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[center][hider=Southmoor][img]https://i.ibb.co/QnKHXZ8/Southmoor-Poachers-Crest-Map.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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[center][hider=Healer's Cottage][img]https://i.ibb.co/Kjt2pXrP/Healers-Home.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=Southmoor Polytheistic Temple][img]https://i.ibb.co/3mz9PGKN/Southmoor-Polytheistic-Temple.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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	[u]Weather[/u]: The sky lightens just a bit as the sun, without quite the majesty of the warmer months, begins to show itself from behind slightly breaking clouds. It is still mostly overcast, still cold, but at least it isn't snowing.  

   	[u]Time[/u]: It's mid-morning, right and proper. People have began their days in earnest with a respectable amount of "post-breakfast" time having accrued without actually taking us away from the idea of a.m. 

	[u]Ambience[/u]: Snow drifts remain dangerous prospects for those going off of the beaten paths (sometimes quite literally), as the lows don't seem quite as low and shorter obstacles lie in wait underneath a sheet of white. Much as a person carrying something sharp or within a bathhouse, running is discouraged for one's own safety. But this primarily affects those out-of-doors in these uncertain hours. The landscape around the Rose River Vineyard is quiet. Staff remains mostly inside of protected, warmer structures, coming outside only when absolutely necessary. This quiet is aided by the fact that this is, in effect, the "off season" for the Vineyard, bringing present vineyard employees to a minimum. 

	Southmoor is, for lack of a batter term, awake and as active as much as a small, rural town may get in the middle of winter. The sounds of tools of various kinds may be heard, sounding softly from behind closed and shuttered windows, with the exception of some farrier or another shoeing a horse. The relaxed, light pinging of hammer against nail seems to set the rhythm of the area. The ground maintains a respectable amount of snow, though notably without the solid amount present at the Vineyard. Woodsmoke casually travels upward in neat lines until wind diffuses it, giving the area a charming domestic feel despite the cold. Townsfolk greet one another curtly but generally not impolitely as they continue about their day's business. 

	The river stands still frozen, with only the most adventurous of children poking at it with sticks to ascertain its safety for play.   

[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 
[img][/img]	

	The Healer's home was uncomfortably still for a time, as the words unrelated to the topic at hand were left to sit within its walls. Annick eyed Victoria suspiciously, though not any more than she usually might, if all were being honest. [color=darkgray][b]"Yes,"[/b][/color] she coldly replied to Victoria's query into the books she was to transcribe. The older healer walked away and returned with a leather-bound tome and dropped it in front of the Bard with a silence-shattering [i]WHAP[/i]. [color=darkgray][b]"This is a text on surgical tools from different cultures. Match the descriptions with the tools on hand here. Then transcribe. Then clean and polish them when you're done."[/b][/color] It seemed that, with a lack of immediate patients to treat, this was more of a lecture and learning day. 

	Bringing the issue of last night's events marginally back, Annick spoke to her student, [color=darkgray][b]"I saw those books you were hauling around with your violin. Ritual magic, a primer on undead lore, certain religious texts."[/b][/color] She shrugged, as if to shake off the breach of etiquette involved in looking into someone else's things. [color=darkgray][b]"You've got questions, child. Learning all the time, I bet. Try asking something more specific. Something I might have lived through instead of some scholarly history lesson. I'm not about that."[/b][/color] Maybe she was trying to help, or maybe just scold the Half-Elf. It was hard to say which. 

	Back in the Study, Lizbeth looked to Kathryn with a dulled sense of emotion. Her face was not the bloodless pale it got sometimes; more of a look of profound mental weariness. The Prince. This was the question, and though she did not seem to know anything about title, nor of history, she did carry an expression of recognition. [color=darkgray]"I don't know anything about a Prince, Kat. I know that something whispers to me sometimes. The more I become..."[/color] There was a moment of hestitation before she spoke aloud what was essentially an already open secret, [color=darkgray]"...whatever it is I'm becoming, the whispers get louder. I still can't understand, not really. It has gotten worse recently."[/color] She left her words on the subject as such, with a distant stare growing upon her visage that made her look older than her (almost) fifteen years. 

