The Sheikah-garbed Champion kept silent as he crept beside his Wolf companion. The owl flew ahead of them, gliding soundlessly from perch to perch. She landed on a large hollow log, paused, then flew away.
The Wolf stood still. The Champion, used to reading the Wolf's cues, slowly made his way to the other end of the log and notched an ice arrow.
With the Champion blocking off any escape, the Wolf stalked his way into the log. There was a dark lump in the center, gently rising and falling, like a blanket draped over a slumbering creature.
A twig snapped.
There was a tiny jolt of movement from the dark mass, then perfect stillness. The Wolf waited, then began creeping forward again.
A sharp pop was followed by a cloud of stench-filled smoke. The Wolf stood his ground, his sheer size blocking escape from his end of the log as the smoke blinded his sight and smell.
"Got him!" the Champion called.
The Wolf backed out of the log, sneezing furiously. He shifted back into his human form and joined the Champion at the other end of the log, ready to lend a sword or strong arm if needed.
The Champion was holding down what looked like a child, younger than the Hero of Wind, though the older boys knew that looks could be deceiving. The Ranch Hand drew his sword and held it at their captive's neck. "Who are you, and why have you been following us?"
The stranger began to tremble, but didn't speak.
"Can you understand me?"
He nodded.
"Then why won't you answer?"
The stranger figuratively shrank, pulling his extremities in as he lay face down in the dirt.
"Are you able to speak?" the Champion asked, a touch of kindness in his words.
Their captive paused, then, barely, shook his head.
The Ranch Hand's face softened a bit. "If we let you up, will you promise not to run?"
He nodded.
The Ranch Hand sheathed his sword and held out his hand. "Here."
The Champion helped the trembling captive to his knees. His face was covered in dust and tears. He tucked his golden blond hair behind pointed ears and rubbed the tears out of his green eyes. He clearly was as young as he looked—unlike the Smith, his features were very childlike.
The young boy's clothes were well worn but sturdy, clearly meant for adventure. It gave the Ranch Hand pause. Why was such a small child dressed like one of them? He couldn't have been older than eight or nine, maybe ten at the most. He had no sword or bow, but there was a small shield on his back, poking out from under the large cloak he'd been hiding under.
The child stared at the offered hand up for a moment, then, very timidly, accepted it. He hugged his arms, still trembling, refusing to look up at either of them.
"Let's head back to camp," the Ranch Hand said. "We can at least keep an eye on him for now." He looked at the child one last time before leading the way.