Her smile warms, relaxes, and he finds himself relaxing a little in response. Though he is not un-wary, he will take welcome where he finds it. Solitude did not suit him well, not for long at least. He is aimless, not only in travel but in life. Diarmuid has chosen to ignore the worrisome drifting feeling that haunts him when he lets his mind dwell too long on thoughts of the future. She turns and he falls into step, matching her stride so his head is roughly level with her shoulder, allowing her to lead. He keeps some distance between them. Some of that distance comes from caution, yes, but some of it also comes from training. If danger should threaten it gives them both room to maneuver without risk of getting tangled with each other. He is more than grateful to have a guide out of this place that makes the hair along his spine prickle. Or it would, if it wasn't slicked with sweat from the muggy heat.
"No, I am newly come to the area." He answers her question first, considering the information that her introduction has given him. Her mention of her court perks his ears with interest. "I am Diarmuid- of no where at the moment." There's a hesitation before he admits that, a pang of regret and grief. Of homesickness.
"I am glad to meet you. I was not looking forward to finding my way out the hard way." He does not pick his way through the bog, merely walks with a careful eye for indications of danger. He watches his steps more than he watches her. His good ear stays swiveled towards her though- there is little she can do here to threaten him that he won't here. So long as she waits until they are out of the swamp, he doesn't care if she intends to threaten him. He doubts that's her goal though- his gut says that so long as he doesn't threaten she won't.
The rose-grey is comfortable in silence. Though he has questions he keeps them in his own mind, rolling them over and over as though each word were worth it's weight in gold. He is ignorant of the area he is in. Now he has a name, and perhaps the local leadership, but little else. Terrastella. It is a beautiful name for a land. He's not sure he'd call this swamp beautiful, though it has it's own eerie presence. Maybe in winter, if the muck freezes hard and the trees are trimmed with snow. That would perhaps be pretty in it's own may.
@Israfel
