Chapter 122: Death Comes to Collect

The village chief drew on his dry tobacco pipe, the bowl crackling as his faded eyes fixed on the Black Mist smothering the sky. A chill ran through him in waves, and he shuddered. "Strange. Why did the fog turn black?" Their village often had fog, but it was always a thin white veil. When had it ever been as thick and pitch-black as tonight? Never-he had never seen or heard of such a thing. His thoughts jumped to his son. The boy had drunk himself stupid. With the fog this heavy, what if he stumbled...