The sound of howling mists echoed in the surroundings, long and eerie, like mournful wails from the depths of the abyss.
Dark mists seeped across the open field, curling over the ground like creeping tendrils.
The tall grass danced wildly, bending and snapping as sudden gusts of wind twisted and howled, weaving through the terrain with unnatural force.
"They're playing tricks…" Garan snarled under his breath, his deep voice rumbling low like distant thunder.
His eyes, sharpened by years of experience and primal instinct, scanned the swirls of black mist with calm precision.
While others would stumble in such obscurity, blinded or corrupted by the poisonous haze, Garan stood unmoved.
His vision pierced through the gloom with ease—Drakkar sight was a gift bred from survival and battle.
The dark mists twisted around him like serpents, thick with corrupted eidra.
For the inexperienced, exposure would mean instant corruption—their bodies and minds devoured in moments.
