The fog had filled the valley bottom for weeks. Local people spoke of how their great grandparents remembered a time when a cruel cold miasma covered the land; when it was said the gods were displeased; when the harrowing howls that filled the air would never be forgotten. The elders warned against venturing into the mist, for fear of whatever manner of kraken laid buried there.
The sounds that emanated from deep within the soupy clawing air were enough to freeze the blood of any man.
‘It’s Devil’s work,’ one said.
‘Cruel, it is. Torture,’ opined another.
The villages kept up a vigil. Something awful was happening deep in their valley and instinct said that whatever it was, whatever Crisis was approaching was near to reaching its peak. The people clustered for support, watching and waiting.
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