	Lizbeth did not object to the key staying with Kathryn for the time being. In fact, she did not voice an opinion whatsoever, even if she didn't agree that she was an adult. The girl might have been a lot happier were she like other girls from town, worrying about her new smock when the Tinker's boy came around or sneaking away to pick berries out in the moors. It didn't seem fair. But here she was, digging around the belongings of her dead grandfather - her belongings now, technically - just over a year before she really was considered an adult by her peers. 

	The lid to the sarcophagus-like box upon its raised platform took some effort to move, or might have were it not being shoved about by a person of immense physical strength. There was a brief moment of resistance at first, then a grainy sound like grit between moving stones, and a sudden giving way as the lid retreated, revealing its contents. Those contents might have raised questions, in and of themselves. The box, or what could be seen of it inside, contained dirt, two hands' breadth from the top. It was loose, chunky soil, unpacked by time nor by pressure, containing shards of stone that, at a glance, might have been shattered remained of something tooled by sapient hands. This was a huge box full of dirt, or at least appeared that way.  

	On route to the stables, Jon was surprisingly direct and even a bit chatty with his responses to Baronfjord. [color=darkgray]"Oh, I'm afraid that I haven's seen hide or hair of Mademoiselle Lizbeth today. I thought she was staying with you in the Coach House lately, Lady Kathryn as well, yes? Anyway, I'm just now getting up and around today. A little late, what with last night. But I must say, rumors in the Estate House tell quite the story. I understand you fought off quite the ruffian?"[/color] He let the conversation develop a bit as his shoes crunched through almost the topmost layer of more or less evenly deposited snow, en route to the main stables. 

	[color=darkgray]"The late Monsieur L'Rose... Hmm, yes, I have been here for quite some time. I was a stablehand when I started here, some years ago. There's a job that most people move on from, or try to social climb away from, but I like taking care of horses. It's good, honest work, gets you out in the open air. Good exercise, too, keeping up with those fillies and fellas. I'm still a 'stablehand', but this stablehand tends horses, trains them, teamsters when needed, does some wagon repair. Even drove some of the short cargo runs when we're shorthanded. I'm the L'Rose family's go-to horse guy. But for the Master, well, he was the Firm But Fair type. Liked to keep a clear bottom line. Never late with pay but didn't allow backtalk from his staff, like he drew a clear line between his family and the help, y'know. Madame Cecily is a lot more hands-on than the old man, little more sociable, too. Why do you ask?"[/color]

	At the Temple, the fellow with the broom balked at Kosara's extreme openness. [color=darkgray][i]"Miss ...Kosara! Yes, it's good to meet you. You can call me Thad. Um... are you sure you're not having me for some sort of oaf, here? I mean, it's an interesting story, and if you're being straight with me, then, um..."[/i][/color] Thad shrugged his shoulders in something that resembled helplessness and blurted out, [color=darkgray][i]"I'm just the guy pushing a broom this week, really!"[/i][/color] His voice crept higher in volume as he spoke, prompting the other two people in the room, supplicants to their preferred deity, to glance over more than once. They finished up their prayers and quickly exited the building. A candle was left burning on the raised platform in the center of the room along with a gathering of others. 

	Thad snapped his mouth shut until they left, and quickly followed up, [color=darkgray][i]"Um, this isn't really the kind of holy place that keeps records, I mean, maybe the town's Headman might keep something in his home, but this is a small town. You'd have better luck looking up records in the Township. It's where most every record like that is kept anyhow. Maybe I shouldn't have - and I'm sorry for pretending to be a priest, 'cause, I mean, all in good fun, right? I... I'm the guy with the broom."[/i][/color] With mild desperation growing, Thad attempted a verbal escape with, [color=darkgray][i]"Maybe I can ask around for someone more official for you in town? Who knows about Necromancers and war and stuff, and... do I need to get my family away from here?"[/i][/color]