More time had passed. Yet another chunk of time that Victoria wished that she was on the road. In fact, she had half a mind to re-summon her Phantom Steed and just take off, as the quasi-real mount could run like the absolute wind and, even at half speed (to be careful, naturally) it was just as fast as a runaway carriage. Unfortunately, she brought a few things along with her, which were stored in her errand cart. Her personal thrall, Morty, pulled that behind itself, and Morty most assuredly could not run like the wind. He could manage a steady trot and, thanks to his not-quite-living nature, wouldn't tire if kept at a dash indefinitely. Even so, the porcine companion could never match her noble, phantasmal mount for speed. So Victoria was bound to the snowy ground, making liberal use of her bootleather for the meantime. Good thing for her, they were very cute boots. But Victoria was the type that would look amazing, even in a shrunken burlap sack with convenient holes for her head and arms. Nevertheless, she did like her boot selection for this outing.

Victoria passed the time by using her Morty as a low bench, of sorts. It was wrapped firmly with layers of burlap, and she neatly folded her new, black and gold pashmina to use as additional cushioning for herself as she went over carefully labeled and illustrated books of humanoid anatomy, and the appropriate actions one might take to pick it apart or put it back together. Truly, this was an interesting read. Then one slipped from its perch and landed on the snow, too near the more ruddy colors of the street. Victoria picked it up and examined it, then after satisfied that it was undamaged, placed it securely away.

Perhaps reading wasn't the best use of her time (and she seemed to have a lot of it) so she switched over to the thing she did best: Music. Victoria overturned her extraordinarily bardy hat in her small errand cart, as if she were reaching back to the earliest portions of her career - long before she chose the more advanced teachings of the Grey Requiem - to begin busking. The practice would be considered quite beneath her at this point in her career, but boredom mixed with a distinct lack of stuff to do except wait had Victoria acting outside the box. Not necessarily her nature, however, as she did like to be the center of attention as the occasion called for it. The occasion didn't necessarily call for it, but again it was something to do. So Victoria Belmont, death-singer and funerary bard, lifted her violin to her collarbone and drew her bow across it.

The clear notes resonated with the still, crisp air, carrying farther than one might guess into the sleepy winter town of Southmoor, and for a good way down the road before her. The few residents who were going about their business stopped for a time, entranced with music which so rarely found its way into the moors of the Avonshire region. It was a grand, sweeping melody, which seemed to roll out like a great wind of beauteous notes from the established, physically striking Bard. But it didn't stop there. When the song ceased, an absence could be felt where the music once stood, which was, after dramatic pause, filled with the stunning vocalizations of the young Half-Elf. She swayed and danced as best she might upon the snowy ground, raising her arms to the air as if to supplicate the sky. Sensing this as an invitation, Victoria's raven, Nox, descended from its perch and circled closely around her several times before lighting upon an outstretched arm. The large, black bird gave an almost harmonic cry, and took to the sir once more as the song came to a gentle close.

It felt nice to perform music purely for the sake of doing so. One of the first genuine, spontaneous smiles in a while graced her features as she returned to her tiny cart to secure her belongings for travel. Victoria had quite forgotten the customary overturned hat, and so was amused to see that a grand total of six copper coins of the realm had been deposited therein. It was the unenviable truth that, regardless of one's talent and/or the quality of a show, the profit of a venue was limited by its location and the local population. Victoria smiled nonetheless. Six copper was six copper that she didn't have before, and was a token of appreciation from passersby who gave what they could comfortably afford.

It was about this time that a lumbering wagon came rolling up to Victoria's location along the road, manned by a rather familiar Dwarf. "Master Urmdrus!" she called, waving enthusiastically at the fellow.

Urmdrus brought his wagon to a stop near Victoria. "Going to town ship." The statement was rather flat. "You?"

It took a moment for the Bard to pick up on exactly what was being communicated to her. "Oh? Oh! Yes; yes I am. I was supposed to meet Baronfjord, but I am afraid if he's much longer it will be dark long before we get there." Victoria pocketed her new coins and placed her exquisitely bardy hat deftly upon her head, fitting over her set of purple flowered hair combs which held her luxurious red-auburn locks in place.

"Hmm," he grunted from upon his high seat. "Ride?" Urmdrus tapped the bench next to him.

Victoria sighed. It was a tempting offer. It really was. She took way too long considering her answer while Urmdrus patiently(?) waited. "No. Thank you, Master Urmdrus, but no. I'll see you in town. If he is too much later, he would be by himself on the road after dark, and alone. Baronfjord is still useful to me. I don't want anything unfortunate to happen. You understand, I'm sure?"

The dwarf grunted a monosyllabic acceptance and took his reins back up. "Town ship. See you there." The wagon continued its journey, rolling along the partially packed snow of the road in the direction of the Avonshire Township. He risked a glance back up the road, into town, but saw nothing familiar coming up the road behind him. Victoria was looking in that direction as well.

