The coming dawn glows pink over the endless field of barrows that surrounds the Tor. Fresh horses are brought for the girls, as indeed are your own mounts having been secured by the warband as they tracked you. "You will stay close to them and finish your oath to see them safely home" Jarl Henrikson instructs. He barks orders to his warriors, having decided to make a break for the forest to the south to try to get out of the accursed Barrow Lands as quickly as possible and risk the forest eves rather than the unquiet dead. The troop gathers at the foot of the causeway preparing to make a fighting retreat as the forms of scores of skeletal remnants of the ancient Andøvan still shuffle about dimly visible in the half-light. The Jarl's men and women eye the surrounding Barrow Lands nervously, a grim cast to the warrior’s eyes and the barely contained fear of the supernatural on more than one face, at the prospect of a battle against the spawn of Hel.

As you steel yourselves to punch through the masses, an attempt from which most must surely not survive, there is activity. The hordes of shuffling undead part at the base of the causeway, and one dead warrior steps forth in front of the others. The rotting silks and fine cloth still covers his cuirass of bronze below his hollow-eyed skull, though now in the early light you can see that traces of ancient dye still show where his raiment was once of the finest fabric. And he still carries that massive bronze sword of magnificent make, now point down in the earth. It is the barrow king who first allowed you to pass to reach the Tor, and he seems to want something. Fixing its deathless gaze on Mørkedrømevandrer it points to his travel sack where he has stashed the witch's belongings. It lifts its hands to mimic the shape of a necklace and then holds its arm out waiting.