Lorgar stood before the Thunderhawk Gunship's open hatch, his gaze piercing the dense fog that churned and writhed like a living thing as he stared down at the filthy surface of Davin's Moon.
The fog was an unhealthy grayish yellow, flowing slowly across the moon's surface as though some unseen force were stirring it.
A faint stench of rotting entrails mingled with the fog, clearly discernible even through the Thunderhawk Gunship's air filtration system. Lorgar's gaze grew grave.
Then he turned and signaled for the Thunderhawk Gunship's pilot to keep the aircraft hovering in orbit. There was no need to land.
"Father, are you sure?" the pilot asked, turning toward him with a mixture of worry and confusion in his voice.
As he spoke, his gaze darted between Lorgar and the dense fog beyond the window.
"We don't know what's down there, and that fog looks very wrong. If something happens to you down there alone, we won't be able to support you in time—"
"Yes, right here," Lorgar interrupted.
"Don't worry about me. Hold position in orbit and wait for my signal. If I need support, I'll contact you." With that, he offered no further explanation and turned to face the churning fog.
Then he leaped out.
The grayish-yellow fog swallowed his figure in an instant, taking him out of the pilot's sight.
Lorgar fell toward the surface below.
Wind howled past his ears, but another sound soon replaced it.
It was a low drone, like countless throats breathing in unison, rising from the depths of the fog, drawing closer and growing clearer.
He passed through layer after layer of ever-thickening fog, each more viscous and heavier than the last. It felt less like falling through air than sinking through some semisolid medium.
The smell of decay grew stronger