[h2][center][b]Doc Sarel[/b][/center][/h2]

Gerald punched his hands together as the last bit of warmth from the Doctor’s potion left his fingertips. The warmth was replaced by a freezing chill as a wind swept down from the forested valley to the east. Mr. Newcastile rode atop a borrowed nag, who even now seemed ready to buckle, and the beast struggled through the thick layers of snow underfoot. When the train stopped, the imperceptibly long train of warriors and heroes, Newcastile stopped his horse along with it. He brought his scarf over his mouth and nose, and sat stoically atop the pathetic steed as another chilling wind came in overhead. 

As Newcastile began to wonder about the war party’s impediment he was given something else to worry about. A light shot up from several meters ahead and was clearly visible in the sky for all to see. Newcastile worried if that would bring unwanted guests, but he didn’t have too long to dotter. He knocked on the closed top carriage he rode next to with two easy raps. Within moments the door opened, letting the smell of alabaster and thyme out from the hazy warmth of the confines of the carriage. Sarel’s cloth covered arm extended out as he opened it, breaching from the darkness. He stepped out with a wavering endurance as the cool breeze mixed with the enclosed hot air and caused bouts of mist. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and crushed the snow underneath with his heavy boot fall.  Expecting to see Newcastile Sarel glanced around, saw his associate already heading toward the Exemplar’s beacon. 

By the time Sarel arrived with a small crate in-hand, several vials of varying liquids held therein, the rest of the Champions had already arrived; Newcastile stood apart, but near, the group as it converged and spoke. Seral trudged up in his uncomfortable furs, the beads of sweat which once plagued him were frozen to his forehead, he spoke directly to Hopsfield. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hopsfield, I wasn’t able to distill the potion enough to both mass produce and remain effective. I’ll have to start over probably. It’s unfortunate though, because most of the ingredients I need are either buried under the snow or dead for winter. We’ll need…” Newcastile grabbed the Doctor’s wrist, eyed him through the thick hood of fur. 

“There are Barbarians, Doctor.” He said quietly and easily. 

Sarel looked at Gerald, looked at their hands, glanced at the renowned half Elf near him, then smiled. “Oh, well that’s fine. I expected as much, just go around. I’ll have plenty of time to work with this formula then!” Sarel could hardly see the Pheonix or the Vampire but knew they were there. He’d had some time to gather tidbits about each of them. Most of it was unremarkable by his standards, but who was he to judge?

A crashing came from the wooded area and it broke through the silence. Sarel glanced at the direction of the noise, expecting to see a band of idiotic barbarians, or some sort of monster, but in fact all he saw were knobbed knees and snow laden feet. Scanning his eyes all the way up the length of the creature Sarel could tell that this thing, whatever it was, was huge. Sarel considered what it could possibly be, and whether he should be worried about his potions. A moment’s more of analysis set him at ease, this was likely a Troll of some kind. 

Sarel looked around the group, pointed with his gloved thumb toward the giant, feasting creature. “Who invited my mother?” He said with a smile. 

Newcastile eyed the group from within his hood, shook his head, and chuckled only slightly.