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?"

As the wagon came to a stop, Victoria was already removing herself from it, stepping deftly out of the back. She remembered this spot from what seemed like a long while ago, but in reality had only been a matter of weeks. A handful of weeks, yes, but not so long ago from an objective standpoint. The place was greener then, and tiny, gorgeous wildflowers bloomed nearby. Such was winter, she supposed.

Shooing that thought away, Victoria committed herself to the task she volunteered for. There was water in the back of the wagon, and feed for the frosty mule, which required her to turn back around and begin precariously sliding it toward her, eventually getting the appropriate containers to the edge of the wagon. Feeding Old Boy was easy enough; the bland but nourishing assortment of dry roughage could be easily set into a feedbag and hung for him, but water posed some difficulties. It had to be warm, or half of her problem would remain. Pulled from the well, it was insulated somewhat by distance underground. The same qualities which kept it a constant, cool temperature during the hotter months also kept it a constant, cool temperature during the winter, That is cool, not frozen. At least, not past an inch or two. But being stored in a barrel on the surface allowed more cold to seep in, causing a more robust layer of ice to form. What liquid water remained was undeniably not the temperature she, and by extension the mule, needed. Victoria poured a measured amount into a waxed, canvas bag especially for the purpose, and reached out a tendril of magic with a quiet, melodic, humming vocalization.

Not hot, but importantly, not cold. A mote of magic to draw out the smallest, yet most utilitarian of effects was enough to bring the temperature of the water just enough to make it give off wisps of steam against the winter air. The mule seemed immensely happy to get this. Being kind, and wishing for Old Boy to take in as much water as possible, Victoria extended another, similar mote of magic to flavor the water with notes of sweet apples.

With the horse fed, watered, and warmed, Victoria took a few steps back to review how Baronfjord was handling his tasks. Not that the Bard was any great zoological scholar, having merely a passing familiarity with handling animals as her training was mostly centered around driving wagons, carts, and the like, and seeing to their requirements. She knew some pressing basics about their care and nothing more. But she could spot a decent enough job being done. "Oh absolutely, Baronfjord. The past weeks have shown a remarkable improvement. If we are still in each other's company after the snows break, it will be nice to have another person to entrust with the reins. Excellent job." She smiled, despite the weather smartly coloring her cheeks, then returned the feeding gear back into the wagon.

Then she began to really regard the contents of the wagon. For the first half of the day, Victoria had been engrossed in the new books on anatomy and physical trauma that she had to replicate. It was riveting stuff. Far and away a different field of study than she ever figured she would have involved herself with as a Bard. But here she was, committing to this new intellectual pursuit because knowledge for the sake of knowledge was important, it helped pass the time over the winter (aside from the horrifying events of the land), and more importantly to Victoria, skill with medicine and anatomy would make her better with practical Necromancy. Of course, she would never tell Annick this. But concerning the contents of the wagon, she remarked, "We have been carrying this coffin since before you joined us, Baronfjord. It contained Arnaud L'Rose for a very short amount of time, then a Goblin who felt it best to steal his wine, eat his corpse, and fall asleep in his coffin." She gave a wry laugh, continuing, "I'm a Funerary Violinist and an adventuring Bard. I'd be foolish not to write a song about the Coffin Goblin."

Victoria shook her head, continuing to review the bits of collective, land-based flotsam and jetsam which had accumulated in the wagon. Then she paused, gave it a bit of thought, and came to a personal conclusion. "I wish to officially claim the coffin. Madame L'Rose doesn't want it back, after ...everything, and Lizbeth doesn't seem to want a thing to do with it. There are a lot of interesting things one can do with a fine piece of carpentry like this. If nothing else, I'm willing to bet it's a warm spot for a nap." The thought gave her pause, but just for a moment. "It's a bit macabre, I know. It does seem like a waste, otherwise." How she might transport it without the use of the wagon was beyond her at the moment, basically securing her position with the group for the time being if she did feel strongly about keeping it. Though, the idea that it was a warm spot to rest did ping the idea-oriented section of her psyche. She might be onto something there.

