Artaith snorts at the woman's impolite dismissal. "Pretty typical, that." She finds herself wandering later in the afternoon, in an annoying sort of mental fog. Still, in due time the caravan arrives at their evening's destination.

"Smells fabulous!" Artaith commends, all-but openly drooling at the overwhelming aroma of cooking meat. She offers Philemon only a wan shrug of apology as the man pointedly stays outside with an utterly different expression.

After a time, she finds herself wandering past/through the blacksmith's stall, enjoying the familiar sounds and sensations of heat and rhythmic hammering. She pauses long enough to take stock of her own gear, appreciate some of the pieces on display, and (at least) nod politely to any workers present.