The knight clad in pitch black iron was perched sturdily and unmoving on the slowly withering remains of an oak tree, staring at the bewitching orange and yellow flame weightlessly swaying on the bonfire he had shapen and lit. His thick, heavy armor covered him from his feet to his neck and was greatly worn and blemished by scratches and tiny dents carved by countless hostile encounters and hunts. His blue plumed helmet rested at his side, allowing his moderately lengthened dark hair to breathe the dull, sullen air of a dense forest, now scarely inhabited by any living creature. By now, anything with a pulse had already made the wise, instinctive decision to run south, where the creeping, dauntless miasma had yet to devour what remains of civilization on the continent of Yhordran.
The knight's face still had the appearance of a reasonably young adventurer, lacking the lines of age, but his demeanor had been beaten and brutalized into something far more exhausted. His pale skin is darkened by dirt, sweat, and grime; his cheeks, jaw, and upper part of his neck hadn't seen a shave in many days, adding to his tired expression. His dark eyes reflected the flame sitting before him, which was slowly becoming dimmer and dimmer. A black horse with a long mane and patch of white around its right eye is already sleeping soundly, resting patiently for dawn to break with its saddle removed from its back and sitting at the base of the tree, along with a couple of saddlebags, a bow, and quiver of arrows.
Unlike those with a prioritized sense of self-preservation, this knight was not traveling southward towards safety. He was venturing head-first into the danger that seeks to wipe the gift of life from the land. He wouldn't be the only one to do this, as many individuals with either something to prove or nothing else to do had taken up arms to combat the foul, violent remnants of the lands already overtaken by the dark mist originating from the northern-most point of Yhordran. No one knows how it was created, as it swept across three hundred square miles in a manner of several hours – faster than anyone could react.
The moving wall of abyssal fog finally slowed to a crawl once it reached about two hundred miles outward in all directions, allowing just enough of a window for a barrier to be erected spanning from the western coast of the continent to the eastern coast. Efforts are being put into action to construct similar obstructions out in the sea, but that will take an unprecedented amount of time. All they know is that the fog does slow down little by little as the days pass, but we do not know if it will truly stop. If left alone for long enough, will it reach other continents, and eventually engulf the entire world? If so, no able-bodied or able-minded person would dare wish to see the result for themselves.
In the last six months, as the fog has been kept at bay, many people have traveled to the affected northern region of Yhordran to participate in the quelling of the miasma. Glory-seekers attempt to make it to the epicenter of the outbreak and destroy the source for fame, bloodthirsty warriors join in for the sport of annihilating the necrotic and violent infected, opportunistic bandits simply wish to pick the remains of ill-fated, would-be heroes of valuables and equipment, and ignorant youth press their luck under the assumption that it will be adventurous and fun. The black-clad knight doesn't fall into any of these categories. For reasons he keeps close to his chest, he has made up his own mind as to why he needs to face this obstacle.
At the moment, the moon is slightly past its highest point in the sky, and it's time for him to regain his strength for the continuing journey. He still needs to reach the barrier gate and formally register himself as a Mistwalker – the formal title given to those who choose to venture into the fog. He pushes himself up and off the log he was sitting on, and walks into his primitive but serviceable tent, allowing the bonfire to slowly die out on its own. He isn't worried about any bandits finding him in the shelter of night and attempting to abscond with his belongings or his horse. No one who isn't already committed to stepping beyond the barrier would be this far north, and thus they wouldn't bother with potential small-time payoff from one living knight who could fight back.
