There's a strange quality to the fog. Thick, low-hanging, and oddly cold, but also starkly isolating. As if standing in it makes every single other point seem vastly further away.

When the Wizard speaks, the fog itself almost seems to recoil at the sound, like a hand reeling away from a hot stove. It's hard to say why it feels that way, as the soupy cloud-cover doesn't rescind or retreat at all. But somehow... there is the overwhelming sense that the weather itself responded to the words with disgust.

The figure looks over. Raises his flask. "Name's Martin," he calls back. A man's voice, light in tone, with an English accent. The fog doesn't react to him. "Don't mind me, though. I'll be no bother."