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[center][hider=Southmoor][img]https://i.ibb.co/QnKHXZ8/Southmoor-Poachers-Crest-Map.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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[center][hider=Vineyard Estate][img]https://i.ibb.co/yRk60Zg/Vinyard-Estate-Gridded-Day-Lv4.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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	[u]Weather[/u]: 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.    

   	[u]Time[/u]: 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.  
 
	[u]Ambience[/u]: 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. 

	
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center]

	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. [color=darkgray]"Hey, it's two of the people what offed the Constable! You lot're famous, I believe."[/color] 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. [color=darkgray]"Someone's been asking about you."[/color] 

	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, [color=darkgray]"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,"[/color] she continued, pulling out a few silver coins and laying them on the crate. [color=darkgray]"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."[/color] 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. [color=darkgray][i]"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."[/i][/color] He nodded his head in a general direction and remarked sharply, [color=darkgray][i]"He was off with his new trollop, village girl name of Luci out in Grouse Rise, south of the Vineyard. Maybe [u]she[/u] knows something. I know she ain't bothered to show herself here to tell us yet."[/i][/color]

	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.