Lythia is eternally grateful for the bowl of food placed in front of her as she wraps her arms around herself, fending off the bout of shivering that assails her petite frame again when she gets in by the warmth of the fire. She makes sure her hood is pulled tight around her head and gets to work choking down the food, smiling politely when accosted by a grateful villager but otherwise making herself small enough to slide clear of the merriment.<br/><br/>So, too, is she grateful when offered a place by the fire for the night, free of charge. Her reserve of silver was getting perilously low, and any charity she could eek out of the locals had to stretch as far as she could make it.<br/><br/>She finds herself wondering about her fellow unlikely heroes, but doesn't venture to strike up a conversation with any of them. As she eats, her mind is always flitting back to her studies and her notes, visions of the Feywild dancing teasingly in her mind's eye. Something in her subconscious gnaws at her, something that feels uncomfortably like guilt, but as she can't immediately determine what she has to feel guilty about she banishes the thought almost as soon and as quietly as it comes upon her and focuses, instead, on not being noticed by those around her.