Sigil

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox@Archangel89

To kick this one off, let's give a quick round of applause for the official arrival of Daxos Ironbow into the adventure. Let's all give a great many Huzzahs and keep our fingers crossed that his robust corpse isn't chewed to pieces by the horrifying, gibbering undead. So... Huzzah! Alright, now to business: The way Daxos is set up, he has the option to return to the Vineyard with Urmdrus and do his thing there if he so chooses, or stick around town and handle what he needs to there. If a conveniently placed "accidental" meetup is to take place to get the interactive bell rolling, go ahead and arrange that in the Discord. Just a little metagaming is forgivable in this instance. Have fun with it.

Everybody else, let's do what we can to make the entrance nice and squishy for all parties concerned. That aside, it looks like things are progressing in individual directions that may or may not bear fruit, so do have at it. Let me know if you have questions, if I missed an issue in the update, or for the usual die rolls. Per usual, Discord is our friend. Thanks again, and/or in advance.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Southmoor

Tasting Room/Study

Healer's Cottage

Southmoor Polytheistic Temple

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Weather: The sky would be best described as "mostly cloudy", as the general cover of its previous overcast nature has been worn through by sunlight; point of fact one inclining their head upward would see a hint of blue now and again. The wind picks up slightly, bringing with it the damp feel of less frigid air. Still cold, just slightly less so with the advancing day.

Time: The morning is progressing in the manner that mornings usually do. If one here a Halfling, they might be thinking about Second Breakfast about now.

Ambience: The snow begins to settle ever so slightly as the temperature ticks up a degree or two. Not enough to make a great difference in the landscape, and in fact may threaten additional difficulties when the sun sets again, but noticeable if one tries to. People moving about, what few of them are, stick to main paths out of safety as hollows are filled with the frozen white stuff and drifts make some areas hazardous. Sledding makes for a viable diversion, if one trusts the stopping point.

The nearby town of Southmoor has taken on a more sleepy quality, as the basest amount of business that one may have in the morning was hustled through in hopes of returning to the warmth and comforts of home. This being the morning after the first blizzard of the season, there is a general preference toward hunkering down and reserving one's self. For the most part. People with essential community jobs or merely those wishing to keep up their occupations continue to do so, as indicated by the occasional sounds of tools a'tooling - but behind the comfort of enclosed spaces and shuttered windows. Hearth fires continue to vent smoke in orderly lines coming from residences, primarily.

Children around the river, having figured out which parts have the thickest ice, play with more abandon than they probably should upon the slippery surface. From somewhere downstream, one might hear the distant utterance of, "G'Morning! Nice day for fishin', ain't it? Huah huh!"

*****

The wagon creaked along the snowy pathway en route to Southmoor, clunkily soldiering down the main thoroughfare from the Rose River Vineyard laden with a single, primary piece of cargo. It was a crate, fairly large as crates go, originally holding tools or the like useful to the continuing business of winemaking and/or the care of its inhabitants, but now carrying the much more distasteful cargo of Human bones and skin. The corpse was defiled in such a way as to make it a horror for friends or family of the departed to witness it; to be frank the only way to have made a clear identification was by the extensive tattoos upon it. This was the latest Master of Harvest, Toombes, or what was left of him. Nevertheless, the body required a glimpse before it was taken away, just to be sure.

A few steps led up to this:

At the point of time that the Coach House was bereft of adventurers, having gone off to their own devices, Urmdrus unfolded a letter signed Cecily L'Rose. The instructions were simple - transport the remains of Monsieur Toombes to his family in Southmoor - plus a few tiny bits of nuance which he likely would not be adept at passing along, seeing as his grasp of the Common tongue was, as it turned out, without much in the way of nuance. her refolded the scrap of paper and tucked it away in a pocket, then roused his companion to carry out the appointed task. "They are gone, Daxos." he spoke in native but accented Dwarfish. "Let's get this done. I require your help moving a crate." Urmdrus was a grey-skinned Dwarf of slimmer build but knotted with cords of lean muscle. Bald yet bearded, with rough, calloused hands and an array of thick-lined, black tattoos across one side of his face. He dressed simply, in something akin to utilitarian coveralls and a work apron of canvas and brown leather. Tools of various types were found about his person, most notably two decently sized hammers on either hip and, thanks to the danger about, a rather large one across his back as if he was preparing for a battle. The two of them were in a workshop which was part forge, part carpenter's shop, and generally a place where many a craft could be practiced. There was an unsettling half-barrel in one corner that was covered with a crude square of oiled canvas, about which the Dwarf mentioned, "I am aging urine here. If you have to piss, make sure it finds its way into the barrel. You don't want be in here when I boil it down. Trust me." Urmdrus has a number of wise pieces of information like this, be they the unapologetic and blunt statements of a fellow who didn't care if he impressed anyone.

