There was a path. It had been overgrown, the forest retaking what was once its over the span of a number of years, but such a process would always be a sort of ebb and flow until each and every human being in Myrken Wood had been wiped from the face of the planet. Then the wood would take back the land and a wild harmony would exist once more. For now, though, even an overgrown path could be cut back, restored, trod upon anew. Horses, carts, the weight of goods, of grain both unground and ground. It was a perfectly functional trail, a thing of utility and worth, something that would have led anyone with an interest, commercial or otherwise, right up to the mill.
So of course, the two companions were trudging through the woods instead. The mill, located in a fairly remote valley was accessible, like anything else in the forest, from all angles; accessible, here, was a relative term. Young Elliot Brown, once a squire, now something far less respectable, refused to allow his companion to assist him physically. It meant that the boy had been trekking through difficult terrain, grunting and swearing, and occasionally mumbling something or another about whoring. It had been worth it, however. It would just be a steep walk down a tree-encrusted hill and their target would be in front of them. After that it'd just be making it over a less than threatening fence, past a garden and an even less threatening scarecrow, and that would be that.
Elliot's holocaust cloak (which, was probably not a holocaust cloak at all, but that's what he demanded the black, extensive but unskillfully knitted piece of clothing to be called) had mostly survived through the branches and brambles of the wood. It had taken him weeks to track down just where this mill was located amongst all of his other studies and responsibilities, and now, with his unlikely companion, they were about to terrorize and disrupt. There was just one little, tiny problem.
"The mill.." Elliot swallowed, breaking a finally agreed to silence that he had been challenging for quite a while now, "seems to be closed at night." What had he been expecting? Hissing iron and the nighttime creation of weapons of war?