Several hours later, the sun pokes out from the horizon, tinting the sky orange and slowly overtaking the remaining dark blues of night. The knight, now in a loose cotton shirt and trousers more comfortable for sleeping, slowly stirs awake and groggily exits his humble temporary shelter. He approaches his horse, also awake and alert, and reaches into his saddlebag for two healthy apples – the remains of provisions he bought at the port town of Kelley Harbor just ten days prior – and feeds one to his horse in slices cut by his dagger, and begins to eat the other. After the frugal breakfast, he wastes no time in dressing back into his iron suit. He removes his shirt and trousers under the expanding light of morning, revealing to no one in particular his lean, muscular body covered in well over a dozen scars of varying shapes and sizes, including a small patch of what seems to be a burn scar on his left shoulder. Once armored, he bunches up his bedroll and swiftly dismantles his tent, stuffing both into another large saddlebag, and saddles his horse. He slips into his helmet, collects his sword and shield, mounts his horse, and rides northward, with no real sense of urgency.
The forest, called the Davinmoore Wood, is very crowded with trees and foliage. There are only a few man-made roads that cut through from the south end to the north, and they all connect to villages or outposts. Wandering too far from the path would guarantee an insurmountable challenge in finding your way back. Before the mist moved in, there was also an ever-present danger of bears, wolves, and other manner of forest predator to beware of. Now, no such threat exists. Animals have a unique sixth sense of being able to determine oncoming danger and escape it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the same can't be said of the thousands of men, women, and children within the borders of the mist, and the death toll doesn't stop rising simply because of the existence of the land barrier. According to all of the tales and statistics that the black knight has heard, for every group of ten people who enter the dark fog, only one or two return. Thus, the potential danger for those who tempt fate in the future will only continue to grow. A group of ten soldiers would have had a slightly higher probability of success yesterday than they would have today, for the fog doesn't allow the dead to stay dead. A person who dies beyond the barrier isn't simply taken out of the equation; they're added to the numbers of the mindless undead legion who refuse the clutches of the afterlife.
Above all else, the only thing more frightening than the horrors concealed by the otherwordly miasma are the thoughts of what could have possibly birthed it. Since the mist took over the first massive chunk of the map in such a short time, no one has been able to confirm the source of it. Only blind speculation can surmise that the true center is possibly in or around Armasstadt, the city pressed up against the base of Mount Armas, but even if it is, where in the city, and why? Did some ignorant fool toil in some sort of forbidden magic and lose control? Was this a premeditated attack by a foreign or even homegrown enemy? Is this a freak natural disaster that unleashed hidden destructive power of the earth below us? In the six months of the mist's existence, no one has found any answers, nor clues that could potentially lead to one. The citizens of Yhordran are beginning to lose hope. Multiple suicide pacts have been reported on since the mist came into being, and the more optimistic people simply opt to flee to neighboring continents. Should this ghastly, toxic omen continue to exist, Yhordran – and possibly the world – will be transformed into a realm of undead.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
A few hours has passed since the black-clad knight had awoken and continued his deliberately paced journey to the barrier; his horse was still patiently walking. However, he could faintly hear the slowly loudening sound of more hooves slamming againt the ground – many of them. He turns around to see a group of five indistinguishable figures on horses, quickly approaching him. He pays them no mind, and resumes riding at his own speed. They return the favor by rushing past him with the strong animals' legs kicking up dirt and stomping the ground with loud thuds. None of them turned their heads to even acknowledge the existence of the knight, except one. It was the back-most rider cloaked in black robes and a dark crimson cape and hood. Though the knight couldn't make out their face, the person was of a smaller frame compared to the others. A woman, perhaps? Robes suggest a mage of some sort, as well. They all seemed to have been wearing modest leather armor. Were they rogues who intented to rob the corpses of the less fortunate, or hasty would-be champions who underestimate the danger of the mist? Though if they were simple thieves, they likely wouldn't have gone out of their way to seek the aid of the presumed mage, because it wouldn't be necessary to go too deep into the mist to find bodies to loot.
Later, in the afternoon, when the sun has begun to come down from its apex, the forest finally begins to clear and open up, slowly transitioning into spacious green plains heading downhill; many trees have been turned into stumps, and the reason is apparent. From here, the knight in black iron can see extremely long palisades made of tall tree chunks stretching from east to west as far as the eye can see. The mist doesn't simply seep through the logs or flow over them, because the real barrier isn't the logs themselves; it's the arcane crystals loaned from the arcane university in Evatica, the capital city.