The thought was shaken away by the avian intonations of her Raven, who returned from the sky to settle on the wagon near to her. It brought Victoria's attention to her surroundings to the forefront, which was where it ought to have been in the first place. They were being approached. Nary a traveler had they seen for miles, and this one was arriving on foot. Armed. With a very dangerous-looking moustache. Victoria gave a glance in Baronfjord's direction and cleared her throat in a conspicuous manner to alert him to the approach, if he hadn't already noticed for himself. She then assumed a genial, even welcoming expression and posture. There was no sense in being inhospitable and/or rude to people she hadn't even met yet. All the same, she kept her instrument handy and her voice clear in case there was an insurmountable issue in their immediate future.

He stopped. She smiled. He greeted, noting the statement of the time of day - Afternoon, as it was, with "good" being the implication. Victoria gestured her hand in a sweeping motion offering up the landscape and weather as a response. With a hint of joviality in her voice, she answered, "Most certainly is, is it not?"

The next three words from the stranger came as a coincidence, seeing as he had named the location from where they had began their journey back to the Township. "Oh, the vineyard? You're on the right road. It's just past Southmoor, but I don't believe you'll get there before dark. Best of luck to you, of course."

“It is so pretty here.” Was Kosara’s very pointedly well placed quip as she stood atop the elevated place at the river side. She blinked, a few times, took deep breath of cool air and began coughing a few times.” Too much cold air, too much cold air!” She gasped a few time to get her breathing back into proper order. She wiped a tear or two off her eyes. Alright, lesson learned, breath normally, too much cold suddenly in your lungs was not good… kinda interesting feeling though. A bit mint.. not really, but very refreshing and mildly hurting.

“Hmmm… This was a nice day so far.” She concluded as she kicked up some snow, pondering if she could just plop down on the ground and snow and sit a bit to enjoy it now, but then recalled that snow is water, water is wet, weather is cold and cold wet pants do not sound like a nice thing on the way back… In the end the white haired tiefling decided that comfort was the better part of valor in this case and wet frosty trousers were not the way to go. If she had something to use to sit, it would have been different, but woe was her bad decisions today, she had left the bedroll at the coach house because she suspect it wasn’t worth lugging it around when she wasn’t going to be camping. Shame, she could have used it to sit on the snow and enjoy the view.

In any case, Kosara spend some time there on the elevation, taking in the sights. It was pretty, calm and very enjoyable, but with it getting towards the later parts of the day, it was best time to get going back, least she stays after dark too much. Admittedly darkness in the snow covered everything wasn’t as scary, mostly because it was surprisingly bright and visible still, but best not tempt fate. So in the end with a rather uplifted heart and recovered energy and motivation, Kosara smiled, turned around a heal and began walking a bit along the elevation. She wasn’t planning to just following it for a long time, but a few dozen meters more, before she turned around and finally began heading back, not perfectly tracing her steps, but going along the same path anyways. She didn’t consider the lack of finding anything substantial to be a demerit. She had enjoyed her outing. It would have been a nice to have a picnic, but solo picnics weren’t as fun. Maybe she’d grab some of the others next time for an outing! She’d show them this place and the scenery!

Invigorated by her new plan for the future, Kosara merrily headed back to her current temporary home. She had decided to be the one to cook dinner too, so she had to walk fast!

BlackBerry continued to glow under the praise Victoria gave him especially given her own background travelling; he was not so pious a monk as to shoo away any compliments to his work. Still..something in Victorias wording made him pause.

'If we are still in each other's company...'

He turned the words over in his mind, pouting a little, and realised that as a group they hadn't made any plans for after the season to stay together but also hadn't planned otherwise either. He had somewhat selfishly assumed they would all be travelling together wherever the winds too them next, or even more selfishly he had hoped to bring them all home to aid in his own personal mission. In the end though the insinuation still stung a little as he had gotten quite used to everyone's company and antics, even rather fond of them all including the time Lady Kathryn had broken his ribs. It was something to address later, he decided, with Kosara and Lady Kathryn as well hopefully after this mess with the Prince had been resolved.

