The sky is so clouded that the moon's light is merely some sickly glow lurking over the cobble stoned streets, and the gnarled fence lines, and the crooked slate rooftops of the city through which they are hunting. If the shapes of the city are strange - they are no Val Royeaux, they are no Kirkwall, or Nevarra City, or-- then it is a negligible, irrelevant fact to scratching only dully at the back of his dreaming mind. What he is cognizant of is Anna's shape in the not-dark alongside him and the light in his hand. He is leading as they wind their way along, and it doesn't seem unnatural, and he isn't aware of being lost.

There is work to be done. Why question such things?