"All right, hold on just a moment..." There's only one way to settle this. He slings the pack off his back and gets out the oilskin bag currently housing his maps. He's getting a nagging suspicion about what's going on - an exciting sort of suspicion, though the woman from nowhere probably wouldn't appreciate that.

He rifles through the folded parchments within, draws out one of the least-damaged to open up and show her. His maps of Skyrim and Cyrodiil may be battered and stained, but this one is nearly new. He doesn't often need to worry about the entirety of the continent.

"So, we're about here," he says, pointing to the left of Whiterun, above the inked-in mountains. "Is there anything on here you recognise?"