Recovering the corpse was the straightforward job of entering the Coach House's courtyard storage area, prying off the lid, and hammering it back together, followed by lifting with one's knees to place it on the back of Urmdrus's personal conveyance; a tool wagon pulled by a single trotter horse. "Don't go in the main rooms right now. The Half-Elf has a ...dead pig... and I don't know where it is. Could make trouble we don't need. Let us just get Toombes and leave."

And so, as the wagon creaked along the afore mentioned snowy path, it pulled into the town of Southmoor with two Dwarves, a selection of tools and materials, and a box containing most of a Human corpse. Maybe half, give or take. "When we get back to the Vineyard, Daxos, I need you to ingratiate yourself to the Adventurers there. I have spoken with Madame Cecily, the proprietor of the Vineyard, and while she consents to your presence as my learner there is concern for safety. I believe you are safer under a roof with them. Continue to assist me as needed, but stay with them if you can. Also, I have evening trainings with the Heiress, Lizbeth, if you see her poking around the workshop. Let her be if you can. She has recently lost family. Now, help me offload this box. I will try to be diplomatic with the family."

There was much in the way of wailing and pulling of hair, some very short minutes later. The sounds of realized horror and grief were such that it brought neighbors out of houses and into the streets, all with the same questions collectively coloring their expressions. Urmdrus washed his hands of the situation as soon as it was over, intoning, "I told them to keep it closed."

Thusly, we have Daxos Ironbow making his introductory appearance into Avonshire.

At The Healer's House - Victoria spoke her question to the elder Human, to attempted to temper annoyance with understanding. "You are supposed to be the expert here. There's even reference books in your knapsack. You can at least rule out a few things with what you know already. Put what you're doing down for a minute and stop thinking like a Bard. Take the knowledge you have and see what fits." Annick slipped into the other room for a moment and came back with more tea. This might have made the third cup for them both, but from the look of things they needed to be as sharp as they could for a moment. Maybe a couple moments. "A living Necromancer wouldn't be around this long in one place without dying of old age. Unless this was a Dwarf or Elf, and the Alhazred didn't deal with them much, let alone make one a Prince. This creature is intelligent. If it already has an army at its disposal and hasn't done something with it, this means either that it cannot, has chosen not to for some reason, or a mix of both. If it cannot, then it probably isn't a full Lich or similar. If it has chosen not to then there is something it wants or needs. If it is both, then it is waiting for something it needs." The Healer sipped her tea and insisted that Victoria do the same. "My experience with Undead back in the War? They've got patience, the kind that you and I do not. Drink your tea, look into your books, and we can bat ideas back and forth. You might already know more than you know."

At The Study - Lizbeth looked at the sarcophagus sized box with wonder and apprehension until the lid was removed, and then with puzzlement. She looked like she was going to make comment or lend a hand several times, but ultimately held her tongue as Kathryn began to dig into the contents of the box. The loose dirt was easy to move, and held a good amount of shards of worked stone and some bits that she was almost certain were bone, but identifying them precisely was difficult with all of the movement going around. While the digging persisted, the young lady walked back to the glass doored cabinet where she had found the curved, shortish sword she now carried and poked around a bit now that she had more time. There were drawers underneath the glass which she carefully opened, to reveal what appeared to be items of cloth and some coins. Older, foreign coins, from the look of them, and decently preserved articles of clothing wrapped in other lengths of silver-charcoal fabric. The whole cabinet looked like it contained souvenirs, or preserved sociological pieces of interest. A damaged light helmet was here as well, which Lizbeth picked up and inspected, but set back eventually. her hands went to the wide circlet of refined Ankheg chitin made to resemble grape leaves, a gift from Urmdrus, and wondered how it might stack up as a protective device. The older Dwarf did nothing without purpose.

The Wine Heiress turned her head back in Kathryn's direction when the agricultural question was spoken. "Why yes, Lady Kathryn. I was raised with agriculture. Unless you pack it yourself, dirt stays loose under an open sky until the next time it rains, and then the sun dries it out. It stays loose a whole lot longer if it's under something... but I'm not sure how long inside of a sealed box, if I'm being honest, madame."

