The robed individual comes close enough for finer details in his face to become visible, revealing greenish-grey patches of necrotic flesh still clinging to his partially-exposed skull. Isolated strands of hair still poking out of his scalp dance weightlessly in the air due to how thin and frail they've become. He stops walking when he reaches about forty feet off from the group.
“You are... alive... aren't you?” A low, raspy voice emerges from the undead man's mouth. He seems to be as wary of them as they are of him.
Veros glances over at Atticus to wordlessly ask what he thinks. The knight gives a tiny nod of approval, urging the veteran to answer. “We are,” he replies, “and we're here to help. Is this the first time Armasstadt has been approached by living people since the mist appeared?”
With seemingly no reason to doubt his visitors, the man nods. “Yes. For six months, we've had our gate closed. Only the undead have approached during that time, as you can see.” He gestures towards the vast collection of still bodies on and alongside the road. “We weren't sure what awaited us beyond the barrier over yonder, so we holed ourselves up here.”
“Judging by your appearance... It's safe to assume you're undead, yes?”
The necrotic man nods again. “Very. When the mist first showed up, it overtook the city. It was so thick, it suffocated and killed everyone within the wall in mere minutes. It took some time before the stream above reached high enough to create the dome around the area that you see now.” The man extends his index finger and traces it along the foggy barrier around the valley. “But by then, every citizen of Armasstadt was dead. However, some, like me, managed to maintain their minds.”
“Who are you?” Veros asks, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed with curiosity. “And how many others like you are there in Armasstadt? What happened here that caused the mist to appear?”
The undead man lifts his hands, palms forward. “Wait. I know you have many questions, and I'm more than willing to answer them. I have questions also, as we haven't been able to communicate with anyone beyond the dome. No doubt that you're here to quell the miasma, and that's exactly what I wish for you to do, as well. But before we can discuss things, please follow me back behind the wall, so we can close the gate again.”
Without another word, the robed man turns and begins to walk back to the portcullis. The Mistwalkers glance at each other in confusion, but with no other options and the knowledge that the remaining undead inhabitants of Armasstadt are sapient undead – like Lias was – they see no reason to not follow. Thus, they proceed forward, their horses paying little care to the corpses they crush underhoof.
After they clear the open gate and enter the city proper, they see about three dozen other reanimated citizens coming out of their hiding spots along the interior side of the wall, relieved that their guests are among the living. They're a mix of men, women, and even a few children, and due to how heavily decayed everyone is – a few of whom are even missing limbs – it's extremely difficult to guess anyone's age. The six journeyers can't help but frown at the tragic sight of these undead folk who had met such a sudden, horrific fate due to the crazed ambition of a few zealous men.
The robed man lifts his hand to signal to two pairs of other men standing on a catwalk along the interior side of the wall to let down the portcullis, and they comply. The mechanical rumble begins again as the massive gate slides back down, and the Mistwalkers dismount from their horses.
“Thank you for your patience.” The unknown man speaks up again. “Now, we can discuss matters safely.”
“Is everyone here... all that's left of this city?” Veros asks, looking to the heavily decayed faces of the silent, still-sapient undead around him.
“Yes. We're the only ones.” The undead man answers plainly with a somber nod.
“About the corpses outside, is it really so common for other, hostile undead to attack you or try to break in?”
The man nods. “Somewhat. A group of about ten or so tried to hopelessly scale the portcullis about two weeks ago. I can't even begin to imagine how they're driven to do such a thing. My name is Owyn, by the way. Owyn Redgrave.”
“My name is Veros Quintum. These are the my comrades.” He gestures towards the others, who quietly nod.
“Well, Mister Quintum, I'm sure you have many things to ask about the current state of Armasstadt and what led to it, but before you speak them, I do have some questions of my own, as we've been cut off from the outside world for quite some time. Would you mind?”
The veteran shakes his head. “No, not at all. You're probably just as desperate for answers as we are, if not more so. Please, ask away. We'll answer whatever we can.”
“Thank you. First off, how far has the mist spread? And is anything being done to contain it?”
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Veros frowns slightly, as he knows his honest response is not going to be a pleasant one to hear. “The mist has spread... about four hundred miles in all directions.”
“Oh, Gods...” Owyn utters, deeply upset by the news, and the other Armasstadt survivors listening in begin to groan and gasp, as well. “Please tell us it's at least being contained.”
“It is.” Veros answers quickly to calm everyone down. “A giant wall was erected by the crown, hiring thousands of woodcutters and carpenters, expanding all the way from the west coast to the east coast. Arcane barriers along the entire wall are keeping the mist at bay, at least on the land to the south, but nothing's stopping it from expanding over the oceans.”
“Where did the crown acquire so many arcane crystals?”
“Well, I think Zyra can talk about that better than I can.” The team leader looks back at the team's young mage, beckoning her to come forward.
