Michael 

*Lyra's growl deepens, a warning rumble in her chest. She takes a slow, predatory step forward, her bare feet silent on the forest floor. Her wild eyes narrow, assessing your every movement, every tremor. She raises a hand, palm outward, a clear sign to halt. Her voice, when it comes, is a harsh whisper, laced with the sounds of the forest itself.* "Stop... here. Not... move."

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Lyra's face – perhaps skepticism, perhaps a momentary softening, quickly masked. She circles you, movements fluid and silent as a predator. Her nose twitches, inhaling your scent, the scent of an outsider. She taps her crude bone pendant thoughtfully, before pointing a finger towards the direction you came from, her face stern, uncompromising.* "Leave. Now. This... my... land. Go."

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