The intrepid crew marches through the woods, heading towards town. It is late afternoon, and the weather is hot and sticky, humid and unpleasant. As they move further from the influence of the balefire, the air grows thick and hazy. Citrine darts about at first, but soon is sulkily riding on Thistle's shoulder.
While the masks protect them from ill effects, the air is still ugly, depressingly turning the sky an orangish tone that has none of the delight of a sunset, and smells of smoke and sulfur.
Briar drops back to look up at Thistle. Not as far up as she once did, the wildling is getting taller. "Fart said that you were lookin' at some factory."