BlackBerry finished up his work and after giving the mule a hearty scratch behind the ears then joined Victoria at the wagon just in time for her explanation of the coffin which drew a very blank look and a few astounded blinks from the Dragonborn as he packed away the brushes.

"Well I certainly shan't be be laying any claim upon it so have at it, Victoria." He then gave her a look of mock seriousness as he added, "Careful Victoria, this is how rumours start; sleeping in a coffin, an interest in macabre topics, and travelling with the once-living. Why if I had yet seen you standing in daylight before me I should have some suspicions." He then dashed away the pretence with a laugh and a wave. Clambering up into the wagon he made towards the front where he had stashed his bag. "Now with Old Boy fed and watered shall we make do for ourselves as well, yes?"

BlackBerry had just grabbed the small parcels wrapped in paper and twine from his bag (a selection of sandwiches; bacon and egg, bacon and egg, and finally, bacon and egg) when he heard Victoria cough in a strange manner, he almost called out to her before common sense stopped him. After hearing a cordial greeting both from a strangers voice and then Victoria replying, BlackBerry then threw common sense to the window by pulling back the canvas to look at who had arrived.

"And a frankly cold one at that, I might add." BlackBerry did indeed add with a wave to the stranger; a man with shoulder length hair and a thick moustache, dressed in appropriate winter furs. His polite grin and wave then turned apprehensive as he leaned out the wagons front to look back at the trail towards Southmoor and the Vineyard hidden far out of sight beyond. The poor man didn't have a chance of reaching it before dark. "If it is the Vineyard you are looking for I would advise abandoning that idea till morning, and stop at Southmoor for the night."

A few red flags went up in his mind as he politely regarded the stranger; it seemed odd anyone making the journey to the vineyard when Madame L'Rose had said all but essential workers had been sent home for the season, and this coupled with the various...'goings on' of late, they had already received a gruesome reminder so perhaps this was a more measured though no less threatening reminder. To add to that thought, Master Urmdurus had gone ahead of them so the two men must have met along the way and surely the Stranger could have asked for directions then?

Maybe Blackberry was just being overly cautious and this was all a coincidence?

"Might I ask what compels you to the Vineyard this time of year?"

Aric listened without interruption, allowing both responses to settle before offering one of his own. The woman had answered the question exactly as it had been asked. The dragonborn had answered the one Aric had actually meant. Between the two of them, the exchange painted a clearer picture than either likely intended.

Polite.

Cautious.

Neither immediately hostile.

Given everything Avonshire had endured, he couldn't fault them for that.

His gaze drifted briefly across the wagon before returning to its occupants. It carried the unmistakable signs of long travel. Supplies packed with the familiarity of people who had lived from it for weeks rather than days. Equipment accumulated through necessity rather than careful planning. A coffin secured among otherwise practical cargo certainly wasn't something one encountered every day, though after everything he had heard in town, it scarcely ranked among the stranger details.

His attention settled on the dragonborn.

The question was reasonable.

More than reasonable.

It was the sort of question Aric himself might have asked.

A faint cloud of breath escaped beneath the brim of his hat before he answered.

"I'm looking for people."

His tone remained even, carrying easily across the cold air.

"The Ones Who Answered."

The title felt strange spoken aloud. Less like the name of an adventuring company and more like something a town had invented because it needed to call its heroes something. That alone made it memorable.

"Avonshire had rumors."

A slight shrug shifted the weight of his pack.

"Some contradicted each other. Most didn't. A corrupt constable. Disappearances. Goblins. Wererats. Harvestide."

His eyes moved between them once, measuring reactions more than appearances.

"Every trail eventually pointed south."

The wind tugged lightly at the hem of his cloak before settling again.

"I left the town watch some years ago. Since then I've made a habit of looking into the sort of things that leave more questions than answers."

There was no boast in the statement.

Simply fact.

"Harvestide sounds like one of those."

Silence lingered comfortably for a moment.

Aric had learned long ago that people often volunteered their most useful information when they were given room to do so.

His eyes settled once more upon the dragonborn.

"You asked what brings me to the Vineyard."

Another measured pause.

