When Fisk awoke on the morning of the fourth day, the day he was going to cross the sea again to meet Vena, he found that the world had turned white.
He kneaded his eyes with his knuckles and blinked. It was still white, a thick grayish white.
"Oh," he groaned. "Fog. Great." His voice was loud; the hazy black trunks of the trees stood in perfect silence amidst the empty white.
Hoping that it would burn off as the sun rose, Fisk picked up his belongings and loped to the shore where he docked his boat. The waves were hard and cold, lashing his paws if he ventured too near, leaving the soft mud freezing and gritty. The fog lay heavy on the water. He paced along the beach, jabbing his spear end into the sand.
He had made this journey many times before. It was not a long one. He knew what direction he had to take. How bad would it be... he cringed to know his recklessness... how bad would it be to set out anyway?
"No, that's asking for trouble," he murmured to himself, frowning in resolution and pacing more furiously. He would wait. The fog would clear.
And it did, after a fashion. It became clear enough to see the other island rising from the horizon like a monstrous black wave frozen in time. And the confidence of a self-titled mighty hunter knows no bounds. Fisk settled into his boat and pushed off into the sea.
Everything was rendered in murky monochrome: gray water, white sky, black isle. The bright green of the wolftaur's fur and hair stood out against it. The water splashed and the oars clunked against the wooden boat. Fisk kept the black isle in his sight.
Get lost at sea? Never. Fisk was as mighty a boater as he was a hunter. He had nothing to fear.
