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	[u]Weather[/u]: There is about an equal amount of blue to white in the midday sky. The sun is shining with the intensity generally expected from this time of the year, as if the crushing blizzard of the previous evening was a fading memory, evidenced only by the accumulation of snow upon the ground and scattered in drifts. The mercy of the wind abates, resulting in the more than occasional bite of cold, damp air.  

   	[u]Time[/u]: It is slightly after noon. The sun quite high in the sky at present.    

	[u]Ambience[/u]: Inside of the Coach House, it is swiftly becoming downright toasty. Taproom and kitchen both stand readily supplied with wood, oil, candles, lamps, and good, solid stone fireplaces to absorb and radiate heat. With more or these in use, it's actually quite nice inside. The vast selection of wine remains here behind the bar, along with the extremely, obviously-not-cursed brandy and less full cask of local ale. Plain but excellently constructed wooden furniture stands here, the pride of local craftsfolk; practical if not particularly artistic. 

	Very nice. Warm. Except for the cellar - Given to its purpose, one's breath still condenses against the cooler air down here. It is stable and dry, as one might expect cellar storage to be, though still beset by a distinct lack of illumination (unless one brings it with them). This place is positively stuffed to the brim with many varieties of edibles, both nonperishable and semi-perishable. Everything stored in neat rows, columns, and piles; hung from the ceiling or placed neatly in appropriate crates, jars, or other containers with clear labeling. Naturally, owing to the nature of the vineyard at large, there is a respectable amount of wine stored down here in barrels, as well.	
  
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 
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	Lizbeth continued holding her "significantly less alive" looking form as Victoria tried her best to cheer her up. On the other hand, she appeared to be very open to any avenue of potential hope that didn't make her a monster. Or a slave. She spoke the word back to Victoria very carefully, testing it in her mouth, [color=darkgray]"Sorcerer?"[/color] A hair of emotion broke through her corpse-like visage. A genuine smile, even if it was blunted by ignorance of the situation, found its way to the surface. [color=darkgray]"What does that mean? What is the difference between a Sorcerer and ...whatever the other thing is you thought I might have been?"[/color] Her knowledge of the Arcana was practically nonexistent. [color=darkgray]"And this,"[/color] she gestured to her face, still very recognizably [i]her[/i] but obviously under the influence of something necrotic, [color=darkgray]"just happens to Sorcerers?"[/color] She looked both hopeful and dubious simultaneously through her undead features. She said these things, asked these questions, as she returned to the spot in question below. Yes, Victoria wanted them to speak on the particulars later. But the girl was, as many are about things which concern them, impatient. 

	Kosara and Daxos's approach to the Coach House was familiar for both of them; this being Kosara's home for the past number of weeks and this being the place from which Daxos helped Urmdrus recover the crated-up body just that morning. The entryway to the courtyard was open as per usual and the exterior door to the taproom was closed solidly, the footprints in the snow leading toward it hinting at warmth and adventuring colleagues within.  

	The search of the tool shelves brought very little in regard to immediate success. In fact, it was rather infuriating at first. Prybars, barreling tools, the occasional kitchen utensil which didn't see much in the way of use, etc., all fell victim to the situational uselessness of Kathryn's search. It wasn't that something odd caught her eye, not at first. It began as a smallish box which didn't want to move at first. Much like the shelving itself, it was held fast in place, possibly against the wall, possibly against the shelf. Maybe both, for all one could tell without putting more physical pressure against it. The smallish box was a perfect cube carved of dark wood with what looked like several slats and places which could be pressed or moved. The center of each of the visible sides of the cube presented a circle with the image of a mushroom of vectored design within, surrounded by runic writing. Upon examination, the runes looked familiar to Kathryn, but untranslatable gibberish; lettering far out of sequence to anything she personally knew.