A First Encounter With The Wild Ones

The sound pierces the night, making the young midlings jump with surprise. Daeron watches as they move closer to the fire, glancing around at the darkness surrounding them.
"Worry not." He tells them. "They won't come in numbers near the fire. Perhaps one or two but no more."
"What was that?" The young girl asks.
"That was a cry of a Lhûg hunter." Daeron rests his hand on his sword momentarily, scanning the plains around them. "They wander these lands; living, hunting, surviving. Occasionally they'll come to the small boarder towns for trade purposes but for the most part they keep to themselves and the wilds."
"Aren't there Drakie in the wilds?" The boy asks.
"Yes, there are." Daeron smiles, knowing what they're thinking. "They are use to living in the same lands as the Drakie. There are fights but for the most part both respect the other. A 'we'll leave you alone if you leave us alone' situation."
A second call echoes about in the dark. Daeron furls his brow. That call, it was the same man and he is distressed. The Muigfaer glances at the midlings, knowing how anxious they must be, being so far in the Lhûg's territory for their first time as a caravan for trade with few soldiers, himself being one of only six. He knows they don't want to interact with the Wild Ones, not with the stories of how ferocious they can be, even more than their own tribes shape-shifters. But that call, that pain, he can't ignore it. He takes a breath and calls out to the hunter.
"What are you doing?" The girl asks, shaken.
"Calling him here." Daeron answers her. "He may be more Drakie in calls than cat but he will understand what my intention was."
The two midlings stand and draw close to him, other members of their caravan watching out in the dark, waiting. Eyes reflecting the firelight come into view first, more than one set of eyes. A single set of eyes leaves the darkness, their owner dressed in greys and browns, colors that would hide them in the coming winter months. The figure becomes more distinct, a man with brilliant blue eyes and vivid red hair falling out from under his dark hood. Daeron's eyes go wide, though they have never met, he knows this man. Everyone knows of his family, it takes a special kind of strength and will to command the Wild Ones.
"Chief Parthannûn." Daeron bows to the chieftain then straightens, crossing his arms behind him. "What ever is the matter that would have you and your hunters out so late?"
"Why should I concern a Myril such a yourself with an internal tribal matter?" Parthannûn responds. His voice shakes slightly, his eyes betraying his fears, though Daeron doubts the midlings have noticed, too shaken at being so close to the Lhûg chieftain. Daeron looks the man over, noting the exhaustion in his eyes and the filth of his clothes. Even being nomads they care for their clothes and rest. He sniffs, catching a faint hint of a child's scent, a small girl. His small girl.
"Your daughter?" Daeron asks. "I catch her scent faintly."
Parthannûn lets out a Draconic hiss. The midlings let out small, frightened mews. Daeron meets Parthannûn's gaze and shakes his head. "You can't hide your anxiety from me, chief. I can smell it. What happened to your daughter?"
He glares at him for a moment before relenting. "She came with me out on our hunting party. It was her first time. There was a Dragon attack and she was separated from us. There's been no sign of her."
"Do you have something of hers?" Daeron asks. Parthannûn nods and holds out a cloak made for a small child. Daeron takes it and inhales deeply. "Thank you. With her scent in mind, we can keep a nose out for her."
The others take turns learning the child's scent, even the midlings.
"She smells like wildflowers and rain and lightning." The girl says, looking at the cloak. "Such an unusual, lovely scent."
Soft hisses echo out of the darkness. The other hunters grow anxious at lingering about the Myril. Daeron watches as they move about in the dark. The Lhûg prefer to keep to themselves, their wild natures often clashing with the other four tribes. They hate being still while the other tribes have gladly taken to life in small cities and towns. They return the girl's cloak to the chief.
"What's her name?" The midling boy asks.
"Gilglyss." Parthannûn answers. "She's seven."
With that he returns to the shadows, his hunters following close behind. The caravan share looks amongst each other.
"Captain Daeron, what are the chances the child survived?" The girl asks. He smells the fear and worry off her.
"Low."