tread upon land that breathes. — his voice sounded low, like the rumble of distant thunder. — Upon someone else's land. And I want to know why you are here.