The turbulent sea of fog reveals itself to be a cloud bank, several thousand feet into the air. The path of woven bones that extends across it is seemingly unanchored although given its length runs beyond the horizon there may yet be land to hold fast the opposite end. Still walking along its surface, the direction of said movement seemingly irrelevant to your passage through physical space, brings you to a boatman. They appear to be one of your own mortals albeit ancient beyond belief and taller than is purely natural. They have sunken eyes and where the light of life should have been there was only a hollow blue flame. It was the flame moreso than anything that betrays the illusion, the seeming of normalcy that the boatmen cloaks himself with.

"Where to?" they ask, their voice a near mirror to your own.

Drannor gave a bow of his head to the figure who appeared to him. A boatman. But one of his own it seemed, yet more ancient than those he knew now. Limbo would have no time of course, or not one that followed the normal flow of things perhaps. It most certainly would have earned its name. To the question, he answered, "To those who wait for my appearance. Those who tire of Limbo and may yet answer the call of their god. Even if they know not as yet that it is I," he declared. Finding some of those lost to Limbo who might serve him was his goal here. He could learn from them perhaps. Or find another means for them to serve. A purpose beyond dwelling mindlessly in Limbo would be an end to its torment.