Zyra steps forward. “Uh, hello. I'm Zyra Wedwick, a student at the university.” She introduces herself with an uncharacteristic bow. “The crown borrowed the crystals from the university, which caused a bit of conflict between the faculty and the crown. So, due to the lack of crystals, the school's curriculum has slowed significantly.”
Owyn heaves a sigh. “I suppose that was the only real way to stop it. That's unfortunate to hear, though.” He looks down at Zyra's right hand and notices her bracelet. “You're... a two-stone mage? And you managed to make it this far?” His curiosity piques.
“Uh, yes. I was actually struggling with my performance, and I decided to venture into the mist to try and improve.” The arcane pupil sheepishly admits. “Are you a mage, sir?”
“I was...” Owyn's tone becomes more sullen as he rubs his right wrist unwittingly. “Before I died in the mist. I was headmaster of the school here. I practiced electromancy. When the mist first appeared, it actually overwhelmed every arcane stone we had in our possessions, causing them to explode. I tried to put some back together, but I couldn't manipulate them anymore, not even the tiniest shard.”
“You can't cast magic or manipulate stones since you're dead?” Veros asks for clarification. “I had assumed it was still possible for undead to do it since they're still moving, but...”
“I assumed that, too. But no matter how hard I tried, no amount of arcane energy would budge at my will. Not even the weakest spark. It's said that anything with a pulse can cast a spell, even animals, theoretically, so... that means nothing runs through my veins after all. I wouldn't be rotting away if there were something.”
“Wait.” Kellar interjects. “I don't mean to sound rude or anythin', but... if you don't have a pulse, then how do the undead even move around?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Owyn responds with a shrug. “It's a rather morbid idea, but I've simply come to the conclusion that the mist keeps the undead aware and able to react, but by sheer chance, we were able to maintain our human minds. I can't prove it, as it's just my own assumption, but it's the best idea I have.”
“Damn. That's rough.” The rogue becomes saddened at the idea that the surviving, sapient undead of Armasstadt might only still maintain their remaining humanity thanks to the very thing that killed them to begin with.
“Are there many undead in the villages inside the mist? If it has spread so far in every direction, then it must be sheer chaos.”
“'Chaos' isn't really how I'd describe it.” Veros replies, preparing to give more bad news. “Every village in this side of Yhordran is a ghost town for the most part. The only places that are truly safe to stay in are the Legion checkpoints set up the southern half of the affected area.”
“Legion checkpoints?” Owyn repeats, confused.
“The crown has tried to send Legion platoons through the area to try and discover the source of the mist, going out of their way to construct checkpoints as sort of makeshift bases. But they stopped about halfway in. However, in order to encourage citizens to help with efforts, they conceived a program which allows anyone to register themselves as a Mistwalker, and they receive a wage for venturing into the mist.”
“What in the world?” The decayed man becomes increasingly perplexed. “Why would the crown stop halfway in, only to let commonfolk risk their own lives? I assume you six are 'Mistwalkers', yourselves?”
Veros nods. “We are. We're not part of the Legion in any way. We're operating on our own.”
“Well, that explains why you have a mage with you who hasn't even graduated yet.” Owyn turns his attention back to Zyra. “Zyra, was it? You mentioned there was a conflict between the university staff and the crown after losing most of their arcane crystals. What did you mean by that?”
“Uh, well,” the young mage begins, “most of the teachers at the university have refused to offer any assistance in the quelling of the mist, because their jobs have been made significantly more difficult without crystals to help teach, so it's extremely rare for mages to volunteer themselves to become Mistwalkers.”
“The arcane university is refusing to help?” A masculine voice from the small crowd of undead is heard, followed by frightened, confused, angry murmurs among them.
“Gods above...” Owyn heaves a long sigh. “What a foolish bunch, letting personal politics get in the way of serving the people like they're supposed to.” Growing frustrated, Owyn clenches his fists. “They're god damned teachers, not dukes.”
“Ever since the Legion stopped making regular efforts to push further north, nothing much has changed.” Veros continues. “People sign up to become Mistwalkers, but they're either too ill-prepared or incompetent to survive, too frightened to travel too far, or, in some cases, only registered to ride in, loot bodies and abandoned homes, and leave.”
Owyn slumps his shoulders and rubs his decayed forehead, exhausted from simply hearing what he's been hearing. “This is... awful. Sounds like nobody can distinguish left from right out there.”
“Yes, well, after almost seven months, people are starting to care less and less, accepting an inevitable doom or pushing responsibilities onto others, especially when the crown stopped making any active efforts.”
“We can't waste anymore time, then.” The undead mage suddenly becomes determined. “You're the first living people who have been here since this disaster started. You have to do something about the mist.” He turns towards the castle that stands at the top of the sloped road leading up the mountainside.
“Right. That's what we're here for. I was wondering if you could corroborate some details we received from an undead monk we met back in Adderland.”