Just past dawn of the second day of their mission, the posse of Mistwalkers have eaten a hearty breakfast, re-equipped themselves, and are in the middle of re-saddling their horses to ride out of Checkpoint Eowerth and once again into the near-colorless realm of the mysterious mist.

“The forest will become quite dense as we get closer to Levinburg.” Veros announces for the team to hear. “So don't stray off the road, or you risk getting lost.”

“Aye.” Royd acknowledges.

“Are you sure we can't just go around Levinburg and Tumarda River?” Kellar takes the opportunity to voice his complaints one last time. “Even if it takes all day, wouldn't it still be safer?”

“I'm sure, Kellar.” Veros bluntly replies in an annoyed tone. “And no, it wouldn't. I'd wager that carefully cutting through Levinburg in about forty minutes is potentially safer than spending an extra eight hours in the wilderness.”

“If you say so.” The reluctant Kellar says underneath a sigh.

“Don't worry, Kellar.” Royd chimes in, clearly with an insult ready to be deployed. “Levinburg's a pretty big place. I'm sure you can find extra pairs of trousers to wear after you piss yourself at the first sight of undead. Haha!”

“Oh, I'm not worried.” Kellar, now agitated, obviously prepares to fire back. “A big imbecile like you would be most effective as a meat shield.”

“You'll definitely need someone to shield you, considering your scrawny arms are too weak to carry your own!” The massive warrior belly laughs once more while Kellar comically contorts his face into a combination of frustration and disbelief that he's exchanging discourtesies with Royd yet again.

“Alright, let's not waste our energy spitting barbs at each other.” Veros says as he mounts his horse. “Is everyone ready to depart?”

“As I'll ever be, I suppose.” Kellar begrudgingly replies while he and everyone else climb upon their steeds almost in unison.

“Let's go.” Veros announces, and the entire band quietly and calmly leaves Checkpoint Eowerth to proceed northward to Levinburg.

They cross the magical threshold keeping the mist at bay around the fortified zone, and are immediately oppressed by the dismal atmosphere perpetrated by the fog, once again sapping the color away from the surrounding foliage and limiting visibility. Everyone's demeanor slightly shifts once inside the mist; they're quiet, serious, and alert. They soon walk not even half a mile from Eowerth, and it's already totally obscurbed behind them by both the trees and a seemingly impenetrable wall of grey. Veros is the one who leads the pack forward, with Atticus, Zyra, and Kellar directly behind him, and Royd and Erik at the back.

The knight silently wonders about the group's de facto leader. He's a very composed, smart, well-spoken man who seems to have experience in situations such as this. In fact, he bears the same aura as the knight's superiors back home in Threcia. He's tempted to ask questions, but doesn't wish to pry. He offers the same courtesy Veros gave the previous night by keeping his nosiness to a minimum.

As they press on, the density of Levinburg Forest creates an ominous ambiance due to the trees and plant life blocking out any sensation or whisper of a breeze, and the complete lack of any animal or insect life causing an eerie, uncomfortable silence that is quite unsual for an area once brimming with life. The constant crushing of dirt under the hooves of their horses is the only sound any of them can hear that isn't their own breaths. The thick canopy does no favors for the already-hindered sunlight, forcing it to push through the treetops as well as the mist itself.

“This forest is givin' me the creeps.” Kellar can't help but voice his discomfort. “It's too quiet and the fog and trees are hiding Gods-know-what.” He practically curls up into a ball while on his horse.

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“I don't disagree,” Veros replies, “but don't let it break your morale. Our sight might be limited out here, but as long as we stay on the road, we'll reach Levinburg with no issue.”

“Can't we hurry it up a bit?” The impatient Kellar pleas. “The less time we spend in this... purgatory, the better.”

“Trying to run forward while our visibility is so short would be a bad idea. You said it yourself: the mist and trees could be hiding Gods-know-what, so it wouldn't be very smart to accidentally run into them.”

Kellar urges further, “Frankly, I don't think it was very smart to come here at all, so I doubt our record of good judgement would be blemished much further by pickin' up the pace a little bit.”