The moment that the uncut, blackish green crystal flashed under the firelight of the room, Lizbeth's eyes were drawn to it. She stopped what she was doing to focus attention to the oddly beautiful item and the dim glow it produced, its light reflecting in her eyes for only a blink of time. Within that blink came a sweeping change over the girl, however, with whitened eyes and sunken features, a darkness passing over her even as her skin seemed to pale. A fleeting, ephemeral visage of death came and left in the time it took to snap one's fingers, silent and cold as winter dusk. Lizbeth herself seemed fully unaffected past this, however, leading one to possibly question if this was a mere trick of the light and an uneasy mind. The girl smiled at the idea that they had found a clue, remarking, "Great idea, Kat!" to the thought of bringing it back to show the others. In the same breath, she promised not to tell the staff about the mess. The cloth she kept for herself, determined to take a closer look at everything later. Who knew? Maybe there was something to this, as well. Or maybe she would just claim some of her inheritance early. The fabric looked expensive.

At The Stables - Jon's face was grim as he took in the news. "I had heard something had happened. That's a shame about Mr. Toombes. He was a good lad. Worked hard. Make folks laugh. I'm still not sure where he got his tattoos done." While openly weeping wasn't his way, Jon did look distraught. He had already spoken of rumors about the Estate House, but judging from his reaction, the truth, or at least full truth, hadn't been offered up in any of them. But he still had a job to do, which in his case meant ripping open a sack of oats and supplementing the animal's feed with them. He kept quiet for a long while as he poured an estimated emount into feeding troughs and feed bags, then added in a pinch of salt and the bulk feed. Solid shakes and tussles of the containers later and he looked to be about done, minus some cleanup. "I hear you, I do. Not wishing to alarm me. I tell you, letting me know that Toombes is dead and that whatever's happening is still happening is kind of alarming. Maybe that should take a priority, y'know? Yeah, I'll let you know about stuff if anything else weird happens, but I've got me a question first - you asked for information on Monsieur L'Rose; Arnaud, I mean. The way you asked it makes me think it's related to that 'alarming' stuff. You got something you need to tell me?"

Back At Southmoor - "No, no, not TownHALL, that's TownSHIP," hastily corrected Thad, his broom swinging back and forth with his words like it was trying to emote for him, as if the growing confusion and anxiety on his face wasn't doing a good enough job for him in the first place. He seemed to grow slightly more animated as each moment passed; a side effect of being in the presence of the wily Tiefling lady, it seemed. "The Avonshire Township, that is to say. I mean, I suppose we do have a town hall, so to speak, but it's more of a meeting place for town events and, and... like, presenting births or marriages, and the like. Messengers leave stuff there; mail and the like. If we had a regular Constable, they'd be there. Get a shoe shine there for a copper too, if the boy's around, but..." The middle-aged fellow looked highly out of his depth here, grasping at straws of being helpful while trying hard not to spontaneously combust. "I mean, we might have something like records, but it's like, well, like births and such."

This didn't stop the flustered broomguy from assisting Kosara with her candles, setting things up for her or putting flame to wick, though it seemed a little like overkill for a simple session of prayer. Still, ten silver Argents would go a long way toward upkeep of the shrines and maybe put a little away for nonperishable food stores, so long as folks weren't too picky in leaner times. Such was the nature of the average neutral to good-aligned place of worship in one form or another.

The prayers went with the speed and ease of the person praying, as deity supplications are wont to do. After which there wasn't any grand sign of divine action, though one way or may not read the flickering of candles as something taking notice, or conversely a ruffle of air from someone giving a quiet sigh or merely passing in a direction nearby. As it was, with the other two petitioners leaving, it had come down to just Kosara and the caretaker assigned to the Temple. Thad still had his concerns, but appeared to be fully willing to assist as he was able. In his own way, quite possibly shocked and concerned not to.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: N/A Location: Southmoor (Healer's Home) Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff Reaction: N/A

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Healer's Cottage

"Surgical tools," muttered Victoria. She rose and pushed her chair back under the table they had been sitting around, then took the latest book into the other room to follow instructions. Annick had one formidable selection of these, many often redundant in their use and a few tools which were very specific of use. Many of them, to Victoria's inexpert reckoning, seemed unnecessary. But this was not her forte to pass judgement upon. She took to her instructions and matched up the descriptions of the items with the items themselves, and transcribed them into the new, blank pages. She sighed. The Bard had often read and sung stories of teachers putting their students through interesting tasks for the purpose of teaching them my immersion, like their minds would solidify around the knowledge by themselves by virtue of overwhelming presence, like a pugilist callousing their knuckles by slamming them into burning hot sand.

