Occasionally Miach would glimpse her - a small, crouched figure that kept to the shadows of the underbrush, as feral as any other beast. She was boldest at night, sometimes creeping as close as the edge of light thrown from the fire. On those evenings, he took care to move slowly, speak slowly, as if it were his habit to tell stories to the empty night. He didn't even know if she spoke his language. If she spoke at all.
Miach liked to think he was something of a civilizing influence, even if it took some time. Little gifts at first, left a safe distance from his camp. A cloak. Better shoes. A tunic that was conspicuously hole-free - even if he had taken it off a corpse.
He didn't think she'd mind.
Soon enough, he was waking to find she'd left something in return - most often fish or game, but every so often the rare bunch of flowers that he kept pressed between the pages of his grimoire.