He continued walking, though at an easier pace now, attention remaining fixed upon the stranger. The crunch of packed snow beneath his boots settled into a steady rhythm as they closed in on each other, accompanied by the soft hiss of wind moving across the open countryside. Winter had a way of stripping the world down to essentials. Color disappeared beneath white. Roads became suggestions. Sounds carried farther than they should. Even people seemed reduced to the things they chose to bring with them.

Which was perhaps why the fisherman stood out so much.

Sandals.

A straw hat.

A fishing pole resting comfortably across one shoulder.

The image would have looked perfectly natural standing beside a riverbank in spring. Here, in the middle of a frozen morning on a road that had seen almost no traffic for hours, it bordered on absurd. Yet the longer Aric studied him, the less it felt like a performance. He had spent enough years working a watchman's beat to know the difference between unusual and suspicious. The two often traveled together, but they were not the same thing.

Most liars wanted something.

Most criminals wanted something.

Even harmless fools generally wanted something.

Attention. Sympathy. Trust. Fear. Something.

The fisherman seemed content simply existing.

That alone made him difficult to categorize.

His eyes drifted briefly toward the man's feet again. Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the sandals. The sight made no more sense now than it had a minute ago. If anything, it made less. Aric could feel the cold through layers of wool, leather, and common sense. The fisherman looked as though he might stop to enjoy the weather.

Strange.

The thought lingered for only a moment before another found its place beside it.

Familiar.

Aric slowed slightly, more from concentration than caution. The road remained quiet. No hidden movement among the distant trees. No second traveler approaching from behind. Only wind, snow, and the cheerful stranger standing before him. Somewhere within the collection of names, rumors, and half-finished conversations gathered in Avonshire, something had begun scratching at the back of his memory.

A fisherman.

Harvestide.

Hostages.

His expression remained neutral as the pieces slowly arranged themselves.

The story had sounded ridiculous when he first heard it.

Most stories did.

Witnesses forgot important things and remembered absurd ones. It was one of the first lessons he'd learned wearing a watchman's badge. Ask ten people to describe a robbery and half would forget the thief's face, but every one of them would remember the color of his hat. People attached themselves to details that made sense to them, not necessarily the ones that mattered.

And people remembered the fisherman.

Not his name.

Not where he lived.

Not what he looked like.

The fisherman.

The fellow who'd been trapped alongside other townsfolk during the Harvestide disaster. The one whose fishing pole had somehow become part of the story. Somebody had kicked it within reach. Fighting broke out. Prisoners escaped. The fisherman helped lead survivors away from the worst of it, while others remained behind to finish the battle.

A strange story.

Looking at the man now, it suddenly felt much more believable.

Aric found himself reassessing the encounter. The fisherman stopped being a curiosity and became a witness. Not necessarily a reliable witness. Experience had taught him that those could be two very different things. But he had been there. Close enough to see something. Close enough to know something. Whether he understood the value of that knowledge was another question entirely.

The cheerful greeting replayed itself in memory.

*"Nice day for fishing, ain't it?"*

The man had answered a question Aric hadn't asked.

Which, now that he thought about it, was an answer in its own right.

Not evasive.

Not defensive.

Just... different.

His gaze lingered on the fishing pole once more. There was something oddly reassuring about it. Not the pole itself, but the stubborn consistency of it. The world had apparently descended into disappearances, wererats, conspiracies, kidnappings, and catastrophe, and somehow this man had emerged from the experience still primarily concerned with fishing.

Part of Aric respected that.

Another part suspected there was more to the story.

The fisherman continued smiling.

No hesitation.

No discomfort.

No sign that he had missed the question.

If anything, he seemed entirely content discussing fishing instead.

Aric let the silence settle between them for a moment as they continued down the snow-covered road. Somewhere beyond the fields and distant tree lines sat the Vineyard, along with the people he had actually come to find. They would still be there when he arrived.

The fisherman, however, was here now.

Interesting things had a habit of disappearing when ignored.

His eyes drifted once more toward the sandals.

Still absurd.

A small cloud of breath escaped beneath the brim of his hat.

"How are your feet not freezing?"

The question arrived with complete sincerity. Not mockery. Not an accusation. Simple curiosity. Aric had spent the better part of the morning feeling winter through wool, leather, and layers specifically chosen for travel in harsh weather. The fisherman appeared equipped to stroll along a riverbank on a pleasant spring afternoon.

A faint hint of amusement touched the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.

" And before you tell me fishing keeps them warm, I'm not convinced."

The man had survived kidnappers, conspiracies, and apparently the cold itself.

At this point, Aric was genuinely curious which accomplishment was the more impressive.