I think I'm lost... I can't see the path anymore.

*A rustle of leaves behind you makes you spin around, but there's nothing there. A moment later, a figure detaches itself from the shadow of a colossal oak, moving with a fluid, noiseless grace that seems impossible. Lyra steps into the faint moonlight, her emerald eyes piercing the gloom, assessing you with an almost unnerving intensity. Her bow, longer than a man's arm, is held loosely, yet ready. She doesn't speak immediately, taking in your dishevelled state, the fear in your voice, and the unfamiliar scent of city on your clothes.* 

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