About an hour has passed since the knight's first real encounter with a mist-infected undead, and he is both unsettled and even a bit impressed by how the mist is able to strike a powerful feeling a loneliness and despair into him, even though he knows that hundreds, maybe even thousands of other Mistwalkers are probably wandering the southern area with him at that very moment. For all he knows, a group could be just beyond his range of visibility, but that's how the morale-breaking isolation created by the mist gets to you: by impairing your vision and always making you unsure of what lies beyond the barrier of grey. It could be friend or foe, fellow Mistwalker or bestial abomination, helpful Legion soldiers or a horde of hostile undead. An inexperienced fighter traveling alone would most certainly be undone by desperation if they decide to frantically search for company with little caution.

If Atticus knew it was this bad, he'd have been more likely to join a group, possibly the mage's. However, it's too late to dwell on 'should haves,' so he must remain calm and alert until he either reaches the first checkpoint, or meets up with other warriors of sound body and mind, whichever comes first. Of course, he's planning to cut through the village of Newmanstead to get to where he's going, and he has no idea of what remains of that place. It's either a small hell loaded with walking cadavers, or a ghost town of nothing due to frequent plundering. He's momentarily considered going around, but due to his lack of familiarity with Yhordran, it's far better for him to stick to the road for as long as he can. Getting lost in the mist could be very, very disasterous, and is likely a major cause of death for Mistwalkers.

“Help me!” A desperate cry is suddenly, but faintly heard from a distance away. Atticus stops his mare and scans his surroundings, but sees no one. It was a slightly high-pitched voice, presumably by someone young. He stays still, waiting for a second shout to help him pinpoint the source.

“Somebody please!” The second cry is heard, and the knight determines that it's directly ahead of him.

“Go!” Atticus yells, while whipping Annaliese's reins and nudging her sides with his boots. She takes off at a remarkable speed. She sprints for only a few seconds before someone comes into view: a frantic, panicky young man. He's standing near a second person, who is sitting on the ground with their back against the trunk of a lone tree on the roadside. Atticus stops his horse, and the unknown fellow runs up to him in a despairing frenzy.

“Help me, sir knight! Please!” The boy is young indeed, no older than sixteen at most. His pale face is dirtied and his short brown hair messied. He certainly had some sort of encounter with an enemy sometime recently. He's sweating profusely and his glassy eyes are begging for assistance.

“What's wrong?” Atticus asks with a raised, but composed tone.

“My father! He's wounded!” The boy points to the man sitting at the base of the tree. He has a large red stain on his shirt that's spreading down to the top of his trousers. The knight dismounts his horse, walks up to the older fellow, and kneels to examine his condition. The boy follows suit.

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“What was he attacked with?” Atticus asks as the unknown father continually winces in pain and heaves strained, painful breaths.

“One of those walking corpses stabbed him with a straightsword while we were further down the road.” The boy explains in an uneasy voice.

“How long ago was that?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Atticus notices that the father is wearing no semblance of real armor, only normal cotton clothing. He leans forward and tears the middle-aged fellow's shirt open to get a better view of the injury. It's a messy, large stab wound on the right side of his chest, between two of his ribs. The straightsword that did it might have gone in clean, but it definitely didn't stay still while it was in him. The knight looks up at the man's face. He's very pale, and there's blood dripping from his mouth and off his chin. He suddenly lets out a violent cough that only sprays more blood outward.

“Father, no!” The boy grabs the older man's shoulder, his eyes red with tears. “Sir, please, is there anything you can do?” He begs the black-clad knight, the only person who could possibly offer some sort of relief or advice.

Atticus dejectedly looks at the man's gruesome injury, then back at the boy, and shakes his head. “I'm sorry, boy. His lung is punctured. It's bad. He's not going to make it.”

The boy's mouth becomes agape with disbelief. The tears in his eyes push themselves out and slide down his cheeks. “No... Please, sir, can't we take him back to Zenith Gate? Maybe he can-”

“No.” The knight interrupts the boy's plea. “It's been ten minutes. With a wound like that, he won't last another five. There's no way we could get back to the gate in that time.” He looks at the father's face once more. The life is nearly completely drained from him already. “Just stay with him.”

“But...” The boy wants to argue further, but he looks back at his pale father, barely clinging to life, and realizes it's futile.

The dying man slowly lifts his hand with the last remaining ounces of strength in him, and brings it to the boy's shoulder. He forces himself to utter a whisper. “I'm sorry.” He says. “I shouldn't have brought us here.”

The boy tearfully responds. “No, it's my fault. I forced you to go, and I forced you to let me go with you. You did nothing wrong.”

The wounded man smiles sadly. Tears of his own emerge from his eyes. “Take care of your mother and sister, okay?”

“I will.” The boy immediately replies. “I promise.”

The man, satisfied with his final words, quietly closes his eyes. He breathes in and out, at a measured pace, but they soon become slower and shallower. Eventually, they stop entirely. The boy is crushed, and falls forward onto his dead father's chest, sobbing loudly. His weeping is the only sound that echoes through the eerie fog. The knight pays his respects to the man by removing his helment and giving a silent bow of his head. He stands up and takes a few steps into the road to give the boy a moment alone.

The tragic scene makes Atticus consider how many Mistwalkers traveling in groups have experienced a similar circumstance as this father and son pair have right now. How many have seen their parent die since the mist appeared? A sibling? A cousin? A child? A spouse? The pain of watching someone you love waste away before your eyes is a pain that seizes your soul, twisting and crushing it until the power of time itself eventually makes it let go, which isn't a certainty to begin with. Even if you are freed, a stinging sensation will always remain. It's a pain that Atticus is far too well-acquainted with. His past failure haunts him.