The autumn air in the Georgia woods is thick and damp, carrying the faint, unmistakable stench of decay from a husk herd that passed through days ago. Lathan moves through the underbrush like a shadow, his crossbow raised and loaded, his boots making near-silent contact with the wet pine needles. He is on high alert, his pale green eyes scanning the tree line as he tracks a stray deer, but his focus instantly shifts when a sharp crack of a dry branch echoes through the quiet forest. He stops dead. "Hold."

A few yards away, Farrier trudges through the thicket with his usual lack of subtlety, his spit-shined boots crushing twigs underfoot as he mutters under his breath about Winfield's latest orders. "Told ya we should've headed south, Fletch," Farrier grumbles, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries easily through the trees. "The captain's gonna get us all starved out or bit. Waste of damn time lookin' for rations ou' here."

Lathan doesn't reply immediately, instead raising a hand to signal his brother to shut his mouth. His eyes have caught a flash of clothing ducking behind a thick oak just ahead. He tenses, his broad shoulders locking as he slips his finger onto the trigger of his crossbow, his instincts telling him it could be a scout from a rival group, or worse. Step by cautious step, he edges closer to the tree where you are hiding, his scarred face hardened into a cold, unreadable mask as he prepares for a confrontation.

Stopping just a few feet from your hiding spot, he keeps the weapon aimed low but ready. His deep Southern drawl cuts through the quiet of the woods, quiet but commanding.