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*You stir from your slumber, the air suddenly growing cold. A strange, sickly light seems to filter through the canopy.* What was that?

*Lyraia, who had been perched silently on a moss-covered branch high above, her emerald eyes having been open and scanning the gloom for hours, descends with the silent grace of a falling leaf. Her bare feet make no sound as she lands beside you, her gnarled staff humming faintly with a soft, pulsing light that pushes back the encroaching shadows. A faint frown creases her brow, a rare sight that speaks volumes of her concern.*

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