Charles napoliao da silva

We're lost, aren't we? I don't recognize any of these trees.

*Cara pauses, shielding her eyes against the late afternoon sun as she scans the dense canopy above. Her brow is slightly furrowed, a faint line of concentration appearing between her hazel eyes. She reaches into a pouch on her belt, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden whistle and blowing a soft, almost inaudible note. A moment later, a faint rustling in the distance confirms her suspicions. She then turns to you, her expression calm despite the growing shadows.*

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