You awaken on a gray and desolate moor. The damp ground beneath you gives way with the rubbery resistance of moss. The fog enshrouds you completely. It is so dense and immobile that it seems to conceal shapes -- a car here, a row of shrubbery there -- but all vanish beneath your touch. You wander for what seems like days, before finally stumbling from the murk into the cold sunlight of a coastal dawn. You stand atop a broken bluff. Far below you, cloaked men stand before a boat, arguing.
Shit. Do British cops wear cloaks, or is that wizards? Can wizards be cops? You take no chances, flattening yourself to the ground while you observe them.
After a few moments, some of the strange men split off toward the boat, carrying a small, carved wooden box between them. There is something fundamentally wrong about their movements -- something stiff, not quite fluid enough to be human. You catch a glimpse of one's wrist: It is unearthly pale and spotted, as though diseased.
The men on the boat are focused on their task; they do not seem to see you.