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	[u]Weather[/u]: It's almost a lovely day outside, so long as one doesn't mind the cold. Still quite a bit of cloud cover, though Mr. Sun is bright a beaming a good portion of the time. Temperatures fluctuate right around freezing, turning this whole place into icicle country (but it looks very festive, to be fair). The snow cover, which is pretty much total still, now features a crunchy crust across the top and an overall lowering of height. In the far horizon, the sky seems darker - too dark for this time of day. More weather might be moving in.     

   	[u]Time[/u]: Yes, ladies and gents! It's time for tea. Teatime, if you will. Lovely part of the day, usually, though it remains to be seen here.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The air is cool in the cellar/study area. It is the stable temperature of the stone-lined underground, which is absolutely perfect for keeping things preserved and as unchanging as possible, short of magic. But while the cellar portion of the underground is a calm reflection of the practical needs of the Coach House, the Study is decidedly not. The red circle on the ground continues its silent vigil, glowing very slightly. Other spots in the Study have been picked through for interesting bits of curio, and the narrowest margin of disarray shows because of it. The inner door still rests to one side, removed from its moorings, while the outer, no-longer-hidden door stands open, the prybar still protruding from the exterior locking mechanism. The only light within this room is what one brings with them.   
 
	The simply furnished room is more or less exactly as it was just moments ago; bookshelf with a few handwritten journals and other, probably not native writings, a suspicious table, desk with (alleged) wands now on it among the other things one might ordinarily find on a desk, an uneven stack of crates near to the section of the wall which had recently been plundered by Lizbeth and Victoria - and of course, the cells. The top cell appeared quite unremarkable and unoccupied. The middle might still be unoccupied, except for the pile of dry bones and, oddly enough, evidence of footwear. The bottom cell seemed to become the most interesting. Its sole occupant appeared to be a corpse, sitting upon the straw bedding in the fetal position in a grey tabard of some sort, head down. Though there now seems to be a question as to its status. Being fair, the corpse hasn't commented on it yet. 

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

	Lizbeth's face grew serious to reflect Victoria's sudden change of smiling subtext. When the items recovered from the cache were offered, she swiftly took them and, in a sudden burst of stunned obedience, retreated behind the Bard's thrall as per instruction. Briefly, Lizbeth toyed with the idea that whatever was happening might be a thing she could help out with, now that she had a hair more reassurance that she probably wasn't a monster but eventually a powerful spellcaster of grim origin. She still had the empty vial of rough crystal, its leather cord wrapped around one hand, and thought it might ...just suddenly do something... even if it looked more inert than mere moments ago. Her fingers wrapped around the shard of obsidian that she had cut her finger on just earlier, hoping that it might be a weapon or have some magic that she might instinctively use (if the emergency called for it), but mostly, what ran through her mind was a sort of nervous fear that threatened to limit her options. This was not how she imagined associating with big, though Adventurers would be. Lizbeth did not like being afraid. Slowly, she found her feet backing toward the door, even further behind Morty. 

	Upstairs, as Kathryn approached the main door to the Taproom, the knocking came louder and more frequently. The voice behind it started to sound more annoyed, even if one could not quite make out what they were saying through a door and from a little distance. What words could be heard more or less clearly sounded like the Common trade tongue of the realm, that being the broader language of Humans, with local color accenting the semi-exchange. When finally at the scene of the portal disturbance, opening the door revealed a pair of folks ready for an event which may have been overlooked in the hustle and bustle of the day. It was two familiar Halflings who were [i]very good friends[/i], whom the party had established a date for Tea upon this day. Tarace and Barbal Mosswater, the pair who owned a sizeable estate of working agricultural land quite nearby. While Barbal remained just as grumpy looking as ever, Tarace quickly plastered a genteel smile across his face and, with the skill of a rural diplomat, held out a basket which held assorted cheese and sausages, packed with fresh herbs.[color=darkgray][i]"Why hello, Lady Kathryn!"[/i][/color] he exclaimed with zeal that was probably at least half genuine. [color=darkgray][i]"We're here for our Tea appointment! Or party, I should say, with this jolly gathering of exciting outsiders. Barbal here thought that wine was the appropriate gift to bring,"[/i][/color] Tarace gestured his head back in the surly Halfling's direction. 

	[color=darkgray][b]"Manners say it was!"[/b][/color] interrupted Barbal, impatience obvious on his face. [color=darkgray][b]"Shows we're keeping tradition!"[/b][/color]

	Tarace continued in a face of what might become an argument later on, [color=darkgray][i]"...but I said that you have well enough wine in a vineyard, and some good sausage will hit just the right spot. Am I right?"[/i][/color] The more genial Halfling smiled again, motioning into the open Taproom with his nose while still holding up the gift basket. 

	Barbal, who was stuck hauling everything else that might make a good Tea outing possible, was less diplomatic. [color=darkgray][b]"My balls are closer to the snow than yours are, and they're getting frozen off out here. May we come in?"[/b][/color]

	Downstairs, a minor argument erupted among the party concerning the probably not actually dead guy in the first cell. Voices were raised, suggestions hurled, events reminded of. [i]Points were made.[/i] And in the end, divine power manifested among the secrets and magic in the hidden, underground portion of the Coach House. In that moment, unexpected things happened:

	The spell went off without a hitch, striking down upon the potential threat with a practiced ease and efficiency that allowed every spark of radiant magic to land with determined force. The figure, sitting hunched over in a fetal position, got its flesh seared from its bones in a manner that was grotesque and expert, simultaneously. And while this was a staggering blow to anyone who might receive it, [i]the creature did not crumble.[/i]

	A howl issued forth from the gaping mouth hole of the thing within the cell, even before it raised eyeless sockets surrounded by dry, grey flesh. The howl intensified in volume and horror - pure invocation of soul-bleeding terror - the likes of which could not be produced merely by the corpse shell in front of the group. This was a scream was without breath, constant, far beyond the length that mortal lungs could fuel. The thing rose from its position even as more skin, more flesh fell from itself, burning away under the scrutiny of holy light. It stepped forward once, still howling, putting its weight onto blocky, wooden sandals as it slowly took one full step toward the bars. 

	The scream never stopped. It never even slowed.