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.

"Ah! Kosara, Good Morning to you." BlackBerry cheerfully greeted her and nodded at her request, leaning down to accept the coins he added "Why of course, I shall do my best to find something suitable. By the way, there are still some left overs from breakfast in the kitchen should you or the others wish to help yourselves to anything."

Drop off the Mosswaters, deliver a letter for Lady Kathryn, picking up some spices for Kosara, on top of exhuming a corpse. Blackberry almost grimaced at the last topic of his to do list.

Did they even have a shovel?

The little caravan set off once again with the brisk trudging pace of Old Boy following in the trails left behind Master Urmdurus' own cart heading in the same direction out of the Vineyard and onto the main road proper. BlackBerry of course called ahead to the man with a cheery, "Good Morning to you, Master Urmdurus, All is well I hope?". Otherwise, journey progressed as expected with BlackBerry keeping Old Boy at a steady pace but weary not to push too hard or too fast given the state of the snow covered roads, and generally not wanting to tire out the poor mule either. Hedgerows laden with snow and ice drifted lazily past them and fields of white lay all around them, almost hiding all the secrets of the world away from the weak sunlight from above. It was a stark difference to when they had arrived where everything was only just beginning to get a dusting of frost. Despite the picturesque landscape about them all, BlackBerry could feel the awkward unease of his two passengers sitting behind him, and for his own party BlackBerry ruminated extensively as to whether or not to address the issue

"You both will have to forgive my ignorance but I shall need some direction. If I recall correctly you said your farm was at the end of the Laurent one, yes?" The somewhat familiar shapes of Southmoor had drawn about them and looked quite content in their own comforting wrappings of winter snow. But Blackberry was more concerned with other matters, namely the time and a quick cast skyward confirmed he was indeed running late! Hopefully Victoria wouldn't be too upset with him. Ahead of them Master Urmdurus' own cart had managed to keep a brisk pace and was almost out of sight far ahead of them. BlackBerry would of course follow the directions given to him by the pair, even offering, "If there is anywhere otherwise you should prefer to part ways please do say." before the more familiar territory from the Ankheg battle came about them making BlackBerry shudder at the memory of the horrid giant bugs.

But another very different topic occupied most of his thoughts; it was obvious to him that Babal had been quite upset by his dreams last night and was still somewhat shake by it all. At risk of eating his own foot, BlackBerry turned in his seat and tried to offer some words of reassurance, "How are you faring this morning Master Barbal? Fresh air agreeing with you I do hope? Try to put your mind at ease as much as you can for the dreams should not return this evening. If on the very unlikely chance that they do you are of course most welcome to send word and we shall do what we can to aid you. And of course, settle the matter surrounding the area once and for all too."

Soon enough a pair of familiar shapes took form ahead of him, one a swine tied to a wagon and the other a very cold looking but otherwise fashionable musician.

"Good Morning Victoria." BlackBerry called, and drew the caravan to a stop beside her. "Apologies for the delay, have you been waiting long?"

“That sounds great!” Kosara replied at the mention that there was likely breakfast left over for her. That was good, that was VERY good! It meant she wouldn’t have to prepare anything for morning meal, but given the people who were left behind for tonight, it meant that either Liz or herself were going to have to cook and seeing as yesterday it was Lizbet who prepared last meal, it meant that Kosara had the self appointed duty to prepare tonight’s meals! Well seeing as it was only three of them left behind, it wouldn’t be too bad. She was going to flex her cooking muscles and prepare a minor feast of some semblance.

She waved Berry and company as they went away with the wagon, their beast of burden trotting off through the snowy ground. Waving for a bit more… and a bit more… Finally once they were sufficiently away, she decided it was fair enough and stopped waving, returning to enter back into the coach house and make a bee line for the kitchen to grab some breakfast.” Breakfast get~!” She whistled once the remnants meal Berry mentioned were secured she carried them over to one of the tables in the main room where she lined them up to have her meal while she put her journal, pen and ink on the side so she could also scribble down while she eats, left in solitude and silence…

