Drawing down the Mists

As the day drew on the mists came – seeming to creep out of the sewers and up the side streets from the canal and the river, like a moist, wet blanket, smelling of distant days at the sea, dank rotting things, and deep, hidden places.

As the night drew in, the fog thickened around the gas-lamps and the lanterns on the sides of carriages and houses – like a thick smoke, trying to choke out all light. People shuddered and shivered as they walked through its damp greasiness, its thin, wispy tendrils creeping down their necks, seeking out their warm, soft bodies.

In the distance a church bell tolled – deep, mournful notes, ringing out across the city. The people, carts and animals drew back into the safety of houses, stables and sewers, while the fog settled thickly , as if bedding down to sleep.

In the high tower of the university building, he finished muttering the strange incantations under his breath. Shutting his eyes, he stepped out onto this ethereal carpet, and strode out across the sleeping city.

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