Garma’s vision was blurred for a while. It mattered little as even someone with perfect vision would be hard pressed to see in the fog. It was eerily quiet, Garma could tell that much. Nobody was shouting, the noise of the collapse had faded. He tried to make sense of his surroundings and remember what had preceded him ending up here.
Eventually he climbed to his feet, not bothering to dust himself off he wandered in the fog. The haze had an otherworldly, purple aura to it as it swirled and hung malevolently around Garma. As if it was watching him, taking note of every movement. He was terribly aware that he was not alone.
Suddenly he was stopped in his tracks by another collapsed building. The fog was so thick here he hadn’t seen it ten paces away. He brushed his hand along the surface of it and a large part of the wall crumbled. He looked around for a moment but could make out nothing. Straight ahead seemed like the best option, perhaps there would be a way to climb from this fog inside.
He stepped back and took a breath, then swiftly but firmly, he slammed his boot through the wall. The derelict structure may as well have been made from wet parchment considering the ease with which Garma destroyed it. Perhaps everything in the fog was like this, broken and ruined. Not that the rooftops were much better, everything in and around what was Triton was a testament to the derelict, the ruined and the bleak.
He crawled through the hole in the wall and found himself inside a broken old room. It was entirely empty, no broken wood, no debris and no skeletons. Just Garma and the fog. He listened intently for a moment; he still could hear nothing but the low whisper of the swirling mist. Out of nowhere an overwhelming feeling of desperation overcame him. His men were gone, he was lost and the only man he could trust was missing. The man who had pulled him from the gutter all those years ago, the man who gave him his life back.
Suddenly the fog swirled into itself before Garma’s eyes. The faint hiss grew louder as the mist began to take form. Garma instinctively drew his sword, he tried to steel himself despite the fact that the last vestige of hope had just been enveloped and swallowed by the forming mist.
The form took on the appearance of a purple cloak enshrouding an almost skeletally thin being, a low hood formed along with arms, legs and a long sickle type weapon. A blue pendant hung from around what could be called a neck. The air grew cold around it and the hiss began to form into whispers.
Garma began to shout loudly, he knew that if he listened to what the thing was saying then he had already lost. He was in for the fight of his life. Hovering before him was a fog wraith, the essence of a thousand lives cut short. The vengeful spirit of death itself, it hung infront of him. Watching from a formless face.
Garma raised his sword in challenge. The wraith swirled majestically on the spot, as if relishing the the chance for blood. Sweat poured from Garma’s brow despite the cold, his only hope now was his sword.