Each crystal is about the size of a grown man's head, and can be manipulated to fit a multitude of different purposes. In this case, however, they're being used as defensive domes, with one crystal covering a one mile radius, meaning that hundreds of crystals are currently in use to keep the mist from spreading further southward. Additionally, the bigger the dome is, the less dense it is, meaning that the individual crystal's magic power is stretched thinner across a greater distance. Hence, each dome is tough enough to keep the mist out, but not to defend against direct attacks from an especially strong enemy; solid objects can phase through the barrier with no issue.
With this fact in mind, it has become crucial for regular patrols to happen along the other side of the wall, for fear of the shambling undead congregating in one specific spot and possibly tearing it down, as it's possible they could take a crystal with it and let the mist ooze through. Unfortunately, this land barrier can't prevent the mist from eventually going around the wall from off shore of the coasts, but that will still take a significant amount of time.
The knight in black iron approaches the large fenced-in area of multiple buildings right before the gate leading to the mist, which is left slightly ajar for Mistwalkers to come and go. There are multiple points of entry into the misted region along the barrier that stretches from coast to coast, each of them essentially serving as a hastily-founded base of operations for those who regularly go beyond it. This one is called Zenith Gate, due to being the largest and southern-most out of all of them, and it's in the exact middle of the seemingly endless wall.
The knight enters the base through an open threshold that's not guarded by anyone, and carefully examines the settlement. As expected, it's dirty, grimy, and none of the many busy people wandering about seemed to have experienced a smile in months. So many feet and hooves have stomped on this patch of ground, that there isn't a single blade of grass left despite being in the middle of a plain. It's easy to spot the Mistwalkers, because they're either injured, armed to the teeth, sporting a thousand yard stare, or just particularly filthy and exhausted – sometimes a combination of the four. There are no bodies being transported or graves being dug, because everyone knows what happens to corpses beyond the barrier.
There's a cluster of private huts and a blacksmith with a modest forge along the southeastern corner of the fence, presumably here to repair Mistwalkers' equipment. A large building in the northwestern section is an inn, where Mistwalkers can choose to stay, but there's also a large yard behind it where many tents are set up for those who wish for a bit more privacy. Outhouses are further behind the collection of tents. At the southwest corner, facing the inn and tent yard, is the tavern and eatery. Since establishing the wall, a number of fruit, vegetable, grain, and livestock farms have been contracted to provide a constant flow of provisions to the checkpoints, because of how many mouths stay for extended periods of time. Directly across from the inn is two smaller buildings: the closest being a stable, and the one next to it is the Zenith Gate Mistwalker headquarters. Like the towering wall itself, the buildings are all quickly-constructed from logs.
“Sir?” A voice timidly calls out. The knight turns and looks down to see a young boy with golden hair and green eyes, likely no older than thirteen, staring back up at him.
“Yes?” The knight finally speaks in a slightly coarse voice.
“You new here?” The boy inquires, likely for the twentieth time today.
“I am.” The knight replies firmly.
“If you're planning on going past the barrier, the headquarters are right over there.” The boy points to the respective building. “Fill out some papers and they'll set you up. I work over at the stable with my ma and pa. If you want, I can take your horse over there.”
“Do you have any feed?”
“Yessir, we have plenty of hay. When was the last time it ate?”
“This morning. Can you feed her now?”
“Yessir, we can.”
The knight silently dismounts. “What's your name?” He asks – almost demands.
“Edmund Hollis, sir.”
“Take care of her, Edmund.” The knight hands Edmund the horse's worn reins. “Remove her saddle, too.”
“I will, sir.” The boy nods and casually escorts the horse to the stable.
The knight removes his helmet and firmly pins it between the underside of his right arm and side of his chest. He continues to stand in attention at the large gate to the opposite side of the settlement leading to the opposite side of the wall – the dangerous side. After a short moment of consideration, he walks to the Mistwalker headquarters with his sword at his waist and shield at his back.