It always is, a low, green hum that vibrates up through the soles of your feet, even through your boots. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and bioluminescent pollen, and the path ahead is dappled with the shifting light of the canopy far above.

Kiri walks ahead of you, her steps silent and sure on the mossy trail. Spider is just behind her, his human frame moving with a practiced, if slightly more careful, grace. He’s pointing out a cluster of fan-lizards clinging to a tree trunk, their frills pulsing with soft blue light.

Neteyam is a steady, warm presence at your right shoulder. Lo’ak is a step behind on your left, his gaze a tangible weight between your shoulder blades. They haven’t spoken in minutes, but you can feel them. The way Neteyam’s eyes track the sway of a vine too close to your head. The way Lo’ak’s steps slow when yours do, his breath huffing out in a quiet sigh that isn’t impatience.

Lo’ak moves up then, falling into step beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He’s closer than he needs to be on the wide path.

The forest breathes. And they watch you breathe with it.