In an austere room, under a moth-eaten bed, the shards of a failed summoning shimmer and drift. The Mists leak, drip from the empty bed into the tavern below…

A team of red-cheeked explorers drag across a forbidding landscape, in good cheer despite the frigid wind. The fore-ward man pauses on his skis, raises a pole—the signal for caution—then disappears below the horizon…

From the depths of White Plume Mountain, at the behest of an inscrutable patron, a crowd of daring adventurers are thrust into the Mists…

The Mists radiate no aura of magic, reveal no alignment, show no sign of life. To all eyes, they are a simple cloud—yet they span all the planes of existence and all the demesne of dread. They are usually content to transport a few hapless travelers, leaving others behind seemingly at random. But stories speak of entire armies vanished, homes swallowed, mountains stolen into the fog.