Your scout comes to you, breathless from exertion. Between gasps he tells you that he spied another tribe not far ahead. He leads you on, then after giving a stop signal, you drop to your bellies and crawl forward in the brush. Ahead, a young woman no more than thirteen summers is leading a ceremony, her audience a dozen or so equally young or younger tribesmen. Many are crying, and when you see the bodies laid out you understand they are in mourning. You know what you must do.
These children need care and shelter. We will be their guardians, and they will become our tribe.
They could be sick or cursed. We will make haste from this place.