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Fog is a creature of fleeting glimpses and quiet presence. He neither reaches out nor lingers overlong with other minds, preferring to remain out of focus and indistinct. This doesn't necessarily make him silent, as his moods and opinions filter out over time. In fact, he rather enjoys expressing himself without being obvious about it. When he gains more skill with words and implied meaning, he will prove to be skilled at passive-aggression and evasive wordplay.

Part of his remove is that he is sensitive and empathetic. The emotions and moods of others quickly overwhelm him, and can sway him away from his own thoughts with enough pressure. This does not confer true understanding of how and why others behave as they do, but feeds a slow-burning resentment that they all have to be so loud about it. He relishes ways to exert control over himself and his surroundings without having to give way to external pressures. Among the clutch, he tends to passive observation, though sometimes he will echo or emphasize the voices of those he already agrees with. He is clumsy with expressing himself directly. He remembers well how others act, but stepping outside of his bubble to confront or thank them is nervewracking.

Fog yearns for stability, and dislikes sudden changes, especially ones that affect him. In securing himself, he can be unintentionally volatile and reckless. His main drive is for everything to remain as it is, and how he likes it. Hatching may prove a rude disruption.

The egg is middling, both in size and in colour. Not a perfect middle point between the largest eggs and the smallest, but almost deliberately average - if eggs could be deliberate. Its shell is uneven, rippled with small bumps and ridges, and it sits at a lean no matter how much its mother turns and readjusts it.

It is grey. Many greys, really - the soft, pale grey of morning mist, and the dense solidity of fog over water, and the shadowed murk of looming rain-clouds. These all move across the shell in currents and patches, combining with the pebbled texture to give the illusion of motion and greater depth. There might be something shifting and moving within those cloudy swirls - or perhaps nothing at all. The fog billows on regardless.

Of presence, one can say little; it is neither bold enough to be welcoming nor bright enough to draw the eye. It remains stoic and stubbornly diffuse, as if truly hidden in the veil swathing its shell. If there is an active mind within, it is very, very quiet.