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[center][hider=L'Rose Hayloft][img]https://i.ibb.co/hWRvhS4/Hay-Barn.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=Coach House][img]https://i.ibb.co/BVvx6LH2/Coach-House.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
[center][hider=Neil & Bob's Public House][img]https://i.ibb.co/5vK80t3/N-B-ip.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]
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	[u]Weather[/u]: Winds transition to steady, giving an near constant, soft pull across the landscape. Clouds do what they do, interposing between the sky and one who might observe it, making sure that what little light issuing from the moon and stars only stretches between the two with decreasing frequency. There is no snow, thankfully, except what already lay thick across the moors. It is cold, it is dark.   
  
   	[u]Time[/u]: If the nighttime is the right time, then we are indeed in the right. No twilight's last gleam upon the horizon; the liminal nature of the fleeting day has fully turned to the dark. The night is young, but despite its tender age, the night in this area has seen some shit. 
 
	[u]Ambience[/u]: Quiet, save the winter wind pushing steadily among the highs and lows of a frozen moor. The road is quieter than most, now bereft of travelers that anyone might notice. The dark of the night makes the usually notable, if few, structures blend into the background unless active illumination peeks from covered windows. The Rose River Vineyard stands as a possible exception, as certain structures most assuredly stand out, like the near regal Estate House. Even rows of grape frames stand buried across the landscape here, each bearing the sleeping, generational crops of the L'Rose bloodline. 

	The Coach House seems to have taken an almost familial ambience. Sounds and smells of food being prepared, the tended fires of kitchen and taproom both giving warm reassurance against the dark, and light conversation despite the grim times. For the first time in a while, the Coach House feels a bit like the Coach Home. Supplies are stocked near to full, with wood, water, and pantry staples, not to mention a few culinary luxuries and probably a literal ton of wine available. Were it not for the horrors of the season, this would be a truly ideal way to wait out winter. 

	Back in Avonshire, the old hub for the Harvestide incident was alive with business. By such general and varying terms as "Alive" and "Business," one might be forgiven to say that it was a slower night. Winter has a way of bringing people in during the day for warming things to consume, but sending all except the more aggressive extroverts among the locals back home when the sun went down. Such as it was in Neil & Bob's Public House. Nine square tables were arranged in the taproom, as well as two larger, rectangular ones along the wall on the opposite side, but only two of the tables were in use. A stage, which looked a little out of place in an establishment like this, was located just to the right of the entrance and took up the entire corner there, as if originally built for larger performances than a single minstrel. The place was hardwood and metal fittings, all of which had the look of near antiquity, as if it had all been here, settling in place for many a year. Behind the bar, among the barrels and bottles, stood a fireplace which opened to both the taproom and the bar along their shared wall, within which simmered something savory and fragrant.    

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

[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/VgpLqTS/Bobs-Tavern.jpg[/img][/center]

	The few people within the Public House of Neil & Bob had a mix of the familiar and unknown. On the one hand, three local laborers rose and gave enthusiastic cheers upon seeing the entrance of Baronfjord and Victoria, pumping their fists in the air and shouting their names as if they were the favored competitors at a Professional Jousting Federation. One of them, a little stouter than most, asked two questions of the pair: [color=darkgray]"Heeeeey heya! Where's that big lady, Kat, what was drinking us under the table, huh? OOH! And Morty? Where'd that little sack of pork roast get hisself to? Aw, but it's great to se ya!"[/color] He slurred, as one does when they've been drinking for a little too long, but he was almost completely coherent, as were his associates. Astute people who were present for Harvestide may remember them as Lawrence, Maurice, and Curly, the latter being the one giving the poetic salutation. 

	Only one person sat at the bar, a Halfling lady who probably had to climb up the barstool to get there, with her hair in a bun and an apron which bore the signs of kitchen work. An older fellow stood behind the bar, absently wiping down drinking vessels with a lightly dampened cloth. The older fellow, Human, gave the tightest smile of recognition possible, while the Halfling lady raised a mug far larger than she should have been able to deal with and joined the trio at the table, punctuating her greeting with a disproportionately sized belch for her otherwise petite frame. [color=darkgray]"[i]These folk, eh? Good to see you! Lea was asking after you, smooth talker.[/i]"[/color] It was Daisy, the lady employed in the kitchen, who motioned with her huge mug in the direction of the other occupied table in the room, which held the first glimpse at the unfamiliar. 

	At this table sat three Gnomes (rare in these parts), two of which were dressed in vivid, cheerful colors while the third, in contract dressed down in muted earth tones and black. Joining them was a Human woman with ark hair, appearing to be in her thirties. She was attired in a hooded brown coat and a warhammer rested beside her chair, leaning against the edge of the table. All of them appeared to be in varying states of intoxication. Serving this quartet was the young Human lady, Lea, who was busy picking up used dishes and refilling stout mugs with rich, brown ale. She looked up to see who entered, thanks to the sudden increase in volume within the Public House, and smiled. A flush of scarlet hit her cheeks and she quickly turned toward the kitchen. She called behind her, [color=darkgray]"Just sit wherever!"[/color] It was just a couple of minutes before she was back out front with a change of apron. 

[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/xH8vbT7/Barmaid-at-N-B.jpg[/img][/center]

	  Back in the Coach House, Lizbeth maintains a sense of initially tense politeness at the sudden reversal, being as she had been accustomed to serving, or at least preparing things for, the adventurers who presently resided within the Coach House. This had been done, seemingly, in an attempt to repay the lessons learned and protection afforded by their presence. Perhaps this was why it seemed strange to her at first. But as these first few moments passed, slowly, Lizbeth opened up to the possibility that this was just an evening between people of differing backgrounds who had come to get to know each other over the past weeks. It had been some time and she had already learned much, and was hungry to learn more. 

	In fact, Lizbeth was just plain hungry. It had been a good amount of time that day since she had a substantial meal, and this was a more interesting combination of food items than she was accustomed to seeing assembled. Comfortable with the flavors individually, she took the not-quite-worldshifting step into something a little new. [color=darkgray]"Oh, this is nice!"[/color] she exclaimed, getting better acquainted with the simplicity of bread, oil, and accoutrements. She was halfway through her second toasted slice before holding herself to manners, and slowing down. The items which remained to be sampled would be better served if she did not attempt the horridly plebeian practice of "horking," which she had come to realize through literary works could mean the rapid intake AND rapid out-take of food, depending upon usage. Lizbeth had no visible desire to commit herself to either action. 

	To help slow herself, she did initiate a bit of conversation. [color=darkgray]"Grouse Rise,"[/color] sje started, suddenly swallowing hard to fully clear her speaking pipes, [color=darkgray]"...is a small village south of here. Past the bend in the river, and, um... I think I've only been there twice. Grandpa hires ...hired... people from there, but it's past the south end of the vineyard. He didn't want me playing near there when I was littler."[/color] The sentiment echoed something she had mentioned weeks ago, when everyone was making their initial journey from Avonshire Township to the Rose River Vineyard - almost to the letter.