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	[u]Weather[/u]: The temperature continues its downward drift, now incrementally colder than it was a few minutes ago. The absence of the sun it taking its toll in what is already winter, as evident to the now moderate snowfall. The weather is getting noticeably worse.       
     
	[u]Time[/u]: It is a devilish hour of the evening, whereupon most mischief might have been mischief-ed, and one anolg with their fellow conspirators will have found their place to sharpen their knives and plot the next round of mischievousness. Or to put it differently, it's fairly well into nighttime.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The lanterns swing as pendulums, to and fro, fro and to again, as the wind pushes them about. It looks like they might fall at times, but the hook and ties connecting them to their posts do their job admirably enough despite the increasingly inclement surroundings. Snowfall is swiftly covering over the party's footprints from their journey out to the scene of the attack, and footing might begin to get hazardous very soon. Past the seeming safety of the lamplight, the whole of the Vineyard seems dark, but not quiet - wind makes its presence impossible to ignore. 

[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 
[img][/img]	
	The base level animation given to the [i]not quite fully stripped[/i] skull of Toombes, along with his lightly glowing eyesockets, remains a rather unsettling sight as it sat in the invisible hands of Kosara's Unseen Servant. Whatever words it spoke with its otherworldly but still recognizable voice seemed to ignore the sounds of wind and crunch of footfalls in snow. Its words tunneled into the minds of those nearby, unmistakably speaking in the desperate night. 

	Lizbeth held fast to her position, not moving her sword from its ready position but allowing her head to turn from one direction to the other, as if looking for something. The expression that she wore upon her pale face was not that of a child, but a soldier who had seen too much in their last tour of duty and was unable to express it fully until recently. The fact that the skull of someone she knew was speaking did a lot to draw her attention, even if she refused to engage with it directly. 

        Cecily had managed to pull herself to her feet, absently scrubbing the side of her face with her hand. The cold bit at her exposed skin which she attempted to cover as best she might with her cloak and shawl, be it more of a comforting ritual than an overwhelming need to warm herself. Shock at the scene before her, the mature lady's voice was quiet and without much in the way of inflection. [color=darkgray][i]"I'm sorry this happened to you, Master Toombes."[/i][/color] The title was not official as the position was temporary and harvest was done, but she referred to him, or what was left of him, as this anyway. [color=darkgray][i]"Please help us, if you can."[/i][/color]

        The animating spirit of the former Master of Harvest did not respond to Cecily, having been tasked with only answering questions, and from the person who cast the spell in the first place. To wit, a carefully worded question was posed concerning the nature of the weapon which ended his mortal existence, and he responded with, [color=dimgray][i]"...Lizbeth's sword... slimmer. ...your knife... longer. ...material... ...style... same."[/i][/color] 

        The remaining question took more time than was comfortable to pose properly, lest the specifics of the spell yield a loss. But eventually, as the spell itself began to wane ever so slightly, the spellcaster was able to effect a phonetic pronunciation of the last things he heard before death. It was not clear, crisp syllables, but some of it was recognizable - by Lizbeth. Regardless, with the last question answered, the terms of the metaphorical Necromantic Contract were fulfilled, and with the sound of a great, ethereal exhalation, the last of the magic left and he became inert matter once again. 

        To her credit, despite the trauma of the event and another reminder that she spoke a language she shouldn't know, Lizbeth translated as best she could. [color=darkgray]"Sacrifice. Test their abilities. Fun for me. Fear for them. Reminder of [i]something.[/i]"[/color] Lizbeth shook it off, speaking now for herself and not as a translator. [color=darkgray]"It's all I can make out. I don't think Monsieur Toombes heard everything clearly while they were, um, while they were killing him."[/color]