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	[u]Weather[/u]: The temperature had officially slipped from cool to cold as the sun set, the beams of light cast from the fiery if muted orb being the principle reprieve from the season's general lack of warmth. Without this small mercy, the unseasonable drop in temperature became quite noticeable. If it continues, then the evening will readily mirror the previous one. 

	[u]Time[/u]: It is frighteningly close to dusk. Were it not for the last bit of the day's light illuminating the fog above the rooftops, one could easily assume that night was upon them.  


	[u]Ambience[/u]: The rain had been gone for some time, yet dampness remained in the relative still of the coming evening. It could be seen in the puddles upon the streets and alleyways of the Township, the occasional drip-drip-drip from slick, wet rooftops, but most especially in the return of the oppressive fog which had made its way back to this locale. The retreating orange and purple hues of the evening gave a deceptively soft, peaceful trace of color to the mists rising above the buildings. While one still cannot see townsfolk milling about during what was supposed to be a big festival of Harvestide plenty, one might detect noises coming from a few of the buildings they were passing by. Generally, they did not sound celebratory. 

	One can still pick out motes of smoke and porkfat wafting from elsewhere within the walls of the settlement. The apparent determination of these people was as admirable as it was foolhardy. 

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	The walk back in the direction of the silversmith's shop was not overly eventful, except for the notable rustle of movement coming from the less illuminated parts of their path. It was occasional at first, growing to frequent as one's steps took them further and further away from the perceived safety of camp and public house, both. The source of the sounds never come into anything which resembles a clear view or open space, making identification difficult at best. Very soon the subdued motes of movement become an almost constant companion to those outside, begging a question or two. 

	The fog does not allow for a lot of distance vision, which is perhaps as much a blessing as a curse. After some doing and only one or two missed turns, the exterior side of Mr. Mallard's shop came into view. The overall feel of the location has some differences from the last time it was viewed by the party, mostly due to the darker lighting and fact that there isn't a living soul around to be seen. The dull orange illumination from the small pot forge which could be seen around the cracks is still present and glowing within, even easier to see now that the ambient brightness of the land was fading. Tiny trails of smoke continue from the chimney, and if it weren't for the oppressive nature of the evening it might even seem homey, in its own way. 

	In the distance, beyond what can be readily viewed, the river runs smoothly, casting up the burble of water flowing. Even this does not fully quiet down the movement that maintains distance just beyond that of visual perception. It may be noted that around this building, it sounds quieter and farther off. The moon is clearly visible now, round and heavy, waiting for the last rays of its brighter sibling to depart. It did not have very long left.