“This is not going to work...” Kosara finally stated, looking around, making pondering face. She was a child of sound and live. She had grown up around the constant bustle of people and the silence of the empty coachhosue was a bit much, making her practically hear the strange voices/thoughts in her head. 'No strangely familiar to my own voice in my head, we won't be eating more meat. It's a bad thing to eat only meat... especially raw, yes.' A few gestures and a brief incantation later.” Prestidigitation.” Nothing happened for a brief moment of time before faint musical notes from the deserts started filling the silence. This caused Kosara to smile as she returned to her meal and journal. Taking a few bites and switching to write a few sentences before returning her focus to the meal and repeat. She was catching up on her journal writing since she had left it undone for a while or at least partially so. She did threw in a few sentences here and there over the passage of time as ways to remember specifics and to target her memory in specific directions via the notes she had written and it was working! Everything willing, tonight after their meal and before bed, she was going to start writing a letter to her family back home.

After finishing her meal, she had stacked her plates to the side and switched entirely to finish with the parts of the journal she had decided to finish at this point of time. She had plans for the rest of the day too, she was going to go on a walk around the place and see what she can find and stumble upon. It’s been a while since she had done so last after all and she might as well do it now since nobody else is around to keep her company or entertained!

Finally food and writing done, at least for the moment anyways, she was ready to head out with a few applications of prestidigitation to clean the dishes first though.

"Not only did I say it out loud, I said it in front of the whole noble family of the region. The knight who was training me, and several influential locals. Some maybe not so local. I worked hard to make myself unknown for a while after that. My only saving grace is that maybe some of those people thought it was my sister who said that. Shes a bit more out going than myself, and that crowd is more her own. SO! Its not too improbable." Kathryn chuckled while she took Lizbeth to keep exploring. Alas, the task of investigating was not the half giant's strong suit.

Kathryn found the story of the tinker boy rather interesting. She guessed the tinker profession made sense, but it was rather new to Kathryn. At least the version that Lizbeth was describing. "I mean, I guess we had some in Arcanaple. But I guessed they worked different back home. Many lords had a Mason on hand in some form. A skilled laborer and their apprentices. And generally a country may have a couple as well. More isolated regions would have the bulk of the populace work on their products themselves to try and keep them going, or have to reply on trade. Much of Arcanaple is mountainous, so travel through much of the year is a risky challenge. That ignores the weather, bandits, goblins, and if stories are to believed dragons!" Kathryn said with dramatic excitement. "Though my parents say the last dragon of Arcanaple died centuries ago. My uncle said he saw one once though one of the times he went off to war. Though I learned he embellished a lot of his stories over the years." And left out the ugly parts. The really, gods awful ugly parts. "Still, a lot of people didn't travel unless it was in large groups. Though travel was easier along rivers, or if you were staying within your own valley or on the coast, a lot of towns and regions traveling in groups less than a few dozen was a good way to not get to your destination." Sure, there were exceptions, but those exceptions were there own story.

Passing down towards the Docks, Kathryn did take note of the lady of the house watching them as they crossed the back courtyard. Kathryn gave a smile and a polite wave before they were out of sight. Unfortunately, not much was seen on the way to the docks, at the docks, or on the way back up towards the Gazebo. Though she had hoped to see a large cap stone hidden within the stoneworks, she should have known better. There was not much room for much else once the storage below them was accounted for. "I imagine this isn't doing a ton for making my ability to investigate look impressive huh?" Kathryn joked.

"You know, when we get the time we should practice on you learning how to use your magic in synergy with your martial skills. I know you said you wanted them to be their own independent ability, but if you have a skill set over someone who wants to cause you harm, or a tool and asset that gives you an edge over your enemies, you should know how to use it to its fullest potential." Kathryn tried to offer up optimistically.

Weather: The temperature never quite tipped above freezing, as one might be able to tell from a lack of settling snow, but at least the wind is behaving. Mostly. A few clouds dot the sky in uneven intervals, casting a light blanket over the pale, faraway sun, until it proverbially kicks it off.

Time: Mid afternoon. One might take an early Tea now, if one were inclined. The sun stands high in the sky, though night comes early this time of the year, so do not be fooled.

Ambience: The snow remains thick and consistent, not having compressed at all by he higher temperatures of the risen sun. Naturally, this means that this day is colder than the day prior. At least incrementally enough to maintain the omnipresent ice and snow. Workers in and around the Rose River Vineyard are few, far between, and mostly keeping indoors.

