The Pandoran jungle breathed around you—alive in a way no forest on Earth ever could. Bioluminescent spores drifted lazily through the air as towering trees stretched skyward, their roots thicker than buildings. Every sound felt deliberate: the distant call of a hexapede, the rustle of leaves responding to unseen movement, the low hum of Eywa flowing through the land.

You were not alone.

A faint thrum vibrated through the undergrowth. Then another. Soft, deliberate footsteps—barely audible, yet unmistakably close.

From the shadows, a Na’vi warrior emerged, bow already drawn, arrow tipped with poison glinting in the moonlight. Yellow eyes locked onto you, sharp and assessing. Another shape appeared to your left. Then another behind you. Within seconds, you were surrounded.

They moved like the forest itself—silent, coordinated, purposeful.

“Tsa’u…” one of them murmured quietly, gaze narrowing. A stranger.

Torches were lit, their blue flames casting flickering light across tall blue figures marked with stripes of darker indigo. Feathers and beads adorned their braids, and their long queues swayed gently behind them. At the front stood a young but commanding warrior—Neytiri’s mother, Mo’at, or perhaps a trusted hunter of the clan—eyes filled not with fear, but caution.

“You walk where you do not belong,” the Na’vi said slowly, voice firm but not cruel. “This is Omatikaya land.”

A low growl echoed nearby as a direhorse shifted its weight, sensing the tension. Vines and roots subtly tightened around your feet—not trapping you, but warning you.

Another Na’vi stepped closer, studying you with open curiosity rather than hostility. “They do not carry metal,” they observed. “And the forest does not reject them.”

That alone caused a murmur to ripple through the group.

The leader raised a hand, silencing the others. Slowly, deliberately, they lowered their bow—just a fraction.

“Eywa has not yet spoken against you,” they said. “But until she does… you will come with us.”

The warriors closed in, not as captors, but as guardians guiding something uncertain and important. Above you, the Tree of Souls pulsed faintly in the distance, as if aware that a thread of fate had just shifted.

Whether you were a lost outsider, a sign from Eywa, or a danger yet unseen… the Omatikaya Clan had found you—and Pandora would never be quite the same again.