The air tasted of smoke -- smokes rather. Some were acrid, lung-singeing, others as soft as scented fog. Some muddied the head, others cleared it. But all of them obscured the still swamp air - a haze in the breath, in the corner of one’s eyes. Her hair smelt of smoke, it lay curled and quiescent in the folded fabric of her robes. The druid was sleeping, finally without hints and murmurs of nightmares, a smile curving his lips now in a face sunken suddenly with age. When he opened his eyes they were clearer now, deeper, wells of luminescence and age she was afraid of studying too closely -- before now she had never thought of him as old. The boss was closeted with business -- closed doors and smoke tinged with brimstone -- working through sheaves of maps and atonement. The elf, after sever