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	[u]Weather[/u]: The coldest part of the evening is upon the Rose River Vineyard, but luckily it arrives with a lack of wind and a full cessation of snowfall.     
  
   	[u]Time[/u]: This is the dead, or possibly undead, of night.  
 
	[u]Ambience[/u]: Chill moonlight cascades along the still winter night, reflecting back upon the cold, white layer which blanketed the world around as far as the eye could detect. The night is a crisp reminder of what was supposed to be a quiet winter in wine country. But we know better, don't we?

	The Coach House starts to quiet down, as things tend to when night falls and folk move to settle in for a nice, long rest. The occasional creak of wood or rattle of a not-quite-flush shutter, when measured against the possibilities of what could be upon the land, tend to register with more urgency than they might otherwise. Upstairs, watches are set and manned appropriately while the soft, shallow breathing of those who have succumbed to slumber form the mild cadence of the evening, and things seem genuinely peaceful. Tense, but peaceful. Downstairs, fires burn low. Lights are extinguished. The greater warmth of the place remains, but with a wiry edge that only active habitation removes. The tables remain stacked with the contents of the bookshelf in the cellar, the bar still has its bounty of alcoholic potables, and the kitchen carries evidence of a recent cleaning and recent use, but for now, the vitality of the rooms has been muted by cyclic darkness and a lack of presence. 
 
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	[color=darkgray][i]Many chose slavery over death. But it hardly mattered. The piles of corpses left many suitable vessels to be reclaimed in mindless service. Some could carry a spear, while others could carry a shovel, or part the earth with hands which split asunder while scratching the dirt and stones to the side, burrowing ever deeper, ever further, into the hills. The Knight was good at finding volunteers from among the living for this. Tasked with turning crying, breathing slaves into obedient, bloodless ones was simple, and required only a thrust of a good, pointed tool into a vital area to accomplish. A repetitive line of corpses that didn't know it yet, becoming the last useful thing they would ever be in this world. Silently, the Knight screamed inside of his own skull. He knew what he was doing but was powerless to stop himself. The order had been given, and his timeless soul was bound to a static corpse which used to be his own, but now belonged to the Prince. Thus was the price for his failure.[/i][/color] Kathryn awoke with a start, the last part of her dream filled with the faces of those she had run through in rapid succession, under orders of her master. But it was just a dream, wasn't it?

	
	[color=darkgray][i]The magic wasn't complicated. The logistics were. Maintaining the enchantment over this many animated corpses at once was an interesting mental exercise, kept to with rigid determination and ruthless efficiency. The corpses of the paler, local folk held up nicely during the transition, and with so few of them left alive in this remote place, it was necessary to keep a practical amount of living "ambassadors" from the Alhazred in place to handle the day-to-day affairs of local farms and farriers. It was truly amazing what people were willing to believe when given no reason to object. But deep underground, those few remaining living settlers were choking away for want of air and light and freedom, surrounded by the animated dead in stout armor, carrying fine weapons, and unable to be spoken to, let alone reasoned with. All eventually fell, either by spearpoint, thirst, or by taking matters into their own hands as it was their only option of control left. But even this was partially felt by the Necromancer. He, too, was bound to this land, by order of something greater than himself. He, too, played his role. And now, his last option of control was being exercised in the form of a truly caustic concoction, which he raggedly swallowed in uneven gulps. Wracking pain, shuddering, irregular convulsions, and soon, he would some to consciousness again in a form more powerful than ever, capable of breaking the binding to this land. One Lich cannot compel another in this way, and the time spent in waiting would be worth it.

	What greeted him upon the return of his awareness was the scent of rot, and the realization that it was coming from himself. He had been away for too long, the potion had not taken like it should, and the wave of power that should have been suffusing every part of him was dulled, somehow. Hatred of what he was become burned through himself. This was not how he spent his eternity. He wasn't done yet. A light crown of iron and black stone fitted to his head, and a many-stringed setar lute found its way into his gloved, decomposing hands. No, things could still be done. He was still limited to this place, but there were options, if he was willing to wait.[/i][/color] The last glimpse of humanity Victoria saw before bolting back into the world of the conscious was a look at what she had become in a cracked mirror - a horror of green rot and the overripe melon split of her face, revealing yellowed bone beneath. It was not her own, but the distinction was not present for the first few seconds after waking. 

	Nearer to dawn, an unrestrained yell came from the room set aside for the Mosswaters. While it was apparent to anyone listening that both Tarace and Barbal were talking, the meeker words of Tarace were almost completely overwhelmed by the booming (for a Halfling) syllables of Barbal, expanding upon his originally wordless cry with, [color=darkgray][b]"GODS DAMNED BUGS! BIG BUGS CRAWLING UP MY ASS, TARACE! I GOT TO FEEL THEM HATCH INSIDE OF MY ASS IN REAL FUCKING TIME, AND EAT THEIR WAY OUT OF MY BELLY! WHAT THE ACTUAL GOBLINSHITE WAS IN THAT BRANDY?! WHY DID THE BUGS LOOK DEAD?! AARRGHENARGHARGH!"[/b][/color] Barbal was obviously shaken. [color=darkgray][b]"It was... it was... it felt like weeks, that dream. It felt like, like a month."[/b][/color]

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

	The sun crested lovingly over the hills to the east, giving all of the good colors of twilight, then dawn, in the manner that a winter sunrise might. Great, fresh sheets of white covered everything and reflected the early morning sun in an amazing display of purples and reds, until the more vibrant yellows of a fully established day gave the world its charming luster. From the looks of things, it was going to be a beautiful day.