Burrow, you exit from a natural arch made from black volcanic rock, pitted and dull from years of contact with the acrid air.
You start the laborious climb up Maygel, the central spire, towards where the Festhall of Falling Coins is located. The good news is that it gets you out of the encroaching marsh quickly; the bad news is that the berks in Torch have no concept of civil engineering or urban planning, nor do they, you suspect, care. You wind detouring, backtracking, and scrambling over more dead-ends and roadblocks than in the Hive of Sigil. At least the body count is about the same.
Before long, you are approached by a friendly-looking basher, a human male with dusky skin and a short, scraggly goatee. "Hail cutter! You a visitor to Torch as well? Perhaps we can help each other out, eh?"