Victoria's mind, while more agile than average, might yet have preferred a more traditional educational setup for purely intellectual enterprises like this. Yet she found out that she was, in fact, retaining knowledge. Many of the tools she was cataloguing had become familiar to her, as were their general uses. She had, in her time with the Medician, even put a few of them to use on the people in the town of Southmoor. The accident at the lumberyard came to mind from weeks ago. Still, she was here to learn the trade and get information, not reminisce on simple surgery. So she put pen to ink, ink to paper, and copied the information from the books to the blank paper. And like a good student, made sure to clean and polish the tools, careful to finish with a diluted spirits solution as instructed.

As she worked, Annick came into the room to observe her progress. There was a token showing of looking over the tools and her writing, but ultimately the reason for her presence became apparent. A mug of hot, spiced tea was set down in front of Victoria, and the older lady opened conversation. "I suggested that you ask me about something that fell under my experience. I'm not a wizard, Miss Belmont. I have a soldier's background. I know what I've seen and what I've done, and I have years fighting against different sorts of undead as part of a large or small unit. We weren't heroes. You want to talk to a war hero, go speak to Gregory. I was a combat medician. We relied on intelligence and tactics. So tell me, what you know of this problem, and what can you reference about it?"

Victoria looked at her mentor with some annoyance, but quickly smoothed over her features. "The Knight and I have both been having dreams, like we were leaders in an army that stopped somewhere in these moors, murdering and enslaving everyone around. I think it may be connected with what's going on here. According to what we've heard, there have been strange things happening and it has gotten worse recently. There's..." Victoria paused for a moment, unsure whether continuing would or would not be a break of some unspoken trust with Lizbeth but ultimately speaking, "...something about the girl, Lizbeth. When we first met, she used magic to fix my favorite coat, from where a Goblin arrow hit me. She's been changing though. Still a bright, happy girl, but different. I suspect she's been using magic in other ways, too. And sometimes, I could swear that she's, well, dead. Or undead, maybe. But just sometimes, if that makes sense."

"I see," remarked Annick suspiciously. "You have some affection for the girl. But tell me more about the Prince you were yammering about before." She crossed her legs in her seat and raised her own mug of tea to her lips, took a steamy sip, and cleared her throat.

"Certainly," responded Victoria. She went on to discuss every interaction with the seemingly intelligent force behind the appearances of Undead upon the Vineyard grounds, detailed what she might about the attack on Baronfjord even though it was secondhand, and her own observations which included (among other things) the letters. Draconic which spelled out phonetic Abyssal. That gave Annick some pause, herself. "What I wonder is, if this 'Prince' already controls a detachment of an Undead army, then why hasn't there been any movement until now?"

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox@Archangel89

You will notice the additional name added to the list this time. It's almost official, just a couple more things to iron over. That said, TO BUSINESS!

Starters, I need a Persuasion check for Kosara. No DC, just keep the roll open. You've got your NPC contact very nervous and I need to see how this smooths over or deteriorates as the conversation progresses. Right now you have a very jittery janitor on your hands. For the rest of you, situation is open and quite fluid. Remember that putting time into learning your trades/skills is important, but so is balancing this with the investigation.

Now, on to the new guy - the CS looks okay, go ahead and move it over to the CS tab. Please remove the "Header" section from it, though. That's not especially needed unless you're posting IC. Any non-stat or inventory edits may be made, with permission, up to the point of your first post. I intend to get him worked in with the next update. Your Rose River Vineyard contact will have some things to say and/or remind your character about before I attempt to put him in with the others, hopefully in a manner that isn't too stretched. When Daxos is in the CS tab and properly formatted, I will send you relevant information and get you in the Discord.

Per usual, everyone remind me if I missed something in the update and please be in touch through Discord for die rolls, questions, etc. Thanks again for being the stalwart group of adventuring misfits that, for some reason, has stuck around.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Southmoor

Tasting Room/Study

Healer's Cottage

Southmoor Polytheistic Temple

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Weather: The sky lightens just a bit as the sun, without quite the majesty of the warmer months, begins to show itself from behind slightly breaking clouds. It is still mostly overcast, still cold, but at least it isn't snowing.

