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	[u]Weather[/u]: The snow begins to slow. It is still rife with big, puffy flakes, but as the night falls the intensity lessens, as does the wind. It is far from done, and quite frigid outside, but it looks like the worst of it for tonight is over. A loose layer of powdery accumulation now covers the previously melted and refrozen snowfall from the previous evening, making potential movement hazardous in the dark.    
  
   	[u]Time[/u]: Fully evening. The sun is passing the twilight hour at this moment, and while it paints what sky is visible all sorts of interesting colors, it is a promise that night is upon you.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The first stars peek out around the clouds in the last few moments of light, with more and more following as moments advance. Cloud cover remains, but without the hold it had an hour previous. A calm settles over the Rose River Vineyard; possibly a false calm, but calm nevertheless. It really is a beautiful evening.    

	The scene within the Coach House hasn't changed much over the intervening time. The wooden furnishings and features remain as they were, an example of simple but masterful craftsmanship. The bar shelters rows upon rows of fine, local wines and a humble few from parts elsewhere, and resting upon it lay two casks - one almost full of exquisite, [i]totally not cursed[/i] brandy and the other (notably less full) ale barrel. Light comes from sources of fire - hearth, candle, and grapeseed oil lamp - which is more than adequate to the task. 

	Books from the hidden study below sit neatly stacked upon a table. A couple of them, inactively or actively being looked through, stand open to reveal the detailed lack of apparent organization, even though it looks like the author definitely had something in mind. A single sheet of paper sits on a table nearby with a pen and small jar of ink, waiting on requested information to be placed upon it. From within the kitchen, there is a charming smell of vegetables searing. This is likely the light soup Lizbeth promised she would prepare for repast prior to turning in. Something warming, no doubt. 
 
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	Barbal looked on as Urmdrus exited the building and assumed an expression of impatience, as he might have preferred to be back in his own bed that night, before things got even more complicated. [color=darkgray][b]"Eh, damnedable cursed brandy..."[/b][/color] he muttered quietly. The gruff Halfling agriculturalist looked back to Baronfjord with an only slightly mischievous look to his eye, replying to the hopefully joking threat of bread and water with a faux cocky [color=darkgray][b]"I suppose I'll be telling my stories [i]after[/i] breakfast. See how many details I remember on bread and water, hmm, young'un?"[/b][/color] He did allow a thin lipped smile to breach his antisocial exterior, to his credit.

	Tarace didn't quite feel up to attempting to intervene in Barbal's social tete-a-tete with Baronfjord, as he was dealing with his own faux pas with the Bard, who did redirect the scene quietly in hopes (well, [i]he[/i] hoped) of a productive subject shift, to his great relief. [color=darkgray][i]"I, um, I don't think that I've been that far away from Avonshire, no. But I've ... read things. Nice things, of course."[/i][/color]

	Conversations deepened along with the darkness outside, resulting in a moderate amount of idle time passing as people tended to their own upkeep. Things which could be read were read, clothes adjusted for comfort, and the idea of everyone getting to know each other a little better as the evening progressed became more ingrained in the miniature zeitgeist of the the Coach House. It wasn't long until Urmdrus unceremoniously barged into the Taproom, carrying the same tool of his trade (including his suspiciously large personal hammer) and a few fittings, both iron and wood, to include a thick beam of heavy hardwood. [color=darkgray][b]"Latch there now. Keeping latch. Will have bar, also."[/b][/color] He did dome mental figures on his hands, mumbling numbers in specifically phrased Dwarven, then looked back up with his estimate in Common, more or less. [color=darkgray][b]"Twenty more minutes. Be back."[/b][/color]

	His exit from the Taproom to navigate the snow-covered stairs along the side of the building was heard from inside, as it was a series of crunching, thudding steps, punctuated by what even those uninitiated in the Dwarven language could readily tell were various obscenities, increasing in volume as he ascended. He got to work swiftly. 

	Not very long after this, the kitchen door swung open, releasing the brunt of a quite toothsome aroma. Lizbeth, obstinately still wearing her ankheg armor, returned to the main area with a tureen that, to look at her, was quite full. [color=darkgray]"It's nothing very special, really. Some rendered bacon and duck fat with stewed vegetables. It's good soup, really. I know you all are probably accustomed to better. Mom used to make this for me when it was cold out, so I thought you might like it."[/color] She fished out a ladle, then returned to the kitchen for appropriate bowls and flatware. [color=darkgray]"And it's going to be cold out, still."[/color] 

	By the time everybody else was served, be it by Lizbeth's ministrations or by the helping of one's self, Urmdrus finally made his way back down. His arrival was heralded by more in the way of thumping footsteps, but notably less in the way of swearing. He helped himself to another ale from the barrel of local stuff, and noisily pulled a chair over to the table(s) being utilized for the last, light meal of the day before things turned to darker, more practical conversation about how things would proceed overnight. And maybe a less practical one about what would happen after that. But for now, as he plopped himself into the procured chair, he announced, [color=darkgray][b]"Done. Door has bar, door has latch. Good, strong. Ask tomorrow about gate."[/b][/color]