Varnwick was as ordinary as a wound, ugly with the business of healing.
They reached its outskirt at the cruel edge of sunrise, boots tacky with road mud and the dog's fur clotted in burrs.
Apollo watched the humped silhouettes of barns and blockhouses inch closer through the mist, all rendered in the same washed-out ochre, as if the world had grown bored of inventing new shades for disappointment.
Lyra broke first, boots quickening as the flatness drew up around them, then she slackened pace, the careful economy of someone not eager to arrive so much as to see what the town would take from them.
Nik trudged with his hands in his pockets, the angle of his chin defiant, while Thorin lagged, shoulders set and mouth bracketed in pale irritation.
The dog did not run ahead, not here; it limped beside Apollo, occasionally glancing up as if to check that the world was still worth the trouble.