Time: It's mid-morning, right and proper. People have began their days in earnest with a respectable amount of "post-breakfast" time having accrued without actually taking us away from the idea of a.m.

Ambience: Snow drifts remain dangerous prospects for those going off of the beaten paths (sometimes quite literally), as the lows don't seem quite as low and shorter obstacles lie in wait underneath a sheet of white. Much as a person carrying something sharp or within a bathhouse, running is discouraged for one's own safety. But this primarily affects those out-of-doors in these uncertain hours. The landscape around the Rose River Vineyard is quiet. Staff remains mostly inside of protected, warmer structures, coming outside only when absolutely necessary. This quiet is aided by the fact that this is, in effect, the "off season" for the Vineyard, bringing present vineyard employees to a minimum.

Southmoor is, for lack of a batter term, awake and as active as much as a small, rural town may get in the middle of winter. The sounds of tools of various kinds may be heard, sounding softly from behind closed and shuttered windows, with the exception of some farrier or another shoeing a horse. The relaxed, light pinging of hammer against nail seems to set the rhythm of the area. The ground maintains a respectable amount of snow, though notably without the solid amount present at the Vineyard. Woodsmoke casually travels upward in neat lines until wind diffuses it, giving the area a charming domestic feel despite the cold. Townsfolk greet one another curtly but generally not impolitely as they continue about their day's business.

The river stands still frozen, with only the most adventurous of children poking at it with sticks to ascertain its safety for play.

*****

The Healer's home was uncomfortably still for a time, as the words unrelated to the topic at hand were left to sit within its walls. Annick eyed Victoria suspiciously, though not any more than she usually might, if all were being honest. "Yes," she coldly replied to Victoria's query into the books she was to transcribe. The older healer walked away and returned with a leather-bound tome and dropped it in front of the Bard with a silence-shattering WHAP. "This is a text on surgical tools from different cultures. Match the descriptions with the tools on hand here. Then transcribe. Then clean and polish them when you're done." It seemed that, with a lack of immediate patients to treat, this was more of a lecture and learning day.

Bringing the issue of last night's events marginally back, Annick spoke to her student, "I saw those books you were hauling around with your violin. Ritual magic, a primer on undead lore, certain religious texts." She shrugged, as if to shake off the breach of etiquette involved in looking into someone else's things. "You've got questions, child. Learning all the time, I bet. Try asking something more specific. Something I might have lived through instead of some scholarly history lesson. I'm not about that." Maybe she was trying to help, or maybe just scold the Half-Elf. It was hard to say which.

Back in the Study, Lizbeth looked to Kathryn with a dulled sense of emotion. Her face was not the bloodless pale it got sometimes; more of a look of profound mental weariness. The Prince. This was the question, and though she did not seem to know anything about title, nor of history, she did carry an expression of recognition. "I don't know anything about a Prince, Kat. I know that something whispers to me sometimes. The more I become..." There was a moment of hestitation before she spoke aloud what was essentially an already open secret, "...whatever it is I'm becoming, the whispers get louder. I still can't understand, not really. It has gotten worse recently." She left her words on the subject as such, with a distant stare growing upon her visage that made her look older than her (almost) fifteen years.

Lizbeth did not object to the key staying with Kathryn for the time being. In fact, she did not voice an opinion whatsoever, even if she didn't agree that she was an adult. The girl might have been a lot happier were she like other girls from town, worrying about her new smock when the Tinker's boy came around or sneaking away to pick berries out in the moors. It didn't seem fair. But here she was, digging around the belongings of her dead grandfather - her belongings now, technically - just over a year before she really was considered an adult by her peers.

The lid to the sarcophagus-like box upon its raised platform took some effort to move, or might have were it not being shoved about by a person of immense physical strength. There was a brief moment of resistance at first, then a grainy sound like grit between moving stones, and a sudden giving way as the lid retreated, revealing its contents. Those contents might have raised questions, in and of themselves. The box, or what could be seen of it inside, contained dirt, two hands' breadth from the top. It was loose, chunky soil, unpacked by time nor by pressure, containing shards of stone that, at a glance, might have been shattered remained of something tooled by sapient hands. This was a huge box full of dirt, or at least appeared that way.

