Swirl, swirl, swirl.

The fog snaked its way through the midnight streets of Lamonic Bibber, thick and cold, and silent as an assassin.

Swirl, swirl, swirl.

The fog crept up to Boaster’s Hill and pounced all over it like a sinister dentist.

Swirl.

The fog did a bit more swirling.

No swirl.

The fog forgot to swirl and just hung around doing nothing.

Swirl swirl swirl.

Then it remembered, and went about its business once more. The fog gripped the town in its cold clammy fingers and even the moon was too scared to come out and fight it.