Stocke's not quite as affected, incorporeal as he is, but he's still hurt: his first reaction is to drawn in on himself. His tendrils snarl close to his back, and his claws flex out as he spins around, trying to find the source -

He's gone and somewhere else in a swirl of mist and cold.

The fog spits him out unceremoniously, flinging him into the air - Stocke's tossed head-over-heels a moment before stabilizing. He spins in place again, trying to figure out what's going on, tendrils bristling and pose tense. He notes the abandoned buildings, the stones; where is this?

At the same moment Amelia staggers free, louder than the echoing silence around them. Stocke glares at her, but decides near-immediately that she's not the cause of this. What -

"My children," the fog whispers.

It doesn't sound entirely pleased.