Of all the vile phenomena inherent to the world of Moonshadow, perhaps the most inexplicable are her mists. It is clear that there is no sun to draw the water from the ground into the air; yet, without fail, as the moons set and darkest night falls the mists will begins to arise. They come - coating the twisted arboreal labyrinth in foul scented dew. The come - making the ground damp and treacherous underfoot for all not born to this place. The come - wreathing the distant ruins in eerie wisps, illuminated by soft lights that do not owe their genesis to the setting lunae.
It is these mists that ensure the survival of what may mockingly be called the plant-life, particularly the unwholesome fungi. There is an unusual strain, quite profligate, in the forest; its spores, luckily, only travelling a few meters even upon the wind. Should one be unfortunate enough to inhale these spores in any great concentration then soon another patch of these bloated black fungi will haunt the forest floor. Even the denizens of the forest are not immune to these drifting messengers of noissome death; indeed, even our own dead sometimes form walking colonies of this malignancy. There is, of course, a treatment for these spores available; otherwise we would have been overrun long ago. Sadly this treatment is not something one can prepare easily while living the waking nightmare of the hallucinations these spores bring; rarely is it made before choking death creeps upon the victim and births another colony of wafting death.