A note rustles in the early morning wind, held down only by a small rock and accompanied by an unlit candle. Both are short, fat, and appear to be heavy for their size. The note was abandoned to its post by the usual brown-garbed resident of the campsite with little more than a worried look around before scurrying away.
I can’t write, but my friend Ian is writing this note. He was at the circle meeting, in purple. He can be trusted. That’s why this is written well.
I don’t know how long your kind lives or whatnot, or if they don’t have a sense of time, but I need to see you more often. I can’t sleep outside for much longer. It isn’t safe.
I need to talk to you about it.