On route to the stables, Jon was surprisingly direct and even a bit chatty with his responses to Baronfjord. "Oh, I'm afraid that I haven's seen hide or hair of Mademoiselle Lizbeth today. I thought she was staying with you in the Coach House lately, Lady Kathryn as well, yes? Anyway, I'm just now getting up and around today. A little late, what with last night. But I must say, rumors in the Estate House tell quite the story. I understand you fought off quite the ruffian?" He let the conversation develop a bit as his shoes crunched through almost the topmost layer of more or less evenly deposited snow, en route to the main stables.

"The late Monsieur L'Rose... Hmm, yes, I have been here for quite some time. I was a stablehand when I started here, some years ago. There's a job that most people move on from, or try to social climb away from, but I like taking care of horses. It's good, honest work, gets you out in the open air. Good exercise, too, keeping up with those fillies and fellas. I'm still a 'stablehand', but this stablehand tends horses, trains them, teamsters when needed, does some wagon repair. Even drove some of the short cargo runs when we're shorthanded. I'm the L'Rose family's go-to horse guy. But for the Master, well, he was the Firm But Fair type. Liked to keep a clear bottom line. Never late with pay but didn't allow backtalk from his staff, like he drew a clear line between his family and the help, y'know. Madame Cecily is a lot more hands-on than the old man, little more sociable, too. Why do you ask?"

At the Temple, the fellow with the broom balked at Kosara's extreme openness. "Miss ...Kosara! Yes, it's good to meet you. You can call me Thad. Um... are you sure you're not having me for some sort of oaf, here? I mean, it's an interesting story, and if you're being straight with me, then, um..." Thad shrugged his shoulders in something that resembled helplessness and blurted out, "I'm just the guy pushing a broom this week, really!" His voice crept higher in volume as he spoke, prompting the other two people in the room, supplicants to their preferred deity, to glance over more than once. They finished up their prayers and quickly exited the building. A candle was left burning on the raised platform in the center of the room along with a gathering of others.

Thad snapped his mouth shut until they left, and quickly followed up, "Um, this isn't really the kind of holy place that keeps records, I mean, maybe the town's Headman might keep something in his home, but this is a small town. You'd have better luck looking up records in the Township. It's where most every record like that is kept anyhow. Maybe I shouldn't have - and I'm sorry for pretending to be a priest, 'cause, I mean, all in good fun, right? I... I'm the guy with the broom." With mild desperation growing, Thad attempted a verbal escape with, "Maybe I can ask around for someone more official for you in town? Who knows about Necromancers and war and stuff, and... do I need to get my family away from here?"

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: N/A Location: Southmoor (Healer's Home) Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff Reaction: N/A

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Healer's Cottage

"Thank you," began Victoria, utterly surprised that a simple plea to conviction, if presented earnestly and with deference to her authority on the matter, succeeded where other attempts at getting her to talk about ...anything.... resulted in death threats. Victoria gave thought to her party's flippant suggestions that she merely insist and everything would be fine. Inwardly, she gave a passing fancy toward stuffing all of them into a cookpot and animating the remains later. It gave her a tiny smile.

Annick misread her expression as smugness and hardened her voice. "Wipe that off your face and keep working while you listen. I need those books copied word for word, line for line. Leave space for the illustrations. All right, good." The Medician pulled a chair over to where Victoria sat. Curious, the younger Miss Floquet also brought over a chair. Her mother rarely opened up about what she did and what she knew from years ago, so this was indeed a rare reveal. Annick began, "I was just a midwife back then. Younger than Annabelle is now and... I assume you are now, too. Hard to tell with you Half-Elves. I got conscripted, but I didn't mind. It isn't always good for a young girl midwife in a small town, most folk figure you as marriage bait. And I was such a patriot then, too. Stories of High Knights and powerful Wizards seeking glory in war. Gods, but I was stupid."

The Medician paused for a moment and allowed a grim expression to take hold of her. "I know this doesn't answer you directly, just... let me get through this." Victoria gave her mentor a silent nod and continued pressing ink to paper. Annick continued, "The needed healers for the battlefields. Didn't tell us that part. They also didn't tell us that we had to figure out how to stay alive when armies of the Undead attacked. We weren't Clerics with their fine, wound-knitting blessings. We had to get swift feet and swifter hands. We had to get strong, fast. The ones who didn't got ripped to pieces. There were over one hundred of us who went in for training as combat healers in my zone. After three years, just north of twenty remained. We had to forage for a lot of our food, improvise tools, perform surgeries in the middle of killing fields. More than a few times we had to slip away and behind lines to smuggle supplies back. Some nights, laid up in entrenchments, the mud we were all stomping around in reflected red in the moonlight. The Dead don't take prisoners, for the most part. More they kill, more they get reinforced. Anyhow, doing this long enough will give you serious trauma and a reputation. That reputation... I got around. Saw some things. Heard more."

