The City of Pluto was located in an extremely strange region that rested at Muspelheim’s easternmost point.

Beyond here lay a putrid sea, and life in the surrounding land was near non-existent.

There were no Sanctuaries hosting animals and plants, not anything of the sort, and there weren’t that many Bronze or Silver Class Cities either.

The solemn truth is that for the most part there was only Pluto itself standing alone as a fortress facing the ocean.

There was no farmland either, but plenty of beaten paths showing frequent treading by carriage and foot betrayed their source of food and water.

What few Bronze and Silver Settlements there were therefore all acted as checkpoints along these paths.

White curtains waved in the wind as men and women wearing black clothes and beaked masks walked to and fro.

Throughout the city there was not one person left unadorned by these masks.

Behind one of the many white curtains a woman was crying as she held the hand of a man whose body was half turned to stone.

Grey coloured gas spread out from his pores, the men inside the room used their Ash to isolate and extract what they could and trap it all in containers.

Even so, all that the best of doctors could do for this man was ease his coming end, and it was an extremely horrific way to meet one’s maker regardless of their efforts.

Before long, the woman felt her lover’s hand fall limp in her grip.

Her wailing cries only grew ten times with the revelation that followed.

The Lord, Mortuus Vir of Pluto, marched through the fortress-like streets with a host of subordinates swarming him at all times.

Being the sole Platinum Class man left alive in this city, he alone walked about with his face yet unmasked.

He alone was resistant, though not immune, to the effects of that horrible grey gas.

He took stock of the dead, then took measures in accordance.

That had long become his most familiar routine.

The man then walked out into a large open space located on the roof of what one could argue was his city's main mansion, and then he stared out across the sea.

He took a puff of smoke from his pipe, every day he inhaled that abnormal grey gas and tried desperately to have his superhuman body come up with some form of workable antibody.

Such things he'd done before, but this alone it never seemed to cure.

He beheld it then, and for the thousandth time, a scene which would stop most men’s hearts cold.

There was a fog out there blanketing the lifeless sea in grey.

The sky was ominous as the clouds covered it till miles away, it was their nation’s great fortune that Pluto’s men and women had for generations stood here to stop this fog from advancing into their lands.

He exhaled and then crossed his arms, a puff of grey smoke turning the flowers about him to solid stone.

Soon he would have to depart this city and join Rusalka’s forces on the North-Eastern shores, he'd been summoned to hold off Nidhogg’s army and he couldn’t stay here for much longer despite wanting to do all he could to help the worsening state of things.

This was his home after all, and here was his battlefield.

Sadly medics were needed in war and his people were pretty much universally skilled in that field, even those nominally called soldiers were more skilled in the scalpel than the sword within these walls.

He glared into the abyss before him and then removed the smoking pipe from between his teeth.

His arm clenched, he swept it forward and sent a powerful stream of Ash into the air scattering a straying stream of that twisted grey mist.

Day and night, down to every minute, he had men stationed on the walls to do just this job and force the fog back.

Fortunately, he was present now, for he knew, as they all did, that they took heavy losses every time he was not on call to do the job himself.

“Its coming faster nowadays,” He muttered, “And it’s getting harder to drive it off.”

The conundrum troubled him every waking moment.

What could be done to stem this tide? He did not know.

His grandson Aer and Granddaughter Pileus had to be moved to the Bronze Class Settlements recently alongside all the other children because of this.

He continued to ponder solutions, like he did every year, but sadly, like always, he could only come up empty.

He huffed, removed the pipe from between his teeth, and then turned to face an unassuming corner.

The next instant saw the wind roar like thunder as Mortuus’ Ash slammed into the wall of the building behind him.

He struck that corner with a great amount of force.

“You’re not one of my people,” He said to the presence he detected there, “I warn you, my mood is not good, so do not sneak about any longer.”

His firm gaze caused the figure that lurked in the shadows to resign itself with a casual stride.

He heard steps, like wood clapping stone, and then watched on in cautious silence as the man emerged from that shadow bathed corner.

“Colour me impressed,” Said the figure, who was clad head to toe in pitch dark clothes.

The casual observer wouldn’t fail to recognise him as a man of Pluto, but Mortuus was no casual observer.

“How’d you notice?” Asked the man, who turned to face the grey wall of mist.

Mortuus glared in silence upon the Knight of Cain before him.

He didn’t tell him that Rusalka had sent out warnings all over the nation, he didn’t tell him that he’d given himself away by biting onto his bait so readily, he didn't tell him anything.

“Not one for words I see,” Said the Knight of Cain.

The black robes fell away to reveal a silver figure, the mask hit the dirt, showing a face with Alfheim's fair features.

“I have always been curious,” Said Mortuus with a cold tone, “Why people like you exist? Why you do what you do? I wanted to ask, if I ever got the chance.”

The Knight lost himself for a moment, he wasn't sure how to reply, or what had even been asked of him truth be told, and so he tried to think.

After a while he answered with clarity by pointing towards the wall of mist.

“Because of that,” He said, “And things of that nature.”

Mortuus, for his part, shot the man a doubting frown.

He did not, however, find the truth all that surprising.

He knew the men of Cain were against the gods who ruled this world, this much confirmed a theory of his.

“So Rudolph was right,” Said Mortuus, “That mist is the doing of a god?”

The Knight of Cain shot the Lord of Pluto a knowing look.

“It seems you and your ilk understand the tyranny of the gods just as we do,” He said as he peered towards the great mist, the wall of petrifying power that was ever flooding forth from the distant continent of Niflheim; and then he decided to face the Lord of Pluto up front.

“Mortuus Vir...I was ordered to kill you but, having spoken to you like this, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Have you now?” Said the Lord of Pluto.

“We can be a useful ally, if you are willing to strike a deal with us.”

The Lord of Pluto said nothing, yet his brow displayed a hint of intrigue.

The Knight of Cain took that as a signal and bid to continue talking.

“If you are willing to help me with my mission...I may be inclined to answer the question that’s been on your mind this whole time.”

The Lord of Pluto cast a doubtful smirk his way, and so the Knight raised the corners of his lips into a smile all his own.

He pointed towards the great mist.

That was enough to make Mortuus curious.

He looked torn for a moment, but ultimately he could not keep himself from asking.

“You will tell me what that is?” The Knight nodded, and in turn the Mortuus bit down upon his pipe with significant force.

That offer was very tempting.

Naturally, however, he knew he shouldn’t be making promises with the enemy.

The memory of his children, as well as their spouses, one by one as they succumbed to the mist that plagued their land haunted his thoughts at that moment.

'You have to know,' His subconscious told him so.

The death of his own wife resurfaced next, and it was the most cruel of visions, so cruel that he found himself being rendered blank for more than a minute, drowning out all surrounding stimulation, a blank void was opened in his perception of time.

All he had left in this world now were his two grandchildren.

He waved his hand, a gesture which told the Knight that he would listen to what he had to say.

“We call that one Fimbultyr,” The Knight told him, “It has other names, the gods apparently call it Igora and Nakha, we’re not sure what those names mean but we suspect it's the same as Herskryn in origin. It's 'Midian', whatever that means.”

The Lord of Pluto smoked once more from his pipe as he pondered the man’s words.

Then he then put the thing away and looked towards the unyielding mist.

“Never heard of him,” He said.

“That surprises no one,” The Knight said in turn. “That mist is born of power beyond mere mortals, it’s a Curse. Some say that Fimbultyr uses that curse to protect the people of his own nation from the world outside, others say he used it to kill his own followers. Either way its a curse that inflicts what the archaeology department of back home calls Rapid Fossilisation.”

Mortuus pondered, and it didn’t take him more than a moment to absorb the meaning of the man’s words.

What was happening to the people infected with this curse wasn’t petrification then? Nor any such fictional thing? Indeed, it turns out it was just a rapidly accelerated form of natural fossilisation.

The body was rarely fully turned to stone before the host died a painful death, and the process could not be reversed or “healed”, these were the key differences from being "turned to stone" on a fundamental level.

They weren't being "turned" to stone, but "replaced" with it instead.

He almost wished it was petrification given that revelation.

The man bit down hard upon his pipe.

For the longest time his ancestors had proposed that perhaps the mist which had threatened their people for so many generations was the curse of a god, similar to the plentiful examples that had been recorded in this planet's past.

However this blight was so different in nature to those his peers and predecessors knew about that many other equally valid theories had been presented over the ages.

“It’s because of things like this that Cain popped up in the first place,” The Knight grumbled loud enough for Mortuus to clearly hear him say it.

“We learned the gods themselves are split into three categories. There are the Einherjar, the Vanir and something we've not observed that they themselves call the Aesir.

Our knowledge of that one is scarce to none, but we believe it to be their king, the name Hertyr pops up from time to time, spoken by the Gods themselves.

This means that even the Gods see this being as a God, a frightful concept, but it's comforting to think that if we can just kill this one, the rest will cease to exist soon after.

As for the Einherjar, they are but servants, former mortal men and women either enslaved by the God or arisen to their service.

When we speak of Gods, we are referring to the Vanir, the Einherjar are closer to 'angels' in traditional meaning.”

Mortuus, who was busy re-lighting his pipe, froze solid at those words.

After that he turned around and faced the creeping mist.

On certain days, ghostly wails and humanoid figures could be beheld within, unlike now.

On those days he could swear that the mist would move with purpose, like an enemy on the march, but he had always just thought it a trick of the eyes.

Because of the Knight’s words, however, he began to realise this was no illusion.

“So what you’re saying is that this mist is composed of Fimbultyr’s Einherjar?”

“You’re a quick study,” Said the Knight.

“Naturally, I have plenty of doubts. For now though, this is an avenue worth investigating, that and nothing more,” The Lord of Pluto replied, “I thank you for this talk, Knight of Cain...it was most enlightening.”

“Is that right?” The Knight said as he turned to face the Lord, “So then, Master Mortuus. What do you say? Will you become our ally? Will you fight with us to purge this evil from our Ymir?”