Iselen's Rider turns his head calmly; the outlines of the young face blur and stretch out before they lazily catch up with the movement. Iselen and her Rider do not know these woods either, though that hardly matters (they also don't make a habit of knowing people, which might matter more). He wears a sword at his waist, though, and Iselen is more than capable of taking care of herself. There's a pause of someone trying to recall some dusty, useless memory before the Child smiles slightly, amused (the Hunt does not tend to bother with social niceties).

"Hello."

His voice sounds like that of the distant breeze threading through the forest. It is not dangerous, but it is by no means serene.

This is new, the Rider knows. Few have approached a member of the Hunt willingly, fewer have survived, and none have shown the lack of respect or fear as this young mortal has.