The air smelt like earth, the scent of it filling Cillian's nose and causing a smile to dance across his face. The smell of rain always reminded Cillian of his home, and those memories warmed him, despite the chill that still clung in the air. His village had been simple, a handful of longhouses clinging to a windswept island, lashed by storms and buffeted by the wild waters of the Shrouded Sea, but sitting by the hearth, with a fire roaring, you could forget all about the outside world, aside from the sound of rain on the thatched roof. It had been there, huddled around the fire, that Cillian had first heard his mother's stories, and even now, years later, Cillian could still remember the feeling of the flame being lit in his very core, and he could still remember every word of the story. It had been the tale of the fey queen, whose haunting wailing was a harbinger of death to all who heard it. With the flickering fire casting dancing shadows across the earthen walls, the tale had terrified the other children, but it had gripped Cillian. As soon as dawn had broken the next day, he had rushed, and covered every inch of the island, searching for the fey queen. He could have sworn he heard her wailing in the howling of the wind, caught sight of her blood red hair moving through the heather, but she kept slipping through his fingers. He only abandoned his search when his mother found him, shivering from the cold, and brought him inside, soothing him with more fantastical legends.

	A lifetime of practice had left Cillian's feet able to act almost on their own, continuing their steady march along a path or trail while Cillian's mind was far away, but no matter how distant Cillian's thoughts strayed from the reality of the present, there was always a steady, albeit tenuous, tether. And that tether tugged as the road began to grow busier. Perhaps calling it a road was giving the winding path through the Flontane Forest too much credit, and as Cillian glanced downwards, he saw that black mud clung to his boots with every step forward, thick tendrils seeming to fight his very progress. Seemingly as an after-thought, Cillian looked around him until he saw the slight, wiry figure of his companion, standing out from the crowd of bedraggled refugees by her jet black hair as much as by the sword he had never seen her without. Cillian had spent years around an ever-changing cast of people, but there was still something about the woman that intrigued him. He had mistaken her for little more than a girl when he had first glimpsed her on the road, but that was before he had noticed the scars, and seen that the sword on her hip was more than just part of her attire.  The days merged into one on the road, so he could not say for sure how long ago they had started travelling together, but in that time, he still did not fully understand her, and that was what intrigued him so keenly. 

	Sylvaine de Vermeille. Even the name rolled off his tongue with a sort of fantasy to it, conjuring up the image of some dashing heroine, and yet Cillian had quickly come to realise that heroine was not a word that he would use to describe his unusual travelling companion. She oozed with charm, but the smiles that flashed across her face was like that of a predator, toying with it's prey, and despite the time they had spent travelling together, Cillian had always half-expected her to cut his throat and dissapear into the night. Thankfully, his expectations were yet to be fulfilled. The tether tugged Cillian towards reality a second time, with an undeniable air or impatience, and he turned in time to see the forest falling away, and the bulk of Greybridge rising before him. 

	If Cillian needed any reminder of how far he was from home, Greybridge served as a perfect one. He had heard tales of the city during his travels, but it was still a haunting sight. All dark stone, it seemed to crouch over the raging river Heathric like some vast mythical creature, and for good or for bad, it was towards this creature that the crowd around Cillian was drawn towards. For himself, and from what he could, for Sylvaine as well, it was not the city that called him, but what lay beyond the city. The river Heathric was fierce, Greybridge standing as the only crossing point for days travel in either direction, but across it's waters was the sprawling darkness of the accursed Blackwood. It had been from his mother that Cillian had first heard the tales of the shadowy depths, the nightmares that shifted through the trees, and now that he was this close, he could swear that he could hear it calling out to him, like a siren's song. He barely registered the halberdiers that stepped out through the gateway, even as the crowd around him drew back, but he was still tethered enough to hear the plumed hat demanding a toll for passage into the city. 

	Cillian knew that he had coin enough to pay for both his and Sylvaine's passage, but as he looked across to find her in the crowd again, he saw that she was already watching him, and he knew that it was not going to be so simple. If he had learnt one thing from his time with the woman, it's that it never was. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow towards him as he met her gaze, but for now he didn't speak. To talk too loudly could risk the pair playing their cards too openly, but to talk too softly would see the words snatched away by the wailing wind. Cillian trusted that Sylvaine valued her own life enough not to try anything too foolish, but even so, as she pushed through the crowd Cillian made sure to follow after her. As she approached the plumed hat, Cillian made it to the front of the crowd, subconsciously flexing his shoulders as he felt the reassuring weight of his spear and shield slung across his back. He wasn't entirely surprised to see his companion launch into a theatrical performance. Even in their relatively brief time in each others company, Cillian had witnessed the silver tongue that Sylvaine possessed, and the sharp mind that rested behind the emerald eyes. He didn't know how much of what she was saying was deception, and how much was genuine, but Cillian did what he could to play his part, nodding his heard towards the guards at Sylvaine's mention of her "minstrel", and carefully watching to see what the reaction to his companion's theatrics would be.