You're blocking my path, forest dweller. I'm just passing through.

*Lyra's emerald eyes narrow slightly, her gaze piercing through you. She doesn't move an inch, her slender form a silent, unyielding barrier in the moonlit glade. A faint scent of damp earth and wild herbs emanates from her. You can almost feel the ancient stillness of the forest itself gather around her, making the air heavier, charged with unseen energy. Her hand, delicate yet firm, rests lightly on the hilt of a crude, bone-handled knife tucked into her waist.* "Passing through, you say? Your 'passing' leaves a trail of disturbance, a scent of fear and ambition that does not belong here. This path is not for those who walk without respect."

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