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	[u]Weather[/u]: Juuuuust a hair away from freezing. 

	[u]Time[/u]: Quite late. All the decent folk are already asleep, the rest of you reprobates who are still up and about are probably guilty of something.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The fog remains outside, doing what it does best. Pale light from the nearly full moon diffuses through, giving barely enough light to determine where the street ends and the buildings begin (to normal sight). In some places, where the dim light catches just right, one can see silvery crystals of frost forming in the dense fog, only to disappear in the light, mercurial wind. 

 	The interior of the L'Rose Hayloft is as it was prior; a much darker now, obviously, with what light presently available coming from the brazier in the raised area. The light coming from it is secondary to its use as a cooking area and source of radiant heat, which is mostly kept to the top area. There are several bales of packed hay here, still clean and fresh-smelling, a presently unused lamp, a few barrels, a small cart to one corner, and of course, the block and tackle lift for moving cargo from the ground to the upper level. For those up top, the belongings of Hugh the Monk are still present, as is the strategic sleeping place he set up for himself. No sign of him, however. 

	Down below, the light is not the best in the world, the ambient red-orange glow being the equivalent of dim lighting (being generous). One can still see well enough to navigate. Reading might pose difficulties for now. Luckily for those inside, voices which are readily discernible inside, thanks to decent acoustics. On the other hand, noise from the outside seems to be muffled. One may assume that this barrier to sound works both ways. 

	For now, those in the Hayloft have as much safety and privacy as one might be able to in this town. This sentence could be followed by the suffixes of "you think" or even "you hope", but such bits of heightened awareness must be tempered with the relatively sequestered nature of your little hidey-hole here in Avonshire, and the amount of alcohol [i]some[/i] of you have consumed. 


[center][hider=Neil & Bob's Public House][img]https://i.ibb.co/5vK80t3/N-B-ip.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
	The common sleeping room of Neil & Bob's Public House is much like one would expect. Most of the beds, straw-stuffed mattresses upon simple wooden frames, are taken by locals and/or more then moderately inebriated folk. There are two small candle lamps here on opposite ends of the room, alight but burning low, as if the proprietors only use candles which burn for a short time intentionally. Chests are at the foot of each of the beds for personal belongings though it doesn't look like many of the people here are using them. If you want a decent lock for them, you'll have to bring your own.  

	Three beds are not in use. We will assume that Rickard got a bed early and thusly had pick of which one is his. The other two are toward the center of the room, which no one particularly wanted for reasons obvious or unobvious reasons. Somewhere in the dim, an offputting, baritone sputter erupted from one of the beds on the other side of the room. Nothing else happened at first. A couple of long, quiet seconds ticked by, followed by various groans and the throwing of nonlethal, disposable materials at the source of the offending noise. It's only a short matter of time before the invisible miasma wafts across the room and does things most foul. Be warned. Be wary. [i]Be Prepared[/i].