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Hungry Ghoul
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That fog...
Valdavar was shocked when he looked up from his thoughts again, and around him. Just for a quick moment let he drift his mind away, back to his homelands, when a weariness of travel seemed to have overcome him, and now he was lost without one of his comrades in sight or within a shout's range.
The man fell the hairs on his neck and arms rising, and Valdavar became uneasy. His instincts told him that this was no natural fog, but maybe even one of the earlier mentioned witch-crafts of the Wights.
He took the hilt of his throwing axe, and thought that if there was an enemy here which could withstand its free blade, then he could not prepare better otherwise anyway...
He seemed to have lost orientation, too, and even though he tried his best skills of an experienced traveller, who could tell the directions by the smell of the wind, and the songs of the birds, all perception in here seemed to have been devoured by the fog, which lay on the land like a ghastly shroud.
Valdavar planted his feet firmly to the ground, and shouted from the top of lungs. Who or whatever it is that may be threatening him now, he might as well stand, and face it...
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