"I'm hoping the people who survived it can tell me where the rumors end and the truth begins."

Only then did he allow the question that had been quietly forming since Avonshire.

"Would I be correct in assuming I've found some of them?"

"I think it may be helpful to talk to them. To not only offer condolences, but to see if anyone in the household had noticed anything the night of the attack." Kathryn said mournfully. She hated the idea of bugging a grieving family, but she wanted to prevent even more from finding themselves in the same shoes. There was also the possibility of stumbling upon the attacker on the return trip. Look for spots that would make good ambush spots, maybe notice something else she missed on the way. Or maybe, the attacker would slip up. Maybe they would go after the duo on their return trip. Kathryn hated that Lizbeth was involved. Not only because she was young and innocent, but because she was who their foe was after. If it was just Kathryn, the half giant would be fine using herself as bait. But as the day dragged on she worried that beneficial or not, they could end up being bait themselves.

With Lizbeth's assistance, finding the family of the deceased wasn't too hard. There seemed to be a coming and going of those grieving, those wishing condolences, and those who seemed to wonder about unsure how too interact or what to say. There was one older couple who Kathryn assumed was the parents of Toombas who seemed to be the most centered of the event. Ceremony? She wasn't sure what the local term would be. But she still understood the importance of such events.

Walking up to the couple in the most humble demeanor someone pushing 7 feet in full armor could muster, Kathryn spoke with a warm and comforting tone. "Hello there. I am sorry for intruding, and I am even more sorry for your loss. My name is Lady Kathryn Pyke of Arcanaple. I was staying at the Vineyard when I heard what had happened, and I was hoping to offer assistance with bringing justice to those who may have been involved. I know the feelings you are feeling now, so I hate to bring them up. But if there was anything out of the ordinary that you could recall from that night. Words spoken, strangers in town, even an odd feeling, I would love the chance to pursue any lead that could help." Kathryn spoke softly, not necessarily like a caring mother, but like an older sibling who wanted to step up and do the right thing. Or a caretaker who feels extra steps may be needed to make sure their charge has the care they need. "And while we're here," Kathryn said emphasizing herself and Lizbeth. "Please do let me know if there is any assistance we can offer in your time of need. Losing a loved one is... The single worst feeling anyone could ever go through. And anything I can do to help alivieate that pain I shall." Kathryn offered up. Had she wanted to push the diplomatic side of things she may have wore something other than a full combat kit. But this wasn't in the original plan, and the chances she may need her kit were higher than she'd like to admit.

Weather: Winds begin to pick up with the transition of day to night. Temperatures are on the decline, as is to be expected during a winter evening. Clouds are moving in with with faster high-elevation winds, which occasionally block the enduring moonlight. At least the snow hasn't returned - yet.

Time: Evening. We have come to the twilight hour at just about the time our travelers begin to detect their destinations in the distance. Let us hope that our intrepid adventurers did not dally upon the road.

Ambience: Uncertain moonlight reflects off of a glistening white landscape, growing stronger against the purples and reds of the very nearly set sun; the vast skyward orb's radiant nature hidden by the horizon with only a whisper of its former glory coloring the sky. Winter makes for early nights, and this is on obvious display. Wind kicks up loose snow or other debris from the tops of hills, more notable in the distance as tiny elements of motion in one's periphery, across the high places of the moors south of Avonshire. The limited cover of the occasional copse of trees does nothing to blunt the gusts of wind, aside from giving physical markers of its intensity and direction. Thankfully, for now, it isn't insurmountable.

Within towns and estates, including Southmoor and the Rose River Vineyard, the few people who were out and about pursuing business professional and personal, have decided to get behind walls with hot beverages and hearth-fires. Distant lights of the Avonshire Township coule be barely made out, muted as they were. While the twilight made it impossible to make out the glow of early evening illumination behind the log walls of the settlement, a few of the structures outside of the wall have lights on within, glowing from behind frosted glass.




