He grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He looked down. All he could see was the mist, but as it cleared, little by little, he could make out his feet and the dried leaves, twigs and broken acorn shells littering the ground underneath him. Speaking of the ground, he felt off balance, like he was on the side of a hill. "Whirlwind, where are we?" he called out hopefully. No answer. He turned about. He couldn't hear anything apart from the rustling of leaves and saw nothing but the same white mist. A dark shape nearby and a groan enlightened him to the fact that he, at least, was not entirely alone. He carefully picked his way through the mist towards where the sound came from and found the bundle of pony that was the false Crimson curled up amongst the leaves against a rotten log, shivering, her torn saddlebag nearby. This only raised more questions. Where the hell were they? Where were the others? Why was everything so quiet?