Woodsdown fog was a menace all by itself. It didn’t roll in like the normal stuff off the water. Creeping and stretching, the mist grew from the ground and up around tree trunks like vines. A traveler didn’t need to meet ambush or storm to find bad ends in Woodsdown fog. All it took was a wrong turn. So sure where the path was a moment before, then a step, stumble, and fall into white nothingness.
Walls don’t keep the crawling mist away, and it smothers a fire quicker than rain. Those who scrape out lives at the edges of Woodsdown learn to weather it. They close their windows and sing little songs to themselves until it recedes, seeping away always much slower than it comes.
The wise do not go to Woodsdown. The people have a quaver about their eyes and speak too loud. The forest is odder still, and the fog that rolls in is better left to its own creeping devices. But if one finds themselves in the place, amidst the towering whitebarks and hemlocks, and the fog comes slithering, hunker down and sing a song quiet-like against your teeth. It won’t be over soon.