There is one distinct difference to Avonshire that was not there even as recently as that morning, and it's demonstrably notable: Just outside of the walls, an almost literal stone's throw from the eastern gate, was a series of caravan-style wagons and a myriad of tents representing at least half dozen cultures, with coloration ranging from drab to vibrant hues. Despite the cold and the approaching night, this campsite sported ample illumination, mostly from lamps and the occasional bonfire. Approaching the Township a little closer showed that there were a few scattered people traversing the short walk between the campsite and the walls of Avonshire.

The mule (affectionately referred to as Old Boy) pulling the repurposed army wagon back into Avonshire was showing signs of discomfort. It was coming to the end of a long day for the poor beast, dragging a laden wagon across a snowy road in sub-optimal conditions. But at the sight of the town in the distance there was a sudden shift in resolve. Town was that way. Warmth and fodder lay in that direction. The veteran wagon-puller just had to get there. And so its steps showed a marginal amount of additional vigor, knowing that it was coming to an end soon. The southern entrance to the Township lay closer than any other point of ingress and was the eventual end to this road, so was the obvious choice to enter Avonshire proper.

Beyond the Township stood a wooded area, sporting the naked branches of as many deciduous trees as there were verdant and snowy evergreens, and to one side, interposed between the southern road and the large camp of caravan wagons lay a mostly frozen over lake. Where farmlands weren't, there were a good many more trees than the greater moors further south, as if one was gradually stepping into an altogether different place, connected by the same roads and waterways. The East/West road which ran to and from either side of the Township was wider and better developed than the road to Southmoor, as well it should, being the region's primary route for mercantile trade.

A brief exchange with the guards at the southern gate allowed for their entry with no difficulty. "Hey, it's two of the people what offed the Constable! You lot're famous, I believe." This from one of the uniformed fellows stationed at the gate, which was slowly swinging open to admit them. It should be noted that he was wearing the garb of a soldier from Fort Darenby, not the usual leather armor and tunic of an Avonshire Township Guard. "Someone's been asking about you."

The Township, looking much as it was prior to the events of Harvestide, opened to Baronfjord and Victoria.

Back at the Vineyard, things were most assuredly wrapping up. Kosara was the only person at the Coach House for a good bit of time yet. Plans to prepare dinner could easily be resolved, as the stores for the week were refreshed just that morning, as well as a good amount of tidying up by the Vineyard domestic staff. So long as one didn't mind that laborers had access to the place where one kept their belongings and slept at night, it was actually quite convenient. The oil stores for the lamps had been refreshed, seasoned wood refilled the storage areas for the fireplaces, and food stores had been replaced to the same levels the party had seen upon first entering this place at the end of autumn. The smell of fresh bread even permeated the kitchen and taproom, which made sense when one witnessed the reed basket which contained many loaves of differing, and some mixed, grains. Be it that Cecily had remained conspicuously absent for a long while now, she seemed intent upon keeping the party taken care of.

Southmoor, or a dwelling to one side of it, was more active than most places. Not because of any festival atmosphere whatsoever, but because of mourning and loss. Faces here showed waves of grief, interspersed with moments of grudging duty and even the occasional smile as a memory of the deceased was mentioned. This was family being looked after by community, in a rural place far away from more elegant urban or castle comforts. The cottage was simple stone, mortared and stacked upon more simple stone, with smooth but untreated planks of wood comprising the floor and supports. There was a small hearth with something bubbling in a pot over it, likely something involving beans by the starchy scent in the air which often warred with the boughs of evergreen branches.

Kathryn and Lizbeth were allowed entrance with no rebuff or other trouble, as those who came to pay respects seemed to have uncontested access to the private dwelling. Many could be seen eyeing the pair, as Kathryn was most assuredly a newer face in the area, and Lizbeth wasn't exactly known for wearing green, chitinous armor nor for carrying weapons from a bygone era. There were more than a few suspicious looks, but it didn't go beyond this. The way was open to the main area within the cottage, wherein one could see the grieving parents of the Former Master of Harvest, Toombes. The very same crate which held his remains back at the Vineyard presumably also held him at this moment, as it was sitting right in the middle of the room and flanked by two older people, to whom the townsfolk gave deference. Mssr. and Mme. Toombes, one could likely guess. And if the astute observer lent an eye in the direction of the crate, one might have seen pry marks on the lid, right alongside hasty, inexpert re-insertion of nails. There would be no open-casket ceremony for this man.