The Coach House has been given a once-over by the domestic staff in black and white, which have been assigned to handle the incidentals of the group's presence; restocking firewood as needed, getting lists together for larder and pantry storage levels; basically covering the basics. Tight lips and quick action followed their presence, even as they attempted to stay away from anything resembling eye contact. Rumors are interesting things, depending upon who's telling them. And only a foolish person might believe that there are no rumors about the Adventurers at the Rose River Vineyard.

The moors are overall at a white standstill. The soft, rolling hills greatly resemble static waves of purest, cottony ice. The highs and lows equally bear the blanket of recent snows, though the lower, wetter areas (for those familiar with the land) seem to have collected a greater depth of snowfall, leading to hazardous conditions for the unwary soul who steps from the marked road. As a matter of consequence, the road isn't as burdened with the frigid, white stuff, as it lays across mostly even, mostly higher land. But even aside from that, for anyone who has been upon the Vineyard may notice that the brunt of the recent blizzard seemed to take it a little easier on the road, and on the parts of the moors not too far away from the borders of Arnaud L'Rose's lands.



Midday in winter is never a great time to be at work. One's efforts result in blood moving around one's body with heat, which turns trodden-through snow into wet clothing. In time, this becomes uncomfortable at best, and with the promise that this is the warmest part of the day, things may become moreso. Perhaps this is why the small, remaining staff of the Rose River Tavern spent very little time out-of-doors this day, as things were not getting any warmer.

Along the road just outside of Avonshire, a curious man in a straw hat gave Aric a broad, cheerful smile, and lifts each of his feet, one at a time, in an exaggerated manner. "G'Mornin'!" he repeated with a shrug, then turned his back to the stranger and continued his walk into the Township. Not to be impolite, he waved his free hand behind him with a quick utterance of, "Nice day for fishin'! Huah huh!" as his form advanced toward the walled Township of Avonshire.

Travelers upon the road will notice a distinct lack of travelers going any further than a couple miles, from one village to the next and one farm to the next. From what one can tell, looking out among the highs and lows along the road, that's all one can see - farms and villages - for the vast majority of the north/south road between Southmoor and the Township. There is an established halfway point, more or less, which would have been reachable by noon under good conditions. Unfortunately, the conditions are best described as "tolerable" instead. This point is one which Baronfjord and Victoria had seen previously, having stopped there for a quick picnic lunch on their way to the Vineyard, though is looks fairly different when draped in precipitous white. The Waypoint was hardly a waypoint in the classical sense. It wasn't quite large enough for a large mercantile or military group to set up overnight shop, but an intimate collection of wagons and travelers might do nicely. The Waypoint was spared a lot of the accumulating snowfall, thanks to the semi-encircling collection of boulders, not including a large, flat, shelf-like stone surface which may be used for all manner of things which would require a more-or-less flat surface. Or just to get a little elevation. The center features a well-used but maintained fire pit, which does not seem to have been utilized for a while now. The saving grace to this location is that the snow is only a couple to a few inches deep here.

Back at the Vineyard, talk of dragons sparked a hint of wonder from young Lizbeth, who asked in quiet reverence, "Have you ever seen a dragon? In person, I mean. I've only ever seen pictures..." The search continued, with the girl assisting where she might, even if it seemed near to hopeless. Lizbeth it seemed, did not know exactly what they were looking for and she otherwise knew most of the Vineyard brick for brick, which made things frustrating. By the time the afternoon came around, she did finally come to a decision about Kathryn's request. "I don't know what I can do yet, with magic and fighting, right? But if you want, I am willing to try for you. Not... sorry, not every time, okay? I still need to know how to do this for myself. But we can try."

Finally catching sight of Baronfjord arriving from town, Victoria rose from her seat and gave a practiced, yet ultimately unnecessary wave of her hand. It wasn't like the guy was going to have issues picking her out of a crowd, even if there were a crowd. Instead, the mostly sparse comings and goings of the place seemed to accent her presence, like putting an outline to an illustration. She stood out.

