Tha'ael steps away from the party a few yards, hoping to keep her elven vision sharp and unblurred by lantern light or whatever else the humans were carting about.  The water courses over her mottled cloak, rivulets coursing from the hood that encircles her face.  She scans the treetops for likely perches or roosts... either for enemies, or for herself.  She would want a dry bowstring before long... maybe some of the softer rations that wouldn't last long on this journey.  As for whether they stop or not-- it's not her expertise, nor her decision.