Inside, a large collection of headstrong fighters and would-be heroes stand in line to officially register themselves and throw their bodies into the abyss. A second queue off to the right is for active Mistwalkers seeking compensation for the day's trek, paid in copper, silver, gold, or platinum coins. Other warriors are scattered around, huddled together in different groups, quietly conjuring various plans and ideas for how to progress further tomorrow. Several eyes are also drawn to the knight's impressive suit.

He walks to the back of registration queue, patiently taking a few steps forward as it progresses slowly. He notices that many of the other individuals standing in front of him seem to be fresh-faced teenagers, young enough to have never participated in more than famial roughhousing, let alone a battle against some abstract plague and its victims. Only one or two appear even remotely prepared, but still ill-seasoned. Have hard times fallen upon Yhordran so badly, that becoming a Mistwalker is easier than simply finding a modest job as a farmer or fisherman? Or are they all naive enough to think they'll be part of the ten to twenty percent who return from their first venture?

The knight reaches the counter after a perceived eternity in wait. Behind it is a tired young woman of pale complexion and dark brown hair who has likely been working like this non-stop, all day. She groggily recites the greeting she's already apathetically spouted a dozen times since the knight even entered the building.

“Welcome to Zenith Gate headquarters, are you registering for Mistwalker duty?”

“I am.” The knight responds.

She hands him a sheet of paper picked from a tall, readily-prepared stack of forms and pushes a quill and bottle of ink towards him. “Fill this out. We just need your name, date of birth, permanent residence, and then name and address of next of kin to inform in case of your death.” She says with no hesitation or tact, concepts likely thrown away months ago when she had handed out the five thousandth form.

“What if I have no permanent residence?” The knight casually inquires.

“Just put down Zenith Gate, then.” She coldly responds.

“And if I have no next of kin?”

“Leave that line blank.”

The knight quickly fills out the remaining two fields he can, and quietly pushes the form back to the young woman.

“'Atticus Dayne', huh?” She calmly recites the name she sees on the paper. “I'm surprised a guy with such expensive-looking armor would have no next of kin. You look kinda important. But then again, I wouldn't know if you just stole it off someone.” She voices her thoughts, with no expectation of a reply, which she doesn't receive anyway, as the knight stays silent. She takes out a stamp and quickly inks it and slams it on the form, and places it on a different stack. She reaches under the counter a brings up a card with empty squares on it.

“Alright,” she begins, “sign your name again at the top of this card; it's what you'll be using at the sortie booth.” The stoic knight examines the card, which has ten squares divided into two rows of five, with a name field at the top, as well as the gate name and card number. “The top squares are for check out, when you enter the mist. The booth operator will stamp it and sign the date and time of departure. Then, when you come back, the booth operator will stamp it again on the bottom row and sign the date and time of return. Then, you come back to headquarters, and go to that counter over there.” She points to the other queue leading to a different counter headed by an old man. “He'll give you your pay. The longer you're out, the more pay you get, with a bonus if you stay out longer than twenty-four hours.

“You can only leave and return once a day, but if you fill out all ten squares by leaving and returning five times, you get another bonus and a fresh card to do it all again. There's also a number of checkpoints established by the Yhordran Legion beyond the wall, and if you reach them, you can get another stamp from them that shows the us how far you've traveled when you return, and you'll get yet another bonus. Also, if you end up at any other gate to the east or west, you should still be compensated like usual if you just stamp your card there.” She leans back, having explained all meanings of the sortie card, but she recalls one final detail. “Oh, and there's a big bonus for those who bring back 'unique conquests.'”

“And what are these 'unique conquests?'” Atticus asks, his brow slightly raised.

“They say once you go deep enough into the fog, you begin to encounter nasty monstrosities.” She casually explains. “If you slay one, bring back proof, and you'll be rewarded depending on its size.”

“So, a head?”

“Whatever body part does the best job at telling us how big it really was.”

The knight looks down at his card once again for a thoughtful few seconds, and asks: “How often do people manage to fill out all ten squares on their first card?”

“Rarely.” She quickly and coldly answers. “Very rarely.”

“Fair enough.” He replies, unmoved and unsurprised by the news.

“Make sure you keep that on you at all times. If you lose it, you'll have to redo the progress on that card. And if you end up fighting any undead Mistwalkers, search their bodies for their cards, and bring it back. That way we'll know for sure who's dead. You'll get a small bonus for those, too.”

“Alright. Anything else I should know?”

She shakes her head. “That's it. Oh, my name is Eileen, by the way. Any questions?”

Atticus shakes his head. “No.”

“If at any point you wish to quit being a Mistwalker, or simply want to take a break, leave your card here. If you continue your duties later, we'll give it back to you.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Thank you for registering for the Mistwalkers, and good luck.” Eileen recites almost sarcastically.

Without another word, Atticus leaves the counter and before exiting, he looks back and forth once more between the card and the compensation counter. He knows so many bonus payment systems are implemented to provide further incentive to weather the deadly dangers and perils of the mist. With a daily death rate between eighty and ninety percent, such motivators are necessary. If they weren't there, more people would be registering just to run in, loot as many bodies as they can in one day, and leave with no intention of returning. With numerous bonuses, even those rogues might be inspired to do real work. However, Atticus pursued this burden for something other than money, though extra coin is something he wouldn't necessarily turn down. He will find the source of the mist and destroy it, or die in the attempt. That's what he decided for himself the second he mounted his horse and rode to the barrier.