Kathryn's words did not fall on deaf ears, as it seemed to stir emotion from many of the people present. No one said anything for a long time, until Lizbeth spoke up with a diplomatic, "I'm really sorry we didn't come with a proper gift, coming to your house like this. It's my fault, really. Lady Kathryn didn't know better and I should have told her. Please accept this," she continued, pulling out a few silver coins and laying them on the crate. "It's not much, but maybe you can get something Master Toombes might have liked with it. I'm very sorry this happened to him. He was a funny, hard working guy. I liked him." The words were simple, and the elder Mme. Toombes seemed to accept it.

Monsieur Toombes still held onto a profound note of displeasure at the whole affair. Not that it was expected that he be in a jolly mood, naturally. Bitter words left his mouth as he responded to Kathryn. "Well, M'lady, I wouldn't know what strange thing happened with him that night. He wasn't with us, or even in town before the L'Rose's Fancy Wine Party." He nodded his head in a general direction and remarked sharply, "He was off with his new trollop, village girl name of Luci out in Grouse Rise, south of the Vineyard. Maybe she knows something. I know she ain't bothered to show herself here to tell us yet."

For those arriving in or around Southmoor or the Rose River Vineyard, you have a few options. Night is upon you as you close in on Southmoor. The Vineyard is a short distance beyond, but that short distance is going to be traversed in a whole lot of darkness. The town is closing its doors and dousing its lights, for the most part. Were one to brave the last stretch in the early night, they would bear witness to numerous structures silhouetted against what moonlight allows itself to be witnessed, past the copse of trees within which the town had been constructed. The largest such structure would be the Estate House of the Rose River Vineyard, being the most recognizable one in the area, built upon a rising hill overlooking part of the river. But there are others. In any case, were a light to be raised, signage indicating Southmoor, and past that, the Rose River Vineyard, could be readily detected. While this isn't the literal end of the road, it is the destination for now.

The cold was officially a problem. It was easy to ignore at first, as the wonder and newness of their outing remained fresh for hours after the initial push toward Avonshire, but time stepped in to blunt those feelings. And so it was that she sought solace in her books, which were genuinely interesting, but even this began to dim. The light was failing, anyway, and her Half-Elven ability to see through relative darkness with greyscale detail didn't matter a whole lot when dealing with print upon a page. But the cold, to a woman who generally preferred spirited songs and a roaring fire while observing winter on the other side of the window, was a difficulty that she very much wished to overcome. Concentrating a tendril of arcane energy into her voice, Victoria softly vocalized a little heat into her hidden armor, which served quite nicely against the worst of the frigid evening. At least temporarily. To her credit, for purposes of estimating propriety, Victoria had chosen not to use the coffin to bolster herself against the cold.

...this time.

Getting closer to the Township was a blessing, with which anyone might agree, but which carried with it the baggage of certain realizations. The first one was benign enough, pointed out by Victoria with a positive tonal shift of, "Oh my, look at that! I remember a lady in Darenby mentioning a carnival, or come such, which was to arrive after Harvestide. How marvelous. I had quite forgotten." Another moment's worth of consideration struck her with a sharp observation, "They..." she sighed, "They are encamped between Avonshire and the cemetery. It will not be easy to have a private conversation with Monsieur L'Rose."

On the plus side, it was nice to be recognized by the soldier manning the southern gate. Usually, when she was noticed by someone she didn't personally know, it was because of her musical talent, or more shallowly, because of her "flawless-yet-approachable" physical appearance. Alternately, it might have been very negative, as it wouldn't have been the first time she was recognized because of some moral objection to the way she used her magic. Morty was an excellent example of this, even if he wasn't animated in exactly the same way as other Thralls. But this was probably the first time that she was recognized for "offing" someone, and treated positively as a result. "Think nothing of it, brave sir. This was all due to the careful forethought of your dear Sheriff Arbalest. It's really he that deserves accolades." Victoria smiled, broadly and with the very image of sincerity. She was good at this. But in the back of her thoughts, this was still a possible unknown situation. If positive, spreading the glory would make her look humble, and thusly more heroic, or at least a touch more favorable. If negative, well... An ounce of plausible deniability, or being seen as a neutral hired hand, allowed for the barest of wiggle room in tense social situations - areas in which Victoria really shone. And the Bard wasn't convinced that there weren't still a few people in Avonshire who supported Constable Cavendish, or at least his goals.

