By early evening all the sky to the north had darkened and the spare terrain they trod had turned a neuter gray as far as the eye could see. They grouped in the road at the top of a rise and looked back. The storm front towered above them and the wind was cool on their sweating faces. They slumped bleary-eyed in their saddles and looked at one another. Shrouded in the black thunderheads the distant lightning glowed mutely like welding seen through foundry smoke. As if repairs were under way at some flawed place n the iron dark of the world.
As dusk approached, the sky to the north became a deep, foreboding gray, mirroring the desolate landscape around them. The group paused on a hill, staring back at the ominous storm front looming above. A cool wind brushed against their sweaty faces, offering a momentary relief as they settled wearily into their saddles, exchanging tired glances between them.
The atmosphere was charged with a sense of impending turmoil, as flashes of distant lightning flickered through the heavy clouds, resembling the glow of welding through smoke. This imagery suggested a world in repair, hinting at deeper flaws beneath the surface of their harsh environment.