Syeira did not like this.  She did not like it at all.  The mist was most unnatural.  Mist most often occurred in the evenings and did not often survive the light of day.  Mists did not suddenly spring into existence in the depths of night and here she was encompassed within them even into the witching hour.  The lantern hanging from the metal rod over her head seemed completely unable to pierce the oppressive shroud which, in turn, forced her to horse to slow down to a plodding pace without her having to draw upon the reigns.

The crimson haired gur also noted that something else had changed.  The great conifers that had been her honour guard down the highway had shed their needles and were now little more than bony claws stretching out to rake her flesh.  The shadows had grown, eerily presenting themselves as darker patches of mist.  It gave her the impression she was surrounded by ghastly shades eager to consume her very soul.

It was strange.  Reason told her that she had not truly traveled so far, that she must be entering a bog or marsh but her other senses said different.  She somehow felt that something magical had happened and she feared she had been somehow drawn into the lands of the unseelie or banished into the nine hells of Baator to be set upon by the devils there.   None of these were pleasant thoughts and she nervously fondled the small skulls hanging at her waist.

The wagon bounced along the highway, the springs supporting the large wooden wheels squeaking gently and finally she found herself clear of the forest.  At first she thought she had arrived and then she was startled to see her breath misting before her and a chill to the air.  This alarmed her for there was never a mist in winter.  The cold leached the moisture from the air.  Yet, still there was mist.  It was retreating, rolling away in all directions but it was there.

Syeira's green eyes gazed over what appeared to be the frozen remnants of an ancient battle.  A mere of dead men, coated in rime, surrounded the shattered carcass of a citadel.  She pulled her green cloak around her, golden coins lining it clinking together as she closed it over her bare belly to keep out the cold.  Slowly she continued, twitching the reigns of the horse that had come to a stop, clearly as dumbfounded as she.  Together they plodded forwards through the field of frozen corpses, wondering where in Faerun she could possibly be.