With a small sigh, Veros attempts to reassure his uneasy comrade. “We'll be fine, Kellar. We should easily make it to the next checkpoint before it becomes dark.” The fretful bald man begrudgingly halts his complaints and the group travels on.

Some miles later, the band comes across a lone undead on the road, standing listlessly in torn up cotton clothes, and staring catatonically off into the deep forest.

“Hold.” Veros brings his hand up to signal the other Mistwalkers to stop about fifty feet from it. The nameless undead becomes aware of them, slowly turning with its awkward gait.

“So, who wants to take this one?” Royd chimes in with some enthusiasm. “If no one wants to volunteer, I'll take it.”

“Zyra.” The team leader interjects, turning to the mage behind him. “If you don't mind, I'd like you to demonstrate your magic capabilities. We could need them once we enter Levinburg, assuming we encounter hostiles.”

Zyra's usually stoic face shows a hint of surprise. She didn't expect to be put on the spot so suddenly, and it causes her to hesitate for a moment.

“Go ahead, girl.” Royd politely urges her on. “I can get my fill of action later.” Consideration of the brawny man's desire to fight is not the reason she stalls, but she appreciates the encouragement, regardless.

The pyromancer's horse slowly walks forward, past Veros by only a few steps. The rickety walking corpse inches forward with no urgency as its expressionless, greenish-grey, necrotic face utters out low growls and grunts. Zyra raises her right hand towards it, palm forward and fingers spread and extended, and begins to take deep breaths. She stares at the unknown cadaver for a moment, trying to maintain composure, but her eyes grow tense.

“It's alright, girl. It can't attack you from this far.” Royd continues his earnest moral aid. Veros, however, narrows his eyes and raises a brow in curiosity, and Atticus is perplexed as to why a simple ranged spell is taking so long to come out. As a native to Threcia, he knows that as a two-stone pyromancer, Zyra should be conjuring a ball of fire to shoot forward in a near instant, but she's taking her sweet time.

Without any hint of a warning, the lone undead quickly becomes more aggressive, picking up its pace and closing the distance between itself and the mage with increasing speed. Noticing this from the back of the group, Erik quietly grabs an arrow from his quiver and prepares to draw his bow. Veros's eyes dart back and forth between Zyra and her approaching target and he starts to become a touch anxious. Fortunately, a flash of light finally emerges from the mage's hand, and a single ball of fire the size of an average person's fist propels itself from her palm at breakneck speed, sounding like a tiny comet slicing through the air. The strikes the corpse's head with such velocity, that it simply explodes into a hundred gory pieces, like shrapnel of skull shards and brain matter.

Veros heaves a sigh a of relief. “You had me worried for a moment. I thought I had brought along a mage with cold feet. You have good aim.”

“Aye, a fine shot.” Royd offers his commendations as well, with Kellar quietly nodding in agreement.

Erik places the arrow back in its quiver, and the knight moves his horse forward enough to glance at Zyra's face. A few beads of sweat slide down her cheeks, and her breathing is a bit heavy. It shouldn't take that much concentration and energy to cast one mere fireball. Atticus keeps these thoughts to himself for the time being, but wonders about the legitimacy of her rank. Does this have something to do with her persistent questions about pyromancy last night? Maybe she was simply scared? Though he doesn't wish to pry, he's tempted to ask her about it in private when he can.

Veros approaches the now-headless body and dismounts his horse. “We should look for a sortie card. He might've been a Mistwalker.” He kneels and begins to pat down the body, soon finding a folded card in a trouser pocket. “'Gerald Oliver'. He began his first venture into the mist three weeks ago. He didn't get a stamp from Eowerth, though. Strange.”

“So he died before reaching Eowerth, but spent three weeks wandering past it?” Kellar gives his hypothesis.

“Seems so.” Veros responds as he re-folds the card and mounts his horse again. “Let's continue forward.”

Thinking nothing of the poor stiff once known as Gerald Oliver, the party resumes their journey, with the mage wearing an expression of mental exhaustion and guilt on her face, one that Atticus has caught view of. He can't help but assume that it's related to her closed-off behavior in the short amount of time he's been traveling with her.