The somber knight leaves Zenith Gate's headquarters and enters the inn directly across the dirt path. Upon entry, he finds himself immediately inside a lobby, facing a counter managed by the middle-aged, bespectacled male innkeeper of greying hair and beard. Like headquarters, some Mistwalkers are scattered around the entrance, talking of various subjects amongst themselves. To either side of the counter is a doorway; the left leading to the men's half of the inn, and the right leading to the women's half.

“Looking for a room, sir?” The innkeeper says from across the lobby, beckoning Atticus to approach the counter. He obliges.

“Depends.” Atticus replies. “How do your rooms compare to a tent?”

“Well,” the innkeeper begins in a soft voice, “To begin with, I think the word 'room' is an overstatement. To make as much use as possible of the available space, our rooms are little larger than a pantry.”

Atticus leans to his left and peers into the men's side of the building. Indeed, each “room” seems to be a mere broom closet with thin walls, barely large enough for one cot. They don't even have their own doors, either; merely a slideable curtain hanging from the top of the threshold. However, there's easily two dozen rooms stuffed into the area, organized in rows separated by thin walk paths, so the idea of fitting as many people into the building as possible seems to have worked.

“We offer a cheap rate of fifteen copper a day, which is how much you make from a venture of three hours into the mist.” The innkeeper continues. “But of course, if you have your own tent and wish to save money, you're more than welcome to set yourself up in the back yard for free. We understand that the cramped nature of our establishment doesn't fit everyone.”

The knight ponders his options. The tent he has is small and not much of an improvement over the rooms here, if it could be considered an improvement at all. However, he isn't keen on being stuffed in an area almost shoulder to shoulder with so many strangers who may or may not be boisterous through the night, and having to pay fifteen copper per night for it.

“I think I'll have to opt for my tent outside. Apologies, innkeeper.” Atticus humbly announces his decision.

“It's perfectly understandable, sir Mistwalker.” The innkeeper gracefully accepts the rejection. “Should you ever change your mind, I'll still be here. My name is Ricard.”

“Thank you for the offer.” The knight expresses his gratitude with a nod, and quietly returns outside.

Atticus resumes his introduction of the settlement area by entering the tavern and eatery south of the inn. Inside, many Mistwalkers are talking loudly at their tables, with a few making merry to celebrate yet another journey into the fog that didn't end in violent demise. Two young women are constantly going back and forth between tables and the kitchen to deliver food and drink to the famished and thirsty fighters of the abyss. Again, the knight's armor draws some attention from several other individuals, but he makes no fuss over it and walks to the counter manned by a bulky fellow of short, dirty blonde hair and a bushy mustache. Behind him are kegs of different liquids and a vast collection of fruits, vegetables, and bread.

“You new here?” The man asks in a deep, booming voice.

“I am.” The knight replies monotonically.

“Figured. If I had seen you before, I'd have recognized that armor.” The large man states with a rub of his chin. “Name's Tarvus. I'm the manager of this place. Our selection of food and drink is behind me. Take a look and tell me what you want.”

Atticus closely examines the library of foods and kegs. Among the selection of fruits are apples, oranges, grapes, bananas, peaches, pears, strawberries, blueberries, pomegranate, and more. The selection of vegetables is equally as vast with carrots, corn, potatoes, lettuce, garlic, peppers, yams, beans, peas, cucumbers, and others. The several wooden drink kegs are labeled mead, ale, wine, and water. Finally, there's also a collection of breads in different shapes, sizes, and grain.

“Do you do any cooking here?” Atticus asks.

“Not me, personally.” Tarvus responds with a shake of his head. “However, we do have a chef in the back, so it's an option, for an extra fee. Some people buy the ingredients and just cook for themselves outside.”

“Do you have any meat?”

“Yes, with the chef. Feel free to head back there and check it out yourself if you want. I'll warn you though, our meat's a bit expensive.”

“Why's that?”

The large manager shakes his head. “It's not local. When the mist moved in, livestock farms in the area went crazy and cows and pigs stampeded southward along with other big game to escape the oncoming danger. So our meat is sent from much further south, past the capital, and when transporting meat, they have to be kept cool by ice arcane stones, which slowly drain and need to be recharged.” Tarvus heaves a sigh. “The whole logistics of it all is quite tiring. The mist absolutely fucked the livestock business, but in addition to that, there's dozens of farms past the wall that were swallowed up. Some of them were specialty farms that were the sole source of certain fruits or vegetables. There's a reason we don't have pineapples or coconuts and such here.”

“A complicated matter indeed.” The black knight sympathizes.

“If we can't get rid of the mist reasonably soon, Yhordran might encounter a food crisis.” The bulky man's face becomes dark. “As grim as it sounds, the only thing pushing it back is the fact that there's less mouths to feed as more people die on the opposite side of the barrier. 'Complicated' is putting it very lightly. Even if this mist stays contained, it could still be a catalyst for greater problems.”

“What exactly is taking so long for the source of this blight to be found?”

“Apparently, the closer you get to the center, the greater the threats are, and the lower your chances are of survival.” Tarvus bluntly explains. “It's assumed the center is at or around Armasstadt, which is about four hundred miles north from here. The northern-most checkpoint established by the Yhordran Legion is merely half that distance. Very, very few people have made it past the mid-point and returned, but absolutely no one that we know of has made it all the way to the Armasstadt border.”

Atticus becomes pensive. This task he's undertaken is truly dangerous, and this new information paints a dark picture of his chances of success. Six months, and even the Yhordran Legion can't make it past half way in? No doubt that this bleak news would turn away many people if they heard it and drive them into a sense of dread and hopelessness. He thinks back to those recent reports he heard of suicide pacts, and begins to understand why they did it. No doubt it would seem like a favorable outcome than watching your world slowly eaten away by an unexplainable plague. Yet, at the same time, Atticus also feels more motivated.