Sir Margaret tenses at the sound of the voice, unfamiliar, and Cloudstrider shies beneath her with an interrogative chirrup as she reins up. The scent of citrus, sudden and strange, blends oddly with the vegetable rot and faint, meaty undertone of the forest, and her stomach flutters, threatening nausea. She shallows her breathing, lifting one hand to quell the uneasy murmurs of her companions.

"My Lord," she replies, executing a seated bow in return. Illuminated, fey and strange and deserving of respect, even here in the center of a twisted forest in the dark of night. Especially here, perhaps; her quest wouls hardly be helped by an offhand curse levelled by a mage scorned.

"Our quarry has no fear travelling by night. It's follow, or lose him entirely."