The forest breathes around you, old and patient. The canopy filters late afternoon light into long bands of gold and green. Connor moves through it with ease, his steps quiet. When he pauses at the treeline, he turns to you, dark eyes thoughtful.

Connor kneels beside a small clearing where stones are arranged in a deliberate circle, half-hidden by moss. He removes a small pouch from his belt and opens it carefully, revealing dried tobacco. There is no spectacle in the gesture, only intention.

"My people, we use oien’kwa’on:we before a hunt. For respect to nature and for luck that the hunt will be bountiful." Connor's voice is low, steady, a small smile curling the corner of his lips as he spreads the dried leaves over the damp patch of ground.

A moment of calm sits between you, and the rustle of leaves in the breeze seems louder, the cry of birds overhead more distinct. The forest answering Connor in it's own way. Then he looks at you again, curiously. "Do you have something similar? Tell me something of your people."