She rose and stepped lightly into the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of water and tall, wooden cups. Returning, she filled them and downed half of hers immediately. "We were a ways east of here, where Elves are more common but, ah, not extremely popular." Her voice hinted as some incident or overall cultural zeitgeist that she opted not to discuss. "Field hospital, so to speak. Evacuation point where they bottlenecked the wounded before sending the worst off back, or let them die in peace. Those ones - we disfigured the bodies so they couldn't be used by the enemy. Anyway, I heard a story there. Overheard, more like. Some of the big, important people having a big, important meeting. They mentioned Avonshire. It was home, so, I listened. The important part is, all this stuff happened not during this war, but the one before it. A long time ago. Back before the nation of Aquitania spread this far south. None of this ... place ... was here a hundred years back. There are no ancient families on this land, least not Human or Halfling. The Township didn't even show up until trade with the coast was established, and that was... Well, not so long ago as someone might think."

Victoria wanted to ask questions, mostly on how this was supposed to relate to the name of the Prince that she knew nothing about. She opened her mouth to ask those very questions, but thought better on it and simply took a sip of water. Annabelle also looked confused, but said nothing. To her credit, Annick raised a had as if to ask for a moment to make the connection. "But there were people here, supposedly. Frontier folk. The first Human settlers, come for a new life away from their past. Rugged individualists, or something like that. Open land, if you didn't mind growing crops on rolling hills and a wet, godsawful tract of lowlands that made permanent towns difficult to build on over half the place. Anyway, those highborn jackasses were worried about a possible attack from the southwest, about where we are now. Rumors even further back says that there was troop movement out in the moors, but nobody reported anything. No settlers, all those years ago, said a word. Encampments and brush towns were gone or abandoned. Nothing left, they were saying. And in the end, no attack ever came from here. No one ever said anything else about Avonshire, but the rumors persisted that there was an army out here, led by some Southern Prince, waiting for something. Maybe waiting for someone to give them commands. I don't know what is or isn't true, but I will say, the armies of the Alhazred Empire don't mind whether you're a warm body or a cold one. They'll make use of you. And they're very patient. And you, Miss Belmont, have a problem with the undead, don't you? Maybe it's coincidence. Best to fix it sooner than later."

Victoria was taken aback at how the things she had been listening to sounded like it marched in step with some of her dreams lately, if indeed the lines of mountains in the distance did mark this place as the same location her resting eyes saw. Her crystal blue eyes looked up from her book to the older woman, blinking once slowly and contemplatively. A sudden rush of aggression pulsed through the Bard's whole body, fading just as quickly as it came. Victoria's face was inscrutable as usual; a serene but cold visage from which she peered at her mentor. If she was correct and there was an army of the dead somewhere around there, moreover the vintage detachment of a prince of an occupying force, this meant danger. Dormant, but very present danger. It also meant knowledge. And treasures. And severe problems for someone enthralled by something powerful enough to still be sapient after all that time. What might something like that do to the land? What might that do to those living off of that land?

Instead of pressing more questions, Victoria allowed her tone to become icy. She carefully brought the book she was working on to a close. "Looks like I am done with this one. What would you like for me to transcribe next, Medician Floquet?" One hand felt the hilt of the long knife at her belt, as well as the black and gold pashmina she wore. Yeah, she might have proof that an occupying force from the Southern Deserts was once there.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

And away we go... Hopefully, this update will be a little enlightening. A little. Whether it is or not, it will surely lead toward the wonderful spiffiness of something approaching enlightenment, just not in a Nirvana-esque sense of spiritual oneness that brings peace or understanding. To start, Kathryn will require a quick Perception check before she continues. Stuff is afoot that isn't obvious. Understanding starts with noticing. (Insert evil laugh here.)

I gave a 20% chance for a levelled priest to be in the Temple in Southmoor. Pull what conclusions you will from the update.

The update did not mention stuff in the Healer's home. This is because I passed out in front of my computer, said to hell with it, and I will update that part in Victoria's post. I wish it were for a more grandiose reason.

We will not be moving forward with one of the prospective players who submitted a CS a little while ago. Said potential player has been informed. However, it looks like we have another candidate. Thank you, @Archangel89, for getting something together for the OOC. I will continue our discussion via PMs, but to remind, we're running the 2014 5e version, and this is a cooperative game. We will run through specifics later, as it is very late and I have work in a couple hours. But! Thanks for getting the ball rolling.

Per usual, if anyone has questions, concerns, die rolls adjudicated, please be in contact through our Discord. Once again, thank you for taking part in my little experiment of an adventure.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Southmoor

Tasting Room/Study

Healer's Cottage

Southmoor Polytheistic Temple

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Weather: Diffuse light filtering through cloud cover prevents the warmer rays of the sun from effecting the snow on the ground. The wind gusts regularly, pushing cold air into exposed skin, not that skin should have much exposure in this season. There is no precipitation, which at this point classifies as favorable.

Time: It's mid-morning. Maybe early-to-mid morning, but let us be clear: It is not early morning anymore.

Ambience: Pushing through the snows to get to one's destinations on this frigid morning, at least on foot, makes any walk seem much longer. The ends of skirts and pant legs are bound to dampen considerably for anyone making a trek on or about the Rose River Vineyard. Moreover, while the snow seems to be more or less evenly sloping fro place to place, it does not always keep to the inclines and relative heights of the land beneath it, as one may discover via misadventure if they're not careful. The main roadway, at least, is a little less deceptive in this way.

Those exiting the Vineyard are, after a short distance, treated to a land far less ravaged by a blizzard. Snow remains, even drifts, but it is significantly more reasonable than over the estate directly. While it raises a few questions, it can be argued that the sledding is probably a lot better there, anyway.

The town of Southmoor is not exactly bustling, owing to the time of year and the large amounts of seasonal labors that have concluded. It feels a lot more subdued than the party's original visit on their way from the Township, though there are a decent few people going on about their days - mostly craftsmen plying trades which are nonseasonal in nature or occupations of service. The smells of controlled woodfires are here, which mingle with the pleasantries of cooking, more acrid tannins of leatherwork, the open freshness of cut wood, or less appealing aromatics common to Human town living. Cold accents or numbs everything a little, including the speed with which the few townsfolk, bundled against the temperature, go about their mornings.

The usually singing river has fallen quiet now, dormant under a sheet of ice of indeterminate thickness.

*****

In the Study, Kathryn fits the key into the keyhole in the front of the locked box. Two things become readily apparent in this moment. First, this key most assuredly is intended for this lock. Second, the box is somehow secured to the floor. But no matter, this box is open. Within, there are a few obvious contents, most of which are smallish sacks secured with woven cord about the top. Each bears a thick, paper tag with writing in a strong, steady hand of blocky, legible letters and numbers. A random sampling of these tags bears a number, a denomination of currency, and a short notation like, "Tinker's Retainer", "Expansion Fund", "Quarterly Domestic Staff", etc. Next to this is a fuller style indentation in the wood, just about the size of a standard gold coin of the realm, which is generously full of the coin in question. The interior of the top of this box is crisscrossed with ribbon, underneath which is tucked a folded letter with Cecily's name written upon the showing face. It reads:

Letter

-
Cecily,

I have been hard on you. You are not blood relation and as such, I have felt that certain contributions you have made have been lesser, here on a family Vineyard. Were it not that you are the sole remaining caretaker of my granddaughter, I would have found an excuse to send you away. For this, you have my regret. I knew that you would have to find your way into this box eventually, because Lizbeth is not of age yet to take things over and I know my time is short. My children are dead. My wife also. Much was taken from us to ensure that this place prospered, and I have come to seriously doubt that it was needed at all.

My efforts to sever our family from this have failed. I do not have a mind for magic as I have for numbers, but I learned enough to know that I am vastly outmatched by my benefactors. My time with the living is coming to an end, and I hope that my death ends the curse upon the land, even if logically there is no reason to think it might. You were not born a L'Rose. You are not from this land That might save you. Lizbeth was born here. Her first breath was taken from this air. First sip of water from the well here. First food grown here. Unlike everyone else, myself included, she is the first of our lineage native to this land, absorbing it from birth. I have seen her do things that a girl should not be capable of. Ever since the illness, she is changed. I fear that this is part of a plan that I have been tricked into.

I don't know if it is safer to keep her here, or get her as far away from here as possible. If Lizbeth has become what I think she has, I have a final gift that might help her. It is located in my second study; the place I go to be alone. I do like