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	[u]Weather[/u]: As full night settles in, the slowfall settles into something that reads as light or occasional, as opposed to constant. The cold is more firmly settled across the landscape, but at least the wind has shown enough mercy as to be bearable. It is not the most pleasant of evenings, overall, but conditions have notably improved.    
  
   	[u]Time[/u]: The Nighttime Is The Righttime.
 
	[u]Ambience[/u]: The moon shines coldly upon the fresh snowfall below. The thickest of the cloud cover has passed, leaving a mostly starlit sky to provide the barest of illumination, but amazing stretches of view for those with an elevated vantage.    

	The interior Coach House has gone through no amazing changes since the last of the daylight shone outside. So long as the fires are kept up and light sources are maintained, the Taproom and Kitchen remains comfortable enough. It is a tiny oasis against the outside world - one of frigid temperatures and potential undead threats. But to reiterate, the Coach House is a bastion of simple but well crafted wooden furnishings, lots and lots of Rose River wines, and a few interesting selections from elsewhere along with the ever present casks of ale and brandy, spigoted, resting upon the top of the bar. 

	The handwritten texts, penned by Arnaud L'Rose, remain on one of the tables with two of them open to reveal what appears at face value to be rambling words in Common, written by a bold hand. On a clear spot next to them, a blank sheet of paper seems placed with prominence, along with a pen and small container of ink. And finally, upon the tables around which the majority of the people inside the Coach House are sitting, is a tureen of rustic soup and several bowls, each giving off a welcoming waft of aromatic steam.  
 
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	Lizbeth gave a little blush as the praises of her rustic, peasant style soup was given praise from the whole of the tables in the Taproom. It might be noted that she was capable of blushing in that hour, giving indication that the less "alive" side to her was keeping itself at bay. Perhaps it was the lively and spirited conversation that was taking place while she was in the kitchen, which she could hear snatches of in her labors, but unfortunately could not clearly understand. [color=darkgray]"Yes, you're all very welcome,"[/color] she said, just a little sheepishly. She looked like she wanted to say something else, as if some nagging detail was stuck in her mind and she didn't know if it was proper to speak it aloud. But she reserved herself, finished filling the bowls and got one of her own, and sat heavily in her own chair. 

	Urmdrus, in the straightforward and not always polite manner that had come to define him, had no problems helping himself to a little something from the pot. [color=darkgray][b]"Soup. Warm for road."[/b][/color] was all he would really say, occasionally eying the door as if to plot an escape. [color=darkgray][b]"Workshop has stone wall. Heavy door. Weapons. Fire. Good place."[/b][/color] And for those who had ever been out his way on the Vineyard grounds, that would be confirmed. Fitted stone and Dwarfcraft precision, in a manner of speaking, went into the construction of his workshop, be it a touch small for the preferences of many. [color=darkgray][b]"Upper door, solid. Gate takes longer."[/b][/color] He mentioned this offhand, quite possibly reassuring those listening about the status of the barred door to the upstairs bedrooms. Either way, he slurped his soup noisily and gave a grunt of satisfaction in Lizbeth's direction. 

	The Mosswaters looked over the situation with one part interest and one part annoyance. The fact that they agreed to stick around was annoying, especially to the snarkier Barbal, but the drama of the conversation was enough to blunt that annoyance for the purposes of finding out more. Horse's mouth, so to speak. So while Tarace covered his mouth and voiced an, [color=darkgray]"Oh, my..."[/color] at the unfolding scenario, Barbal was more upfront with a guttural chuckle and a raspy, [color=darkgray][b]"Oh, I've got a few questions I'd like to ask the old man... Heh, but, I'm not a big time adventurer with big time goals to meet. Oh, but keep me in the loop, this is positively delicious."[/b][/color] He made it a point to rub him stomach in a manner that suggested that he was enjoying his healthy helping of potential drama. [color=darkgray][b]"Yeah, thank you, Master Baronfjord. Or, ah, what honorific does, well, your people use?"[/b][/color] He waved it away, returning to his main point, [color=darkgray][b]"Thanks. I'm sure the rooms are fine. Just fine. Matter of fact, I rise early when I can, it's getting to be about the time that I settle in. Unless you want to stay up late and tell spooky stories, I believe I'm going to finish up here and head upstairs."[/b][/color] Just a bit of sarcasm, to be fair. 

	Tarace, usually the more thoughtful one, brought up a point to which he had some curiosity. [color=darkgray][i]"If we're taking one room to ourselves, then where is everyone else staying? Is there room for everyone in the chambers upstairs?"[/i][/color]

	Finally putting two and two together, or at least nearly enough, Lizbeth inquired in a tiny voice, [color=darkgray]"What do you mean, 'ask the old man questions?' What did I miss?"[/color] Her emotion was difficult to read at the moment but her eyes were quizzical, even critical, as she looked to the faces in the room with her.