Crosslanders take the murk for weather — oily, odourless, clammy fog that clings to your coat and grants you ten paces of sight on a good day. It is more honest to call it a character, the biggest in The Dark Peak, and a living one at that. It keeps its own ghosts: Syncarid that envelop and sting you dead, Morivarid that take the eyes and tongue from anyone who blunders into the shoal, and the murk wraiths, the sight of which is never, ever a good sign. It hides the rest too — the don bog beast, the barghest, the gabbleratchet — keeping them from the light until they decide you should see them. It even marks the hours: murkrise at dawn, murkfall at dusk, murkneet through the long dark, the fog writing itself into the calendar. Breathe it without a psycmask down in the valley and you'll learn soon enough that it is not weather at all.