Her traveling companion asked if she had been waiting long, which might have made a lesser person extend a one-finger salute or respond with sarcasm. But being a lady of some tact (at least in that moment), Victoria responded with a genial, "I shouldn't say too long. Though I do worry about our time."

A quick change of subject was made as Victoria have mental command for her Morty to bring the errand cart around to the wagon's rear. When she spoke, it was with a soupçon of formality. "I would be grateful, Mr. Chedgusah, if you would lend me a hand with my baggage. Thank you so much."

So with her errand cart, it's contents, her Morty and herself in the vehicle, Victoria doffed her extraordinarily bardy hat and pulled her pashmina closer around herself. It wasn't much better inside the wagon, but it was a little, and a little counted. She briefly noted the coffin which was still back here, wondering if she might be able to use it for warmth and sleep later on in the trip. She filed that away for another moment and, to take her mind off of things for a while, went back to her books. The study of humanoid anatomy was intriguing to Victoria, as was the possibility of making alterations that a living creature could not support and remain living, but an undead one would find useful, even to the point of thriving. Then something caught her attention in the back of the wagon. "...hey, is that the Sheriff's chamberpot still back here?"

Yes, it was all coming together.

Immersed in her books and whatever conversation she got into with Baronfjord, it barely seemed like an hour or two (though it assuredly was longer) until Victoria noticed that they were coming up to the halfway point in the road between Southmoor and Avonshire. The waypoint/rest area where they had taken a light lunch all those weeks ago, when it was the tail of autumn and not the middle of winter. It was later than she would have liked, only having hit the halfway point, but they needed to stop. "BB, have you been driving the whole time? That's extraordinary! You're getting really good at this. Honestly." Was it flattery? Maybe. But slow moving aside, there wasn't a single complaint from the Bard about it.

Victoria did voice a relevant opinion, however. "Our mule has been going all day. He needs warm water, and to be dried off and brushed down. Maybe rested for a half hour." That last part was hard to say. They were already burning through too much daylight as it was. "I'll handle the water and fodder of you get the other. There's a kit in the back. But we need to pull it over for a least a little bit, if you would, please."

The journey continued interrupted by any ruffians, vagrants, or otherwise unappealing individuals which was a welcome change from the past few days. BlackBerry followed the directions given to him by the Mosswaters between the few bits of polite information the three of them shared over the journey. Not long after leaving Southmoor did BlackBerry feel the polite tapping on his shoulder from the Mosswaters asking to be dropped off.

"It was a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance, Masters Mosswater, I do hope we shall find time to meet again under less...interesting circumstances. On that matter though, if I may be so bold as yo ask that you both could kindly keep all that you may have heard the previous evening to yourselves, please. At least until we have managed to safely resolve the matter. Of course should you have need of us at all please do not hesitate to call."

His mind turned back to the other evening with Master Laurent threatening to rave and shout about everything from the rooftops. The last thing they or the L'Roses' needed was more people turning against them and making their work any harder.

Back to the present time and place of BlackBerry arriving to pick up Victoria, the little relief BlackBerry had when Victoria politely brushed aside worries of waiting long was quickly dashed at the mention of 'baggage'.

"Baggage?" BlackBerry replied dumbly. He looked over Victoria without seeing any extra bags on her...until he looked at Morty with his (some would say darling) errand cart. Morty, being very dead, didnt look back. "Ah yes...of course. Oh very well. Come along Morty let us get you strapped in shall we?"

BlackBerry hopped down from the cart bench with only a small grumble to lend a hand getting Morty into the wagon which really only amounted to lifting the errand wagon up after the undead swine had managed to scramble in himself. "Why yes, Victoria you are correct in your deductions for this wagon is of course fitted with all the trimmings needed for any journey." He gestured with a wave to the various odds and ends they had managed to gather and forgotten about. "We really should find time to actually sort through everything."

Soon enough they were back on the road again and Old Boy pulling the wagon at his usual comfortable plodding pace and BlackBerry cheerfully making whatever adjustments needed to keep them moving in the right direction. A mix of worry for the frozen road and lack of confidence kept BlackBerry from pushing Old Boy to move any faster than he already was, and daylight was slipping away faster than BlackBerry initially thought.

Despite this BlackBerry was still glowing from Victorias compliment, "A far cry from a few weeks ago." Victoria hadn't needed to snatch the reins from him at all on this journey, but she showed her expertise and experience by noting Old Boy needed a rest which BlackBerry agreed to and directed the Mule into the Halfway Point.

Following Victorias plan BlackBerry set to work securing the wagon and getting Old Boy comfortable, unwittingly the mule and removing his harness, and treating Old Boy to a well earned brush down just as Jon had expertly taught him to.

Kosara lacked interactions with the cleaning staff, but she didn’t push the issue much. She did try to greet them properly, but for whatever reasons the regular people of the vineyard didn’t seem to want to chat or interact with her much if at all! She just couldn’t figure out why that is! Alright that was a lie, she knew somewhat the preconceived notions that people might have towards her and others of the adventuring persuasions… at least it probably was not her teifling origins? Probably… In any case, that was the reason she didn’t push much least she got people overly uncomfortable… for now.

Still, presence of people was nice to have even if fleeting, silent and distant. Well nice to a degree of niceness at the very least. Niceness… that was a true word, right? She blinked, pondering the issue as she stood alone now at the doorway of the coach house with nary a person around her once more. Kosara was truly alone and left to her own devices now. There were no vineyard staff to observe her, none of her friends to have fun or interact with… there wasn’t even an animal to keep company! Well, she figured that she could summon Chauncey for companionship, but then stopped herself. Better to summon the adorable rat when she actually found something of note! That way she could share the excitement rather than waste their time together since Chauncey could only stay for about 2 hours a day! It was very important to not waste that time after all.

With that said she closed the door of the Coach house behind herself and walked to the edge of the fenced area, carefully wrapping herself with her winter clothing and making sure it was well secured with the buttons so she’d stay nice and warm even in the wintery ambiance of the world around. The place immediately around the building and the yard’s entrance was well enough cleared or at least stepped about so walking was easy.

Kosara looked left, then right, then turned around and pondered.” If I was something interesting hidden around the area, where would I be?” she asked herself, closing her eyes for a moment, tilting her head and thinking REALLY hard about it.

“Ohh, I know.” She suddenly exclaimed, snapping her fingers at having realized a marvelous idea on how to solve this problem! She extended a hand and in an impressive fluid flourish swung it around as a golden hued scimitar with horse head pommel formed within her grasp through the motion in a flash of gold. She looked at the weapon in her hand with a huge grin on her face before swinging her arm once more, like a whip’s crack, letting it go mid swing so it flew forward spinning in the air, making swishing noises through the air until it fell on snow covered ground.

Happily stomping over to where it felt, snow and frost crunching underneath her boots, Kosara noted how the weapon fell and where it was aligned at, especially where the blade pointed.” Direction decided!” She grinned to herself, grabbing her weapon and dismissing it as she merrily started skipping and or trudging through the snow in the fate mandated direction. Kosara was happy.

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.

"Afternoon."

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.

"Rose River Vineyard?"

The question was straightforward.

If they answered yes...

He’d found exactly who he was been looking for.

"Me? See a dragon? Not outside of BB no." Kathryn chuckled, still wondering if dragonborns laid eggs. "The knight who trained me? Ser Lucas? He claims he did, and I am inclined to believe him. He carried a blade that reminded me of the obsidian daggers we found. But instead made of a large tooth. Once when he was sleeping I took it from his belt to get a good look, and it was so sharp I thought I would lose fingers when it slipped and sliced me." Kathryn said holding her hand up and wiggling her fingers. "I got a good smack and talking too after that. But the cut was so clean and shallow that there was barely a scare when it healed. That and Ser Lucas knew some healing magic. Still, that tooth was sharper than any steel I have ever seen." Kathryn said dramatically, like a story teller sharing her secretes.

The investigation was far less exciting. "If possible, I would love to see if we can find where Toombas was murdered. It may give us hints on the original attacker." She paused a moment before turning to Lizbeth. Near the edge of the lands, this was probably the safest place to turn back. "We're probably going to find and see things that are going to be... unpleasant. You do not need to be here for all of this. And the help you have provided has been more than your share. Even without considering your age. If you'd like to return to the estate house until I return, no one would fault you for it. There is no shame in it. But if you would like to continue with me, I won't protest." But it seemed Lizbeth wanted to stay. Kathryn couldn't blame her. But she worried for the girl.

The concern of seeing something horrible turned out to not be a problem, as nothing was found. It was like some evil third party was actively hindering her progress. No sign of the murder sight near where BB was attacked, or on the road to town. It was a shame, and rather infuriating. And it didn't help that Kathryn was worried all she was good for was her raw physical might. A part of her wanted to go in and check on his family, see if they knew anything. But if he was attacked afterwards, she wasn't too sure what adding additional grief to the family would do. "You know, I kind of wish I took up horse riding when I was younger. My sister did far better at it than I did. So did my brothers. I was more concerned with using Todd as a shield when him and his brothers tried to gang up on me. None of that lot were decent fighters though." She chuckled at the memory. "And Ser Lucas, he tried to teach me. But we couldn't keep a horse long. Sometimes we ran out of money for feed. Or they would get stolen. Killed. Or some other thing came up. It didn't help that I am rather big, and he was rather..." She paused. Looked at Lizbeth and chuckled. "Well he was considerably shorter than you. He was a bit short even by Halfling standards. So there were some conflicts in how training was handled. Especially horseback riding. A horse good for him wasn't for me, and vise versa."

Weather: A few more clouds began to gather in an otherwise mostly clear sky. The warmest portion of the day has passed, and while it hasn't dropped dramatically, there is a noticeable change in the temperature. It is cold.

Time: Late afternoon to early evening. This time of the year, night comes earlier and earlier, so the number upon the face of a clock may be at odds with the light in the winter sky.

Ambience: No new precipitation, but that hardly matters when the whole of the landscape is covered in the crystalline, white stuff. No melt, nor even partial melt today as the temperatures remained constant for the vast majority of the day. This lack of variance in the day is likely a reason that the few workers available at the Vineyard wrapped up their duties as quickly as possible and got back to where it was warm. The same might be said of the people of Southmoor, who would like nothing more than to finish up their duties and return to hearth and home.

The road between Southmoor and Avonshire Township drifts lazily through the higher points of the moors, which is good considering that the lower reaches are perpetually damp and the whole of the area is blanketed in thick snow. The road itself remains more or less traversable, though if one desires less hazardous travel one must take their time. Occasionally, the river meanders close enough to the road to be seen, or rather, the ice which covers it on this particularly frosty day. It's all very lovely in its own way.



Along the waypoint, the mule now known as Old Boy seemed to be appreciating the attention, even in the frigid tempertures. The wagon stands still, with canvas flapping slightly in the low winds every so often, and from the lack of appreciable disturbance in the snow, it doesn't look like anyone had been out this far in at least a day. Nevertheless, this remains a place where rock formations provide a little shelter from weather, and a large, flat shelf of stone might allow for an easy picnic location, were it not covered in snow.

Back at the Vineyard, the swordpoint decision made much earlier that morning wasn't bearing the sort of fruit which one might have hoped. Kosara's jaunt into randomness, allowing chance to guide her steps in a way that worked remarkably well for her before did not overtly assist in the party's overall goals with figuring out and/or rectifying whatever plagued this land. The swordpoint led Kosara in a more or less easterly direction, cutting diagonally through the trees set up as a slender windbreak and moving her a little ways north of the watchtower. Continuing on this path brought Kosara to an elevated location near the river. Still with a crust of white-grey ice atop and a bit of a drop until one gets down to it, it is objectively a pretty good view. From here, one can see the back of the Estate House, the watchtower, and most of the beach area surrounded by rocky facings set aside for deliveries by river.

In and around Southmoor, things are a little more lively than the Vineyard, though admittedly not by much. One can easily note the presence of others by means of the occasional occupational noise and by the thin trails f smoke which rise from individual cottage chimneys. Yes, people are alive and active in the sleepy little settlement, even if that activity is mostly taking place inside. "Hey," begins Lizbeth, still armed and armored for battle while simultaneously pulling a scarf about her head and neck, "I know where Mr. Toombes lived with his family. His body was delivered there in a crate. It's sometimes customary to sit and wait with the body for a couple to a few days before they bury it. I'm not sure why they do, but... did you want to go there?"