Wandering through the city with too much purpose to be considered aimless but lacking any real speed, hands bare of all ornamentation, traceable or otherwise, Narcissa is headed for the fog. Skull ringing with a dull ache, she fancies she can hear someone calling her name...

"I have a headache, stop shouting!"

The hypocrisy evidenced by her own volume is overlooked, urged on as she is by the externally planted desire to reach the outskirts of the city.