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[h2][color=darkorchid][i][b]Victoria Belmont[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=9932cc]Half-Elf, Bard, Level 3[/color][/b][/i]
[color=9932cc][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 23 / 23	[color=9932cc][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 15	[color=9932cc][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=9932cc][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Avonshire Township 
[color=9932cc][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
[color=9932cc][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] [color=black]Morty[/color]
[color=9932cc][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
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[right][img]https://i.ibb.co/gJmht9Q/Victoria-Post-Funeral.png[/img][/right]
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	The intriguing possibilities of what she suspected lay to the south drew Victoria's attention. It made sense that the Honey Barn would be the perfect spot for an afterparty (and an excellent place to pick up some extra spending money while simultaneously showing off; two pastimes of hers). The place was not dissimilar to other, similar establishments with which Victoria was familiar, the vast majority of which had a closing time well beyond that of more respectable places. 

	Yes, Victoria wanted to head that way, but she was being followed by an animated hog which was pulling an errand-cart full of bottles of alcohol. Considerations beyond the mundane logistics of what she might do with her belongings aside, she simply didn't want to bring that many loose bottles of wine into a place of abject hedonism in the middle of a celebration. More bluntly, she didn't feel like sharing with the locals. So instead of braving the side streets of the Township by her lonesome (except for Morty, of course), Victoria took the better lit and more familiar path of the main thoroughfare west, to the fountain in the center of town. 

	There were very few people out and about at this time, at least relative to the hubbub that buzzed about the town before. A few late nighters headed east, to the Madame Marcie's place, Victoria imagined. There were a couple of odd looks at the strangely decorated Bard as she sauntered past the splashing and gurgling stone centerpiece on her gently curving route south. She shined them on with a look, an expression, or a wave in a display of disarming social agility, as was her bailiwick. So without regard to being a lone Half-Elf of stunning, nigh deityesque qualities wearing death cosmetics being followed by a hickory-smoked abomination toting a clinking cart full of wine in the middle of the night, Victoria was completely unmolested by the populous at large thanks to her subtle and shiny powers of unspoken persuasion. One even stepped out of her way with the tip of a hat and a polite bid of a pleasant evening before stopping to pet Morty. It was a little unsettling. 

	Curiosity concerning the fountain and its place among a township whose greatest claim to fame was agricultural trade got her wondering about what source of water fed the thing, how it had gotten there, and where the water went following its ascent and descent. Careful watching and listening, even while walking by, gave a fast indicator of signs of a drainage system along the main streets' sides. Curious little point. It must have been the river itself, utilizing the very storm drains that kept the town from flooding. She would file that tidbit away for later. Any more conjecture on this thought was suddenly smashed by someone greeting her in passing. It was a familiar face, sort of, which gave a familiar if not amazingly accurate greeting of, [color=darkgray]"Morning'!"[/color], startling Victoria out of her thoughts. The man continued, [color=darkgray]"Nice day for fishin', ain't it?"[/color] followed by a genuine sounding chuckle of, [color=darkgray]"Huah huh!"[/color] before he and his grand, sturdy fishing pole continued on in the night to whatever business called him hither. 

	Victoria was content to label this one of the oddest nighttime strolls of her adult life thusfar and simply continued to her ultimate goal - the hayloft, that she might store her ill-gotten wine and the cart which bore it. She tried to ignore the sounds of novice voices singing about (if she got this correctly) women with large posteriors floating from behind the fog, somewhere to the west of her. 

	And so Victoria found herself now outside of said loft, one tiny pull-cart and sides of pork poorer, yet again reviewing her options.