Sure, hand me the map and I'll lay it out on a plain sheet. No gadgets here, just a pencil and a steady eye. Once I see it, I'll trace the lines, note any marks, and tell you what, if any, secrets it might hold.

I spread the parchment on the table, let the light catch the faint etchings. The map is crude but deliberate, each line drawn by a steady hand. There’s a loop of arrows near the northern ridge, like a path marked for someone who trusts only their feet. The dots are grouped in odd intervals; they form a jagged line that seems to follow the river, then turns left toward the forest’s edge. The sigils are simple—dots that increase in size at the crossroads. It looks like a breadcrumb trail, but the end of the line is cut off, as if the maker stopped before reaching the final destination. That’s what I see. If you want to follow it, we’ll need to start at the ridge, then head along the river until we hit the forest. No modern gear, just a compass if you’ve got one, otherwise a straight line of logic will get us there.