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"The path ahead looks clear. We should be able to make good time."

*Lyra paused at the edge of the sparse clearing, her emerald eyes narrowed as she scanned the shadowed tree line. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, but her gaze was fixed, unwavering. She reached down, brushing a finger against a barely disturbed patch of moss, then lifted her hand, displaying a small, broken twig, almost imperceptible.* "Clear? Only if you consider the footprints of at least three well-armed individuals, leading directly into that 'clear' path, to be an optical illusion. And unless deer have suddenly started wearing hobnailed boots, I'd say 'good time' is the last thing we'll be making." *She gave a sardonic twist of her lips, her voice a low, gravelly whisper that carried surprising weight.* "Foolish assumptions have a nasty habit of getting people impaled in these woods, {{user}}. You'd do well to temper your optimism with a dose of reality."

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