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	[u]Weather[/u]: The day is beginning to look overcast; a sheet of building, atmospheric white starting to crowd out the clear blue of the open sky. The wind carries a bit of a chill to it still, this unchanged from the previous hours. It remains a welcome relief from the previous night. Short form - wear a good jacket. Cloaks are nice, too. Stylish, even.  

	[u]Time[/u]: Early to mid morning. This is about the time that people have finished doing what personal business they might have and turned their efforts toward more professional pursuits. A few more festival visitors, emboldened by the increased activity, have ventured into the more public places of the Township.   

	[u]Ambience[/u]: Vision is open and unlimited, the fog having been burned away by the brighter rays of the sun just before the sky became more overcast. Parts of the town are still quiet, as suits their druthers, but others are much more active. The Traders' Market is much more lively now, as goods are moved to and from boats, carts, and the like for transport. Money is changing hands in this beating, economic heart of Avonshire proper. The Farmers' Market is likewise coming to full activity. One close by might hear hawkers a'hawking the fruits of agricultural labor (literally and figuratively) as well as the sounds of tools at work. Individual bartering sessions are had among the working classes. Tents, used as cheap lodging by many, are being vacated for the day. The overnight buildup of litter is likewise being handled here, and the smell of smoking meat hangs heavily in the air, gusting with the capricious winds. 

[center][hider=Brindleton's Woodworking][img]https://i.ibb.co/BGhPhzv/Woodworker-Shop.png[/img][/hider][/center]
	The interior of the woodworker's shop remained as still and quiet as it ever was, with the only noise coming from the pair of adventuring types within its walls. There was a seeming pause as Victoria pointed out the tuft of stringy hair caught on the door lock. Rickard took note of this for a moment, and instead of moving to get a closer inspection as his thoughtful expression might have suggested, the highborn Elf darted back toward the work area within the building. There wasn't an explanation given for the behavior, nor the sudden, voluntary removal of himself from the side entrance except for a genuine but rushed apology, describing a need to hastily look into something by himself. 

	Meanwhile, Marita had decent success taking in the sights and posing the occasional question to local folk who might have seen Victoria about town. It wasn't very hard, considering the fact that her style of dress was unusual for the area, her accent was foreign, and she had some of the most strikingly appealing features that these people had seen in their lives. The fact that she carried a sword and violin made her stand out, as well. Suffice it to say, it wasn't very long until Marita caught full view of a sign on a warehouse structure in the northwestern part of town which indicated that this was indeed the building that belonged to the man Rickard was speaking about the night before. 

	This is confirmed almost immediately when a very surprised Victoria opens the door to see the Cleric standing there. The look of surprise on her face is evident; this was very likely not expected. 



[center][hider=Jacques Mallard, Silversmith][img]https://i.ibb.co/GWcg0WP/Silversmith-s.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
	As the case was plead through the door, attracting even more attention from the morning passersby, a small gathering of locals began to form on the street nearby. There was a muffled sound of something falling to the floor behind the closed portal, followed by an equally muffled, [color=darkgray]"Damn it all!"[/color] A few more seconds pass and the voice roars again, [color=darkgray]"FINE! BACK UP A STEP."[/color] There is a note of exasperation in these words. 

	A wooden sliding sound and a similar hollow thump followed; astute observers might understand that this was a heavy beam used to bar the door against all but the most aggressive of cattle, fitting the standard of establishments which dealt in precious metals. Ominously, ponderously, the heavy wooden door began to open. It only came open a little bit, showing a dim orange light from inside. A silhouette of a tallish form can be made out amid the glow, pulling the door open just enough to allow one to pass. 

	Upon entering, before one has the opportunity for their eyes to adjust to the sudden change in lighting, the voice makes itself known again, this time quieter but no less strained. [color=darkgray]"You have a loaded crossbow pointed at you. Before you do anything else, there are two rings on top of the storage box to your right. Each of you place one of them on your tongue, and let me see you do it. Inspect them however you wish, but do it right now. [i]That, or leave immediately.[/i] Anything different and I squeeze this trigger. Understand?"[/color] 

	The few seconds that it took to deliver this threatening monologue allowed for better adjustment to the lighting. The [url=https://i.ibb.co/Y7DxDVr/Jaques-Mallard-Silversmith.jpg]man[/url] holding the crossbow looked haggard. Tired in a profound way, and nervous. Red rimmed eyes glared with desperate seriousness from above unkempt facial hair that looked like it might have been well cared for, up until recently. The air in shop itself was comfortably warm, if a bit stuffy, and the source of the orange glow is apparent - to one side of the open shop interior is a small pot forge containing a respectable amount of molten metal, under which rested a flameless heat source, putting off light as a hot bar of forge-steel might. The rest of the shop did little to resemble a silversmith's, except for a number of showpieces on a table near the front door. The shelves along the walls were mostly barren, and the main counter had upon it weapons. Simple ones, to be sure, but effective nonetheless. Daggers, a spear, and another crossbow. Behind the counter sat a well made couch, upon which was discarded a blanket and couple of pillows that did not match the furniture, themselves. There were other things here, scattered about almost haphazardly; snatches of writings and various items that looked more at home in an alchemist's or talismonger's shop than one who works jewelry and keepsakes. 

	His stern words pull you back to his initial bidding, [color=darkgray]"Quick about it! Ring, tongue, [i]now[/i]."[/color]