━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Weather: Outside of the Coach House, the weather is rather pleasant, if still cold, so long as one bundles against the wind. Partly cloudy, gusts increasing in intensity with damp air. But the sun is absolutely lovely whenever it decides to make its appearance, verily glittering upon the fields of snow and the barely noticeable topmelt. The temperature remains within a degree of freezing, depending upon the prevailing winds of the hour.
Time: It seems like so much has happened in the past posting cycle, but no - we have now only moved a few minutes further into the day. Early afternoon, still.
Ambience: Still the very bastion of comfort, the taproom of the Coach House is a vision of polished wood and cut stone with simple yet well crafted furnishings. This is what a roadside Inn might be if it were kept up by a mindful, well-financed hand and rarely occupied. The lighting is adequate within the taproom, especially around the table near to the fireplace - this one has additional lighting in the form of an oil lamp and a couple of candles for ease in reading the books and papers thereupon. The tea set here is a lovely four person affair of smooth ceramic with hammered copper bottoms. Toward the wall stands a tusked boar, completely covered in burlap wrappings, making nary a move whatsoever.
One visiting the bar will see that it is fully stocked, though mostly with locally procurable wines and the rare, occasional spirit. Two barrels sit top the bar, both tapped for service - one has the look of age and the other of new local convenience. The former containing brandy, if the charring on its exterior is to be believed, while the other, less full one contains standard ale from the very nearby town of Southmoor.
The cellar remains as it did a moment before. Lots of places to store goods, most of which are taken up by said goods. Much more wine is down here, taking advantage of the stable temperature, as well as other semi-perishable foodstuffs. Barrels, crates, baskets, etc. dominate this room, with enough room to walk amongst it all and tend to supplies. It is cold down here, but that is to be expected. The only light is what one brings with them.
The shelf along the wall, the only one which actually makes contact with the wall directly and contains mostly tools (not to mention the odd puzzle box), has gone through some changes. More to be revealed, below.
![]()
"Certainly," remarked Lizbeth, moving to the kitchen, within which say a pot of well-water, drawn that morning for their use that day. It wasn't long before she was back, a dead girl carrying a filled pitcher. She maintained the not-quite-alive visage from earlier, almost as if she was showing off a new dress but with far less of any emotion that could be confused with positivity or gusto. When the option to speak with Baronfjord was requested, she acted in agreement, even if she didn't say it out loud. Instead, she simply placed the water down where indicated and listened.
"That's very sweet of you to think of me, Master Baronfjord." Her color and expression remained the same, but her head tilted slightly to one side as she continued,
"But if you think I am staying away from something my Grandfather specifically led me to on his estate from beyond the grave after..." She gestured at herself,
"I appreciate the warning. I'll even stand behind you when you first locate it. But I am going to be there." Returning to the table, Lizbeth got something of an earful from Victoria. It sounded, to her ears, like a motherly guilt trip or something an annoyed big sister might intone. But like a younger family member, she
did want something from her. And from Kathryn. And so far she hadn't done a thing to prove herself undedicated, so the young, teenage part of her brain found annoyance at what she might have taken for a lack of trust. Still, she was right. If she wanted the help, there had to be an understanding.
"I'm not giving up by Knight training. I will learn whatever you and Mademoiselle Kosara can teach me about this, Mademoiselle Belmont." Today, it seemed like the adventurers were getting a little more parental, and Lizbeth was certainly fulfilling her role as a moody teen. Given her situation, it might not have been an unwarranted.
Kosara's explanation of Cantrip vs. Spell was listened to intently by the budding spellcaster. She nodded along, taking in every word as best she could. And while it sounded like Kosara knew what she was talking about, sadly, Lizbeth did not. Magical reserves, source of energy, tiers, etc., was like a different language, even though she could clearly understand that the Tiefling lady was speaking the Common tongue of the land. Nevertheless, she took to it with interest. Maybe understanding would come later.
"Oh, of course. Would... would you explain this to me later, please?" The walking dead girl was at least trying to remain polite, even if the situations evolving around her (which seemed determined by fate to involve and/or traumatize her) were causing her words to have an edge to them.
When the call came up from the cellar that Kathryn may have found something, Lizbeth spared no time in snatching up her Ankheg shield and moving in a determined manner toward the cellar stairs.
Below, the cellar's relative calm was breached by a sudden shift in the air pressure. Nothing that caused any amazing change and certainly not enough to cause one's ears to pop, but when the stillness of an underground bastion of fine cheeses and grain storage (among other things) is interrupted in the slightest, it is aptly noted. This interruption took place as a prybar, forked, was inserted into the slots left bare by the Mushroom Puzzle Box and turned partway. A small section of stone recessed behind the tool shelving, and when acted upon, the entire shelf began to swing outward in the manner of a great, locked vault.
Behind this new aperture in the wall lay a short length of hallway - no more than a few feet -
and yet another closed, locked door. It fits fully within the confines of its frame, not even letting even the smallest shaft of light through, if any light is to be had. The door is made of unyielding, polished wood, with a dulled brass handle. There rests a covered keyhole beneath the handle, presently impossible to get the barest glimpse through to the area beyond. There is no source of light within this area; in fact, thanks to the indirect lines of sight into this place, even the light which filters into the cellar from above is absent. Almost unnatural, one might note, were they subject to the difficulties of such visual trivialities.
The area between the secret door and the locked one had an oppressive, heavy feel, as if something of consequence may lie beyond.
