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[center][hider=Southmoor][img]https://i.ibb.co/QnKHXZ8/Southmoor-Poachers-Crest-Map.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=Healer's Home][img]https://i.ibb.co/Kjt2pXrP/Healers-Home.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=Coach House][img]https://i.ibb.co/BVvx6LH2/Coach-House.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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	[u]Weather[/u]: The wind has picked up a little. Enough to remind people that yes, it's still winter, just in case the abundance of white upon the hillsides wasn't cementing this fact. It is still quite cold, and the sky is bright, clear, and glassy, as if one could see upward forever.     
  
   	[u]Time[/u]: Early morning. The sun is fully up, and daylight is officially burning. 
 
	[u]Ambience[/u]: The day becomes a little more bold against the passing dawn; brighter, more assertive that another passing of time is upon the landscape. The sun shines coldly in the pale sky above, a blue-tinted reflection of the white rises and falls of the ground below. One's breath becomes instantly visible upon exhalation, a common thing for the season, but with the mostly still air it seems somehow curiously accented. 

	Things are warming up in the Coach House as breakfast got itself prepared and the hearth in the taproom saw an additional bundle stacked onto it. Aside from this, the light within is equal to the light which one makes for themselves or brings with them; luckily there are candles, oil lamps, and the wood stores for the fireplace which are at least above halfway their full volume. Books remain in stacks, papers remain loose and/or held down by impromptu paperweights made of flatware, bottles, and whatever else was handy. 
	
 
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	The open area in front of Urmdrus's workshop remains mostly untouched, with the exception of the footprints in the snow of those who approached and the departing marks of a merchant wagon - the very wagon, one may be led to believe, is returning in short order thanks to the notice of its driver, the very Dwarf who called this place his home/workshop. The building itself was a solidly built structure of stone and wood, once a simple workshed and skillfully developed into a residence and work space with a broad, stone chimney and pavilion structure outside. Beneath this pavilion (and around the multitude of unfinished projects) sat two barrels of gargantuan proportions and a thick wagon frame with two stout wheels. The voice of the grey-skinned Dwarf rolled out in short syllables, gruff and direct, to Kosara's questioning from stop his perch on the wagon. [color=darkgray][b]"Yes. Hide weapon, common, my people. Easy."[/b][/color] He seemed to consider the idea of another building or crafting job stacked against the ones already requested of him on top of his daily maintenance work around the Vineyard, and voiced as much. [color=darkgray][b]"Leaving. Township. Gone a day, maybe two. Work to do after. Days of work. I make after. Have good piece of metal, good shape. Add handle, sharpen, cover. Not bad. Two gold coins. One week. Deal?"[/b][/color] He was already reining the horses in the direction of the main road, but looked back at Kosara with a questioning expression. Apparently, the offer has a limited time to accept as he began to pull away. 

	The Hidden Distillery seemed to yield nothing new. On the one had, it looked very much the same in terms of structure, and the roots of the sycamore tree above still reinforced the concept which was the roof, but the once full barrels of decades-old brandy were gone, leaving the place more empty, and actually rather lonely, for it. The great stills were present, alongside many empty barrels featuring an older style of company markings. The place looked picked-over already, which likely threw off the perceptive skills of those searching it upon this morning. Either way, it seemed to be a bust. Two things were different, to the astute observer: Firstly, prying the moorings which held the lock in place away from the recently constructed and firmly set door leading down to this place was not a time consuming affair for the likes of Kathryn, be it by axe or crowbar, or point of sword, but it was absolutely a noisy procedure. Earshot was measured the same as line-of-sight, and perhaps around smaller obstacles. Secondly, the sudden [i]poof[/i] of magic which affected everyone within the area the first time they entered the location was decidedly not present. The reasons why were not immediate in their revelation. 

	 [color=darkgray]"No,"[/color] answered Lizbeth, just as stumped as Kathryn was about the nature, and location of, the storage capstone. [color=darkgray]"The first I heard of it was when Master Urmdrus told you. I can't imagine where something like that might be."[/color] She did give more thought, in what she hoped might have been a practical, more investigative way, adding, [color=darkgray]"I don't think we keep single pieces of stone that big just laying around the Vineyard, you know? It had to have come from somewhere."[/color]
	
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	The Healer's Home in Southmoor was quiet. This one was the more eerie, partially uncomfortable sort of quiet that came with a thing hanging in the air, unsaid. True to her word, there was tea on. And in the tradition of places far from Southmoor, it was being prepared all at once in a simmering, open saucepan, rather than steeping in a smaller teapot ready for single cup distribution. She ladled a simmering, brown cup of tea out for Victoria and with a stern voice, informed her, [color=darkgray][b]"i know you're not one of [i]them[/i], but you're still one of them. You're not bad. Hells, you remind me a little of my daughter, if she had different ears. The both of you don't like to listen. Look, I appreciate the magic help around here, and you're doing a great job with the locals. But I'm worried the next time I see you, you're not going to be you and I'll have to put you down quick. You get me?"[/b][/color] She made a gesture that implied stabbing, the changed the subject. [color=darkgray][b]"You did good with the books. I have more for you. Same thing - you transcribe. Leave room for illustration. Give them to me. You'll like them. They're about trauma surgery. Meat and bones, and cutting. Since common sense obviously left you, they're written to appeal to intellect."[/b][/color] She retrieved a satchel much like the last one she had given Victoria, also full of written books and blank ones. [color=darkgray][b]"Take your time, do 'em good. You fuck it up and you pay for it. And when you get back, you give me clinic days. Understand? Now drink your tea."[/b][/color]

	Meanwhile, the road to the Rose River Vineyard from Avonshire Township was rather difficult. Not treacherous, not yet, but going was harder than merely putting one foot in front of the other one. Balance had to be considered. Some foot placement tested before weight was fully committed to the motion. It was not fully a slog as of yet, but there were better, more enjoyable things one may do with their time on a frosty winter's morning. There was next to no traffic on this road, which did make things easier but far more liminal in feel, and the only thing to break up the monotony of the travel was the occasional village which dotted the white, rolling expanse of the moors of Avonshire. There [i]was[/i] this one, strange figure walking along the snow-covered path, dressed lightly, with sandals and a wide straw hat, which had to be uncomfortable for this time of year even if this detail appeared to be lost upon the individual. A long, flexible staff rested across one shoulder, which upon closer examination was outfitted to function as a fishing pole. The infectious smile on the Human's face turned to meet Aric's gaze as he cheerily belted out, [color=darkgray][i]"G'morning! Nice day for fishing, ain't it? Huah hah!"[/i][/color] His smile continued unabated as he continued on his route.