There were certainly more direct ways to Silvui's destination but those were more travelled, which meant more risk. Any caravan travelling such distance would have a guard and guards liked to talk. Silvui first travelled along with smaller caravans, able to talk his way into a day or twos company and safety among other travellers. Nobody asked questions and all the merchants and travellers seemed too introspective of their own business to offer much more than casual conversation. It was a good arrangement for travel, never staying with someone long enough to get to know them, or them him. Especially still so close to home it was better for Silvui to extend the journey by a few days than fall in with the wrong type of people who may cause him trouble.

The journey began, and with only occasional scraps with bandits fought off by caravaners he made his way to Westgate where Silvui had to sign onto a ship to travel across the Sea of Stars to Lyrabar. After some time at sea and upon arriving in Lyrabar Silvui convinced a caravan headed to Damara that he would be a worthy employ as a cook. The merchant owner, an older, sour human woman by the name of Milis was fortunately in a hurry and didn't ask too many questions. The caravan covered the final two weeks of Silvui's journey and as it headed north the chill of glacial winds became apparent and when they entered Damara proper Silvui had never encountered such a bone chilling and perpetual frozen cold.

The caravan travelled to its final destination which left him in the small town of Valls, in the south of Damara. It was late afternoon when the caravan stopped and Milis began ordering the final items unpacked. She approached Silvui, "Right. This is us boy. As far as we're travelling. Once we're unpacked, we'll be loaded up with bloodstone on the morrow and headed back across the sea again." She gave a look as though she would be glad to see the back of Silvui. She still doubted, and possibly rightly so, that he even was a cook but he had made sure meals had been served when required so the woman never gave him too much trouble. "Valls a small place but lots of inns. I'd recommend the Resting Weasel."

Silvui had spent his days since leaving home in sleepless paranoia, always looking over his shoulder for guards, sequestering himself from his fellow travelers, and gagging himself at night lest his screams be heard and rouse suspicions. The only change to this routine once he joined Milis' caravan was that he emerged from his tent long enough to make and serve the meals, overdone and lacking in seasoning as they were.

He was most of the way through bundling himself up in the thick coat he'd... acquired in Lyrabar, muttering vile curses about elven wizards with frostbite when Milis walked in. He returned her sour look in kind, but had the good sense not to say anything to go with the glare. The old woman was not the sort one crossed lightly, and it's not like it'd get him anything to be rude now.

"Well, looks like our business is done then Milis," he said, settling on a curt farewell. "I'd say it was a pleasure, but let's not pretend old Gregor didn't tell me he'd sooner slit his own throat than eat another of my stews last night. I'll be out of your hair in about ten minutes."

And so it was that Silvui, freezing and shivering even in his new coat, made his way out of the caravan ten minutes later, resolved to ask the first person he saw for directions to the Resting Weasel. Gods willing there'd be a fire.