The grey mist did not merely obscure the forest; it actively sought to erase it.
It was a suffocating, living entity that tasted of stale ozone and burning parchment. To Gazelle, the fog felt less like weather and more like a heavy, suffocating blanket of writer's block thrown over the world. It dampened the sound of their footsteps, swallowed the light, and twisted the ancient trees into skeletal, grasping hands.
Raven walked half a step ahead of her, his large hand completely enveloping hers. His grip was the only tether keeping her anchored to reality. Without it, Gazelle felt she might simply dissolve into the white void, just another unfinished sentence lost to the ether.
