[center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center] [table][row][/row][row][cell] [h2][color=3F5A6B][i][b]Aric Voss[/b][/i][/color][/h2] [i][b][color=3F5A6B]Half-Elf, Ranger (Gloom Stalker), Level 5[/color][/b][/i] [color=3F5A6B][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 44 / 44  [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 15 (17 w/ Shield)  [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] North Road, Halfway Point [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A [color=3F5A6B][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A [/cell][cell] [right][img]https://imgur.com/eOFtcCC.jpeg[/img][/right] [/cell][/row][/table] [center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center] The fisherman departed exactly as he had arrived. Cheerful. Unbothered. Entirely committed to whatever peculiar corner of the world he inhabited. Aric watched him disappear toward the walls of Avonshire until distance and drifting snow finally swallowed the broad straw hat from view. His questions had yielded very few answers, but that did not make the encounter unproductive. Experience had taught him that people often revealed themselves just as readily through what they refused to concern themselves with as what they chose to discuss. The fisherman had survived kidnappers, monsters, and the collapse of a conspiracy that had nearly consumed an entire township. Yet the only thing he appeared interested in was finding somewhere to fish. Whether that spoke of remarkable resilience or remarkable simplicity, Aric couldn't yet decide. Perhaps there was little difference. His attention returned to the road. The cold remained constant, though the wind had settled enough to make travel bearable. Every so often, he paused just long enough to brush accumulating snow from his boots before it could melt through the leather or work its way into seams. His cloak remained fastened high against his neck, gloves dry, breathing measured. Winter had a rhythm to it. Ignore the early signs of discomfort, and the weather would eventually make every decision for you. Respect it, and the journey simply became another matter of endurance. The rolling moors stretched outward beneath their blanket of white, broken only by weathered stone fences, skeletal trees, and the occasional farmhouse rising from the landscape like lonely islands in a frozen sea. The road itself remained the safest path, crossing the higher ground where the snow had accumulated less deeply than the surrounding fields. More than once, his eyes wandered beyond it, studying the drifts without truly looking at them. Years spent tracking game and patrolling lonely roads had taught him that untouched snow possessed its own language. Broken crust. Settling powder. Animal trails. Cart ruts. Each left behind its own quiet story. Eventually, the landscape changed. Not dramatically. Just enough. A loose circle of great weathered boulders rose from the snow ahead, breaking the wind and sheltering a small clearing surrounding an old fire pit blackened by years of careful use. Travelers had passed this way for generations. Some places announced their purpose with signposts or walls. Others simply accumulated enough history that people continued returning to them without question. Aric slowed naturally as he approached. Fresh wagon tracks. Recent. The snow around the fire pit had been disturbed. Hoofprints. Several sets of boots. Nothing hurried. Nothing immediately concerning. Voices reached him moments later, carried across the still winter air before their owners came into view. A wagon stood within the shelter of the stones while a sturdy mule enjoyed a well-earned rest, its harness removed as a dragonborn worked methodically at brushing the animal down with practiced, if still developing, confidence. Nearby stood a woman wrapped against the cold in clothing whose rich colors managed to brighten even the pale afternoon. An overturned cart rested nearby beside what appeared, at first glance, to be a remarkably well-behaved pig. His pace neither quickened nor slowed. Instead, he watched. Not openly. Simply... carefully. Descriptions gathered in Avonshire resurfaced one after another. A dragonborn. A bard. Travelers staying at Rose River Vineyard after the events of Harvestide. Rumors had never concerned themselves much with names. Occupations, appearances, and peculiar habits endure far longer in memory. The details before him aligned enough that coincidence comfortably became increasingly unlikely. So these were some of The Ones Who Answered. The thought carried no admiration or skepticism. Only interest. Stories rarely survived contact with the people who had lived them. Aric preferred meeting the people. As the remaining distance closed between them, he adjusted one strap of his pack across his shoulder before raising a gloved hand in a simple greeting, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp afternoon air. [color=3F5A6B][b]"Afternoon."[/b][/color] His eyes moved briefly between the dragonborn, the bard, the wagon, then settled again with the quiet patience of someone accustomed to letting others decide how much they wished to reveal before asking his first question. [color=3F5A6B][b]"Rose River Vineyard?"[/b][/color] The question was straightforward. If they answered yes... He’d found exactly who he was been looking for.