After a long, nerve-wracking climb down the mountainside, it finally levelled out enough that he could let Whirlwind down from his back and he could walk his own way down. Spike, arms now numb from the effort, started flapping his arms uselessly to try to get some life back into them and simultaneously wincing from the exertion. The gas was thinner near the ground where it spewed from the various rents in the Earth. The ground was actually a marshland, the stagnant water slick with grease, and iridescent to the eye. The sunlight diffused through the gas, creating a truly alien atmosphere as the world would be bathed sickly yellow near one vent, and pinkish-grey near another, and they could not see more than fifteen feet in front of them in any direction. The gas exacerbated Spike’s cough, such that he was forced to rip off what little remained of the coat he had worn to keep him warm during the flight to wear around his mouth.