The wind howls on a chilly November evening, and through the darkness, an ancient voice can be heard. It calls out, echoing in Gabriel's mind.

"You've done well, my pet," the Fog hisses, a cold breeze ruffling his wings. "You have proven your devotion through your righteousness, and thus, have earned my blessing."

A sigh can be heard on the breeze. An unseen hand can be felt upon his shoulder.

"Go forth, my child, and spread the will of the Fog."