It creeps up from the rivers and streams, from the damp ground, wicking up in tendrils, coalescing into ghostly forms as it rises above the wet and damp. It coils around the base of bushes and trees like a snake, climbing higher and higher as if in search of tasty birds. Sometimes it leaves entire groves standing unmolested in bright shades of green, red, orange and gold with a mere scarf of clammy grey around the shoulders of the trunks.
There be dragons here, lurking, powerful mist dragons. Their breath is the steam that rises from the earth, sometimes shrouding the land with watery exhalations for an entire day. Other mornings the sun is too powerful, too bright and burns away all traces of the visitations of such powerful visitors. Which shall it be this day?