The day grows more suspenseful as they reach the supposed point where they could run into the greater undead that haunt the region at any given moment. The tension weighs on them with greater heft than any previous day of their quest, as the enemies grow stronger, the mist grows denser, and safe havens provided by the Legion will no longer be seen.

In the afternoon, as the dulled sun comes down from its apex, the Mistwalkers grow weary of the mental strain they've forced on themselves from constant alertness and lingering paranoia of whatever lies beyond the grey veil around them. As they silently desire to finally reach a stopping point at Arrenstead, an odd shadow becomes visible behind the mist directly on their path forward. It isn't advancing towards the team, but instead holding its ground, unmoving.

“Wait.” Veros commands the others in a hushed voice. They leer forward to examine the silhouette before them, but because it refuses to move, no finer details of it can be revealed. “Let's move forward, slowly.” The leader utters.

Their horses take tiny, measured steps, gradually closing the distance between themselves and the unknown figure. As the mist begins to clear, the being's presence becomes apparent: an undead in worn leather armor, with a wooden parma strapped to its left arm, and a shortsword in its right hand, not merely being dragged limply like the undeads before, but gripped with effort and intent.

“Stop.” Veros immediately orders once again, still in a lowered volume. He turns to Atticus to discuss their approach. “I think this is it. He's different from the others. He's one of them.”

The knight narrows his eyes to try and study the undead foe's stature. It stands still, in a neutral stance, but it looks menacing all the same.

“I agree.” Atticus nods slightly without taking his eyes off the ominous corpse.

“He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come to us, though. How should we approach this?”

The knight isn't sure how to answer. He quietly weighs his options. Recalling the story they were told by Misha back at Terrance, he considers the possibility that it could be an ambush with many more hostiles waiting just beyond visible range for a chance to all strike at once. He turns around to look at his teammates. They seem somewhat calm on the outside at first glance, but they're heaving their breaths unsteadily and streaks of sweat moisten their foreheads. They've grown uneasy since realizing the potential threat of the fight that might ensue. Nobody's ready to deal with an ambush.

“I'll go.” Atticus finally responds.

“What? Alone?” Veros inquires, surprised at his comrade's decision to throw himself into danger. “What if there's more of them concealed by the fog?”

“Then I'll yell.” The knight gives such an obvious answer, that Veros doesn't know if he's being facetious or not. “We need to gauge how capable they are in combat. I'll fight it one-on-one.”

“Then when should we jump in to help?”

“When it looks like I'm having trouble.” Atticus gives yet another obvious response as he dismounts his horse.

Veros shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He prepares his sword in case he feels the need to rush in and intervene.

The black iron-clad knight, with his shield on his arm and sword in his hand, begins a slow approach forward by walking in a relaxed manner before stopping about twenty feet from the undead. He quietly traces the grey boundary behind the standing corpse, spotting no signs of other enemies being present. At this closer, more personal distance, the knight can observe the details of the cadaver's half-rotted face. It displays a blank, but hardened expression, very different from the loose, slackjawed faces of previous undead. Its eyes do not blink, and are glued firmly to Atticus, who patiently waits for a sign of movement.

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The standoff grows longer, and the knight considers making the first move. After a few more slow breaths of the heavy, misted air, he takes one more step forward. The undead finally budges with a sudden jerk of its body, lifting its parma and sword into a combative stance. It wastes no time in charging forward with killing intent at the speed of a living person hellbent on murder. Atticus responds by lifting his left arm forward and facing his open palm towards the advancing corpse. His fingers extended and spread, a single fireball erupts from his open hand, hitting the undead's shield in a fiery blast. It doesn't force the enemy to stop, but the spell allowed an opportunity for the knight to evade its charge with ease.

After passing the knight, the aggressive undead immediately turns its body around to face him. Atticus lifts his shield and prepares for a proper fight. The corpse thrusts its sword forward, which is redirected to the knight's left by his thick iron shield. The momentum of the attack throws the creature's body forward, and Atticus follows up with an angled offensive step forward and slightly to the side, allowing for an immediate switch to the undead's unprotected back. With his foe unable to protect itself, the knight takes makes a wide downward swing of his sword to the undead's left leg, lopping it off with relative ease. Unable to find the support necessary to stay standing, the corpse falls face first, putting itself in an utterly helpless position. Atticus finishes the short conflict by quickly switching to a backhand grip on his sword and stabbing it into the defenseless enemy's neck. The cadaver twitches grotesquely for a brief moment and releases and short, repulsive groan before ceasing all movement.

The knight takes a deep breath to collect himself following the fight, and the others approach. They seem relieved at the ease with which their comrade was able to eliminate the threat, though they've taken notice of the fact it could still defend itself with some semblance of conscious thought.

“You did good.” Veros comments. “It could indeed fight, but thankfully it wasn't particularly skillful. It just kept charging.”

“Their adequacy with a weapon while undead probably depends on their adequacy while they were still alive.” Atticus hypothesizes aloud. “Just a guess.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Kellar chimes in. “If he were any better with a sword, he probably wouldn't be undead in the first place.”

“Well, we shouldn't get comfortable with the idea that they're all this unskilled.” Veros responds somewhat curtly.

The knight kneels down at pats down the body in search of a Mistwalker card. He soon finds one folded up in pant leg pocket. He stands up and hands it to Kellar, who reads the details out loud.

“Robert Ingle.” The rogue announces. “First card, second outing. Hit every checkpoint on the way, too. Guess he musta been competent after all. Last stamp was a few months ago, so he's been wanderin' around here for a while.” Kellar tucks the card into the small sack that all the others are being kept in.

“Shall we continue?” Veros asks.

“We shall.” The knight answers as he sheathes his sword and begins to mount his horse once again.

As the team continues their quest northward, the young mage, Zyra, swings her head around to face the foggy area off the road, distracted by something – an extremely faint, distant sound of thumps, like something heavy hitting the ground in a quick sequence. She furrows her brow and examines the endless grey, but doesn't see anything peculiar. Wondering if she's the only one to hear this noise, she turns to her closest teammate, Erik.

“Did you hear that?” She asks.

“Hear what?” The noble responds.

“Sounds from off the road. Seemed like a horse running or something.” The pyromancer turns her head to scan the area again, but nothing emerges.

Erik shakes his head. “No, I didn't. My ears are nowhere as good as my eyes, admittedly.” He also turns to look at the grey boundary around them, simply out of curiosity, but doesn't see anything noteworthy, strange, or out of place.

“Huh.” Zyra groans to herself. “Weird.”

“If a horse were out here, it certainly wouldn't be a wild one.” Erik comments, referring to the fact that any living animal not bound to stay by a human master would have escaped south when the mist showed up.

“Unless it were also undead.” Zyra responds, recalling Misha's story of an undead rider on a reanimated horse.

“Do you want to tell Veros?”

The mage makes a small, contemplative pause. “No,” she soon answers, “I don't think it's a big enough issue to bring up. I guess I could've been hearing things.”

“Fair enough.”

“This fog's gotten so much thicker in the last few days.” Zyra continues, commenting on the nigh impenetrable grey abyss that surrounds them. “Feels like a prison.”

“Purgatory, more like.” Erik responds, agreeing in his own way. “This place fits almost every description of it that I've ever read. Endless grey, white, or black, with an overpowering sense of loneliness and lingering dread.” He looks down to the roadside, taking a mental note of the dull appearance of the grass, whose color has been almost totally sapped away due to the lack of direct sunlight.