“I didn't mention this last night, but...” Royd continues, his demeanor slightly shifting to something more gloomy. “I don't have a lot of confidence in my fighting ability, nor my survival skills.”

“Don't you live near the woods?” The veteran asks. “I would've figured your survival skills would be fine.”

The woodcutter shakes his head. “I do, and I hunt occasionally, but being stuck in the middle of hundreds of square miles of hostile land where things are ready and willing to kill me isn't really comparable to hunting deer every three weeks. I may have strength, but I don't have any battle experience. I just cut wood.”

“I am a bit surprised that a man built like a castle such as yourself didn't join the Legion.” Veros comments. “With the right training, you would be a very formidable knight.”

Royd lets out a small sigh. “I probably would have joined them if I didn't have my daughter so early in my youth.”

Veros lifts his eyebrows and becomes perplexed. “Daughter? You have a daughter?” He asks. Atticus, still quiet, looks equally dumbfounded.

“I do. She'll be fourteen soon.” The burly fellow answers with no hesitation. His eyes move up towards the ceiling as he begins to reminisce. “Fourteen... They always say your kids grow up fast, but you never truly understand it until you see it for yourself.”

Still clearly vexed, Veros leans forward and inquires further. “Not to pry or anything, but you've never mentioned her until now. Why's that?”

“Well...” Royd's expression changes to show bit of dejection. “Every time I think of her and her mother, I get the feeling of wanting to turn around and go home.”

“I imagine they didn't react well to your decision of coming here?”

The burly man becomes wide-eyed in fear. “Oh, the verbal lashing I received from both of them would make even the gods shiver in their thrones. But after their tantrums subsided, they came to terms with the fact that I'm just the kind of person who doesn't like seeing others suffer. This mist isn't going away if we just sit around and let other people take care of it. Like I told that bald rogue last night, if everyone thought like that, then nothing would get done.”

Atticus quietly admires the woodcutter in his unflinching desire to take risks that others won't for the good of the people. Even though the musclebound man has the strength of a fully grown bear, even he has his doubts about this journey and loved ones he wants to see again, but he truly feels that if he doesn't put his foot forward and get his hands dirty, then who else can be trusted to do so? The three men continue to gaze longingly at the slabs of meat held above the fire pit, which are just about ready to be eaten.

Meanwhile, Zyra is standing in front of the large manor that dwarfs the surrounding homes – the building where Lena currently resides. The pyromancer stares at the front door, uncertainty washing over her expression. She feels like she needs to talk to the chief for some reason, compelled by no force greater than the fact that she's a former university teacher who can probably give some worthwhile advice for surviving in the north.

“You need something?” A familiarly feminine but coarse voice interrupts the pensive mage's thoughts. She turns to see Misha approaching her.

“I was just wondering if the chief was currently in.” Zyra, slightly panicked, comes up with a believable excuse on the spot to avoid looking strange.

“I think she is. I'll take you to her. Come.” Misha walks past the pyromancer, beckoning her to follow as she walks to the front door and opens it. With no reason – or chance, for that matter – to talk, she complies. “She's usually in her room in the back. Follow me.” The tomboyish Mistwalker beckons further as she continues to the area behind the two large chairs overseeing the hall.

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As Zyra follows, she admires the interior of the building as she did yesterday. She gazes at the giant deer horn chandelier, the ornate rug underneath the long, sturdy wooden table in the center of the room, and the fancily-carved patterns along the legs and armrests of the thrones. When they cross the doorway leading to the back room, they're immediately greeted by the sight of Lena sitting at a desk, intently writing on sheets of paper, almost as if in a trance.

“Chief?” Misha speaks up to get her superior's attention. “The mage girl's here to speak to you.”

Lena looks up to see Zyra, standing behind Misha and still somewhat nervous in the presence of the six-stone master of healing magic. The elegant elder woman stands and greets her visitor with the amount of grace one would expect her to display.

“Well, if it isn't Zyra Wedwick. What brings you by?”

The young mage timidly steps forward. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about going north.”

“Is that all?” Lena slightly tilts her head forward, suspecting there's more to it than that.

“I also want... advice... on various things.” The young pupil hangs her head in embarrassment at her inability to speak coherently in such esteemed company. The chief, however, doesn't seem to mind.

“I see.” She nods with a smile. “Misha, could you give us some privacy?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Misha replies, and she promptly exits the room.

Lena takes a step closer and softens her voice. “What is it that you want to talk about, dear?”

Several questions swim in Zyra's head about various subjects, but she decides to get the most obvious out of the way.

“Why... are you here?” She asks somewhat meekly, but her eyes burn with curiosity.

“A few reasons, I suppose.” The chief wastes no time answering. “Firstly, I didn't like how the university staff turned its nose up to the situation here in the north.” She heaves a tiny sigh, clearly not remembering anything fond about the predicament. “They're all so resentful towards the crown for taking so many arcane crystals to erect the barrier. I guess I can't really blame them, as it almost halted the curriculum for so many classes and slowed the admission of new students, but it's for the greater good. Most of the board of masters are more upset about slower income than slower teaching.”

“Is helping to quell the mist really such an unpopular stance among the staff?” The young mage asks, her brow furrowed upward in concern at the apathy of the teachers.

Lena nods. “Unfortunately, yes. Some believe that the mist is magical in nature and in taking the arcane crystals to make the barrier and slow the curriculum, they're slower to find a way to stop it. So they've essentially decided to sit on their hands as some form of protest. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, yes?” She smiles bitterly at the pitiable problem plaguing university politics behind closed doors.

“I figured mages didn't bother because most of them aren't commoners who might need the Mistwalker wage.”

“I don't doubt that's a common reason among students. I can only speak for the university faculty, though.” Lena turns around and goes back to the chair at her desk to make herself comfortable as she recalls her journey. “After I made my decision, I left the university and went north. I'm a six-stone healing mage, so I figured I could be put to good use somehow. I spent some days healing exhausted and wounded Mistwalkers at Zenith Gate before I recruited some individuals and finally entered the misted region to go north myself.”

Becoming increasingly interested in the story, Zyra unwittingly leans her shoulder against the wall. “What made you fortify Terrance and turn it into a Mistwalker-run checkpoint?”

“As you know by now, the Legion stopped setting up checkpoints halfway into the area for unknown reasons, leaving Mistwalkers to fend for themselves for the remaining two hundred miles. I met Captain Roderick at Rosemont and asked for his help fortifying Terrance, as it was the perfect distance away to act as a new checkpoint. With his help, I was able to organize a constant stream of provisions.”

“You said last night that you're using your own bracelet to power the arcane barrier around Terrance...”

“Would you like to see it?” Lena interjects with an enthusiastic invitation before the young mage could finish her thought.

“Absolutely!” Zyra accepts with equal enthusiasm, not at all bothered by the momentarily redirected conversation.

The chief stands. “This way.” She walks through a door at the back of the room that leads outside to the manor's backyard.

Immediately to the left is a staircase that leads to a second floor veranda that overlooks the northern side of Terrance. Up there is a single Mistwalker sitting on a wooden stool, guarding a table on which a metal plate is resting. On that plate is a bracelet with six glowing green stones embedded into it.

“Amazing.” Zyra is in awe at the magical accessory. “None of the first year teachers have a six-stone bracelet yet. This is my first time seeing one up close, and my first time seeing one power an arcane barrier.”