From the mountains of the old land, out of pools of water left over from when the islands rose. The mist rises in the morning or the evening depending on how the winds chill the land. Echo's of people past ring off of the mountainsides, as the sound of bag pipes lament the lost and dearly departed. Down the narrow slopes covered in sparse patches of Emerald Green, the mist finds it's way into the valleys and covers cottages. Drops of water come off of thatch roofs like the tears of a weeping young widow longing for her fallen love. Such is the way of the highland mist, that falls like the breath of creation from when no time was.