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Weather: It's official. You are in the middle of a winter storm. It may be generous to call it a
blizzard, precisely, but it's close. Like the song says, "The weather outside is frightful." And it shows no signs of stopping.
Time: It is nighttime. It
is the right time. And respectable folk would be ending their days, else fast asleep for an early morning. But don't let such trivialities keep your adventurous natures at bay.
Ambience: While the snowstorm rages outside, the Coach House is proving to be a place of nearly cosy respite, the only qualifier keeping it from the exalted descriptor being that it more resembles a roadside tavern than a private place of residence. The taproom and common areas, such as they are, have again grown warm thanks to the recently stoked hearth and kitchen fires. This is sorely taxed as people open the door to allow for their entrance or egress, but otherwise, the Coach House is doing a proper job at giving shelter from the elements. One might require a note of bravery to ascend the exterior stairs leading to the bedrooms on the next floor - or be very light on their feet.
The barrel of recovered brandy sits, spigot installed, invitingly on the end of the bar near the cellar door, nearabouts to the gifted wine from before. Per usual, the kitchen and bar remain adequately stocked for snacks, mealtime, or a late night craving for something potentially flammable to drink. Around the room sit several candleholders and oil lamps, the latter holding varying amounts of grapeseed oil, none of which contains an active flame. The only light in the rooms as of yet come from the blazing hearth, providing more or less bright light in its immediate vicinity but dim at best elsewhere in the area. The same can be said of the kitchen, but the smaller area for the light to cover allows for a greater percentage of illumination in the room overall. As it has been for the last number of moments, the strongest scent in the taproom is still freshly brewed tea, though seasoned firewood comes at a close second.
The interior of the Coach House invokes memories of just a couple of hours earlier. The fire in the Taproom's hearth burns with an intensity that one would describe as adequate, thanks to the ministrations of the younger lady of the estate. The light is dim within these walls but well enough to see by without much issue. Individual lamps and candles remain dark, ready to be of service in the event that more illumination is required. The scent of fresh tea dominates the room here.
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The Taproom of the Coach House was a stir of emotions, admittedly with Lizbeth at its center. It looked like she was trying to hold back another outpouring, though she had presence of mind to allow Baronfjord to take her new short, slashing blade away from her and set it down nearby. A longing look went toward it, quickly corrected as the conversation persisted. She was quiet as the resident Monk told his story, shaking her head as to say
no, she in fact did not know that Dragonborn shed their skins as they grew, genuinely finding it interesting though without immediate words to relay that with certainty. Lizbeth even allowed the one corner of her mouth to curl up slightly. It was barely an expression, but she had seemed eager to hear about the Adventurers' adventures, and this qualified. She didn't seem put off in the least that the bulk of the words were being spoken in Abyssal, simply taking in the information and processing as if he continued in the Common trade tongue of the realms. It wasn't until the conversation was steered back to her situation that what little expressiveness on her face dropped.
"No one told me anything," she began at a whisper.
"I hear whispers sometimes. And sometimes ...I don't feel anything. Not anything at all." Her eyes remained open and locked with Baronfjord's as she spoke, like a life-sized doll making an illicit confession.
The intonation that Victoria was ready to help out the defiled remains of Lizbeth's family friend snapped her out of whatever reverie had her attention in that moment. She insisted on accompanying the corpse and the two magic-using women with the same kind of bubbly interest she might upon learning that they were going to the market, and she could pick out a choice pear from the fruit vendors should she desire to. The switch was near to miraculous. Lizbeth snapped her sword back up from the table and sheathed it, then followed Kosara and Victoria out to the storage area. Apparently, she really wanted to see a "practical and justifiable practice of Necromancy," perhaps learning something in the process. Her time out there was mostly spent shivering and holding her weapon in the general vicinity of Toombes's corpse until it was time to go back inside the main area. This was not to say that she wasn't bright-eyed and hanging on every motion and utterance of both women with whom she shared company.
"So you can talk to them, and move them, and help them," she said on the way back to the main area, referring to the short discussion earlier, the actions of the Unseen Servant, and the ritual casting of Gentle Repose.
"That's good. That's good to know. Thank you. And he can't be made into a monster again? So um... How does 'Ethical Neutrality' work with necromagic? Do you have to have it to use death magic correctly? Is the Unseen Servant an undead servant, too? How can I learn more about this stuff, like, without turning into a monster, too?" She seemed full of questions for the two of them, positively radiating cautious curiosity tinged with determination, in much the same near-obsessive way she had been taking martial training from Kathryn and Urmdrus.
But speaking on the tall and sinewy warrior, as Kathryn entered the building and set to warming herself, Lizbeth was polite enough to offer her a warm cup of tea to go with her glass of brandy, as a further effort to warm her up somewhat. She answered the woman's query as to her condition with an evasive,
"I'm not harmed, I don't think. Thank you." It wasn't long until she noticed the bundle which Kat had carried, wrapped up conspicuously with one of her blankets.
"Oh, thank you for bringing this!" she finally exclaimed, hefting the bundle onto a nearby table and unwrapping it. It was a collection of her personal items as well as her shield, made by their live-in handydwarf. There were the rest of her recently acquired weapons as well, some books, many articles of clothing fit for the season, and a couple of jarred goodies that she was partial to. There were enough bits and sundries to account for an extended visit. Her mirth at getting this bundle from her aunt, by way of her new mentor, kept her out of the conversation that was starting, thanks to Kathryn's briefing the rest of the group. In fact, she was scarcely paying attention sue to this momentary excitement, until the excitement suddenly broke with a realization.
"This is a lot of stuff for a sleepover. Aunt Cecily must intend for me to be away for a while." It was then that she turned her attention to what was being said in the room, though she seemed to have missed most of it.
Even if she wasn't a big, bad Adventurer like these people who had already taught her so much, she might as well make herself useful, considering she was likely to be in their company for a while yet.
"While you're talking, I'm going to fix us something to eat to go along with the tea. Excuse me." There was a little dejection in her voice, but her steps into the kitchen were confident enough. Perhaps she was burying certain realizations by keeping herself busy.
Outside, the storm raged on. Afternoon tea with the Mosswaters the next day was beginning to look unlikely.