Once inside the log walls of the Township, Victoria climbed up to the driver's bench next to Baronfjord, turned to him, and inquired, "It's late already. We have a few options here; where do you want to go?" She still has the keys to the woodworking/furniture shop and was eighty percent sure that guy was dead. There was the Hayloft, which had surprisingly served them well during Harvestide. Then again, there was Neil & Bob's Public House, if you didn't mind a shared, communal sleeping area. There were more options available in town, Victoria was certain, as the rush of Harvestide was over and people went back to their respective places. Even Madame Marcie's Honey Barn was a possibility, though Victoria believes there was a matter of unfinished business. But all of those choices were dependant on the decision to stop for the night and rest from their travels. They didn't necessarily have to. Though the mule might thank them profusely if they did.

For the time being, the burlap-wrapped Morty stayed in his spot in the wagon, the undead version of a conversational piece of side furniture, next to Victoria's small errand cart. Subtlety, until they get to what they knew was anonymous and/or friendly territory. Nox circled overhead twice, before settling down next to Victoria.

Walking back to the Coachhouse was an affair of familiarity and a weird sense of ‘returning home’ as the happy tiefling stumbled through the outer fence and then entered the ground floor of the building generally and lovingly referred to as the taproom. The scent of fresh loafs of bread was the first thing that hit her senses as she walked in through the door as she took in the surroundings with careful observations. The Vineyard’s staff had been by it seemed, the fireplaces looked restocked and that probably meant the rest of the place has been restocked too. If Kosara was to guess, upstairs, the rooms were also cleaned and prepared for habitation once more. She nodded, content and pleased with the turn of events. She was going to fire the fireplace soon..ish… as to make sure the place was warm for when those who weren’t going to Avonshire returned, but for now she was alone at the place as she took off her coat, set it on a chair nearby along with putting her bag on the table next to said chair.

Afterwards, following the very tasty scent in the air that made her mouth water and sniffing her path to the origin, it wasn’t hard to discover the basket with the goods. Yes, tonight was going to be a good time! She had to make sure they had tasty food to go with the tasty bread! First thing’s first though, she checked the fireplace in the taproom to make sure it was properly set, it was, just needing to be set ablaze… She looked outside, contemplating. Just moments earlier she planned to light it up later, but she didn’t know when the others would return and it was starting to get dark and the cold was going to settle in quickly soon after. In the end she decided to just light the main fireplace first and then headed to the kitchen to start preparing the meal, though she kept the doorway to the kitchen open to keep an eye on the fire and the entryway.

“What to make for a meal though...” Kosara pondered, since the pantry was well stocked, she figured some hearty warm stew would be very well received tonight. That was an idea! A warm filling meal to settle the stomachs!” PERFECT!” She exclaimed and began to gather the various ingredients. She also figured they could do with a salad! Maybe carrots and cabbage, soil oils, some spicing and some vinegar. Would work marvels and finally if she had time she could try her hand at a PIE! Good old apple pie! Mind you she hadn’t made pie before, but she knew the concept and had made similar enough things before… She’d add honey to make sure it’s tasty, but not everywhere since some might not want it to be too sweet? She could make do! So with the plans decided, ingredients gathered and kitchen ready to work, she made sure her braid was tightly secured, sleeves pulled back to not get dirty a quick cantrip for very faint music notes for ambiance and meal preparation was a go! She almost forgot, but recalled in the last moment, halfway reaching to a knife. TEA! Hurriedly she put a kettle to warm up with a bunch of dried fruits tossed in for a nice fruity goodness!” NOW TO DINNER!” She pivoted, finally REALLY ready to begin cooking.