The very top of the mountain is still enclouded; apparently there is something magical about the mist there.

But they have another problem.

The first angel who sees their party squeaks and flees, beating insubstantial wings; a scant minute later, in a thunder of ghostly feathers, what seems like every angel in the mountain all come pouring out every available crevasse and make straight for Aianon, dragging at his wings and battering him with their misty limbs.