Lassalot feels a chill creep up her spine, the tiny hair standing at attention on the ends of goose flesh. Your intuition has you turning around in time to see the mists rolling slowly towards you and the party. You can smell the ozone in the air and you wrinkle your nose. You watch as trees are overtaken, turning a pale green before disappearing into the grey of the mist entirely.
You alert your party of the encroaching fog and everyone readies their arms. Ismark pulls Ireena behind him but she pulls her sword from her scabbard just the same.
“It is him.” Ismark hisses through clenched teeth.
As if by summons two large paws step from the mist and the party seems to hold its breath, Avery’s hand subconsciously curling its way up and around his neck. Two large direwolves...
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