Figures are walking through the mist now. Pale and emaciated, their eyes vacant, they walk without purpose. Many of them carry obvious battle wounds, clefts in their sides or down through their shoulders, hands or whole arms hewn from their bodies. For a moment, you think you see Zhan-Ukhel striding among them, stern and imperious, and you instinctively tense up until Svarog places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.
"A sign of the power Chernobog can bestow upon those he favors," he says. "These poor souls belong to the sorcerer now. Follow me now, Basileios. There is one last place we have to go."
You turn around to see Svarog disappearing into the mist. Following behind, you quickly lose sight of him, but at the same time, you get the sense of having moved into a different environment where, perhaps, the mist is a little thinner. The edge of a dense pine forest can now be seen off to one side, while in the opposite direction, a formation of craggy rocks reaches toward the sky. Between them, a clear stream trickles over the ground toward you.