Easthaven

Hjollsted pulls close to Reòthadh, his own cloak pulled low over his bruised face. "Quickly now! I fear that this trip may have been a waste..."

The old shaman sucks in his breath as a heavily armored figure steps into their path. "That is Jerrod!"

Jerrod. Rumored to be the reincarnation of a fabled hero of old, this man stands solidly in full plate armor, his features hidden by a steel visor. A definite aura of power surrounds him, a blackness that nibbles at the corners of Reòthadh’s eyes. This is no mere chieftain grasping for the right to rule a few tribesmen....

This is a king.

The clink of metal rings through the air and cuts through the din as Jerrod settles a gauntleted hand on the pommel of the sword hanging from his waist. The visor turns from side to side as he searches the crowd, and then the cold gaze settles on Reòthadh. The hand tightens on the sword’s hilt, and Reòthadh feels his own weapon, Aihonen’s enchanted blade, tug against grip as though attempting to fly away of its own accord.

.

Aihonen’s sword tears free from Reòthadh’s grip and cuts through the air toward Jerrod. It stops just before the armored man, and then revolves slowly above the ground as he examines it. The visor turns back to Reòthadh, and the dark aura around Jerrod deepens. It looks as though he is summoning power for another spell.

Reòthadh casts Hold Monster at 5th level targeting Jerrod and heightens the spell DC 17 Wisdom.

"Sorry, but this sword is still needed."

The dwarf runs to grab the sword and prepares to run for his life.

Reòthadh’s spell takes hold on Jerrod and the floating sword falls to the ground. As the dwarf sorcerer moves forward, he feels a surprising mental strength fight back against his paralysis magic. The enchantment is unlikely to keep Jerrod incapacitated for long.

Indeed, as Reòthadh snatches the sword up, Jerrod’s helmeted head begins to track his movements once more. This close to the armored figure, Reòthadh can see icy blue light shining fiercely between the slits of the visor.

"Reòthadh!" Hjollsted’s voice comes from nearby. "We must go!"

The nearest tribesmen begin to mutter and heft their weapons, eyeing Reòthadh and Hjollsted.

"Indeed, a bear knows when to leave the honey to the bees."

Reòthadh uses the dash action and runs his full movement if possible. As a bonus action he quickens hold monster on Jerrod as he runs.

"Tell this dwerf, friend, should we teleport away?"

As Reòthadh turns to flee, Jerrod’s sword lashes out at the dwarf’s back (If Reo does not cast Shield he takes 13 slashing and 25 necrotic damage).

Reòthadh’s spell takes hold once more and Jerrod freezes in place. The other tribesmen, however, charge after Reòthadh with bloodthirsty cries.

Hjollsted tries his best to keep up with Reòthadh, but the old man is breathing hard from the beatings he has taken today. "You cannot outrun the Tribe of the Elk! They will be on us soon." Even as he speaks, a volley of javelins falls among them. One pierces Reòthadh’s armor (Reo takes 8), and Hjollsted gasps as one strikes his shoulder and another his leg (Hjollsted takes 13). "Do what you must! Perhaps if they take me prisoner, I might speak with one of their leaders before they kill me."

Reòthadh casts shield.

"We are going together, a dwerf will spare Tempus the trouble of bringing yeh back."

As the warriors approach circling round the elderly heroes, Reòthadh holding a small winter flower in hand, the temperature in the air drops as frost covers the grass. With the sound of cracking ice, Reòthadh and those that chose to go with him find themselves back at their own camp, beaten and bruised, but living.

Reòthadh casts teleport and targets his allies.

Their charge is interrupted when they come up on a large campfire, where a trio of tribesmen stand with weapons drawn. The foremost of them raises a morning star high, and Zenithral and Alalla realize they recognize both the weapon and the man holding it. This is Bjornegar, of the Tribe of the Elk.

He puffs out his chest in challenge. "Halt! Lay down your weapons!"

Nym’s sigh is one of impatience and disgust. "We don’t have time for this nonsense. Kill them and move on!"

"Shut it, Nym," Al hisses before making her voice crackle with thaumaturgy. "We are on the business of your Chief of Chiefs, and Chieftess Tansia besides. This is your only chance to let us by before I make you."

Bjornegar blinks against the firelight. "I know you... Two of you, at least." He glances at the other two tribesmen, then nods his head to the side. "Let these ones by."

The three step aside.

"Surely you could have killed them more quickly than that... But if you want demons to overrun the North, that's your call. Well, let's see if we can make up the time... This next part could be tricky."

Alalla ignores Nym and continues through, pushing past the barbarians almost before they have time to move.

Ilmadia follows in their wake. "He's not wrong..." come her first words since leaving the cave. Zenithral is not sure whether he was meant to hear them or not.