What drives a man to walk into danger knowingly; to keep his pace steady, his head high, his gaze focused and his sword ready? One could say many things about the spirit of man but none more true than this; man is weak, but resilient. And in this resilience shines the feint glimmer of hope. But as the saying goes; the brighter the light,<span style="font-style: italic">the darker the shadows around it grow</span>. And so here stands Caspian, Forrosian Knight and cursed undead, looking upon the darkest of shadows; the Fog. Its colorless presence engulfing the horizon in its entirety. It sits steady, calm and silent as if mocking the rest of the world, or perhaps just Caspian. It taunts him with the memories of the comrades it took from him. The horrid demons that spewed from its womb and relieved them of their souls, consuming them to increase their already potent power.<br/><br/><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">~ Mirrah ~</span><br/><br/>Caspian exhaled softly and motioned his horse to move forward. Below him in a  small valley sat the city of Mirrah. Its clay buildings carved into the valley walls, facing inwards almost perfectly mirroring each other, no doubt a contribution to its name. Mid-day was upon the city and the upper most floors of each building held a large cloth awning that was spread out to shade the streets below, since the presence of any vegetation was lacking, so was the shade. From this distance the city merely looked like a pin needle in comparison to the Fog. Caspian pushed down into the valley, entering the city from the back end roads.<br/><br/>Looking around Caspian could see there wasn't much for activity in the streets. What used to be a city that was a central trading market bustling with venders, mercenaries, knights and even royalty; now sat dormant, empty and dirty. On the main street only two vendor huts remained, and one was nothing more than a pile of wood and rubble. The other hut shaded a decrepit hag in tatters sitting on a rug, surrounded by dusty pots and trinkets. Caspian dismounted his steed and paced over to the merchant. "Hag..." he spoke, his low scruffy tone authoritative and heavy on the Forrosian accent. "...speak." he commanded, glancing at his surroundings before letting his gaze fall heavy on the old merchant. "Heh heh heh heeeeh..." she coughed and cackled, struggling to find her withering voice. "You wish to know what happened here, eh? What difference is it to you? You're just passing through..." she waved her bony hand and shook her head, her tone emphasizing the latter of her response. She cackled again, stopping only to catch her breath enough to cough. Caspian scoffed and grimaced, but said nothing. He tugged on the reins of his horse and began down the street again. "Only death in that direction. The others had nary a shred of hope, and so shall it be the same for you!" Another burst of forced laughter, Caspian kept his pace. "Shred of Hope?" He thought to himself, "That's all I need..." Caspian smirked. His pace quickened and eventually the edge of the town opened up to a dirt road and at its horizon sat the Fog, ominously beckoning Caspian to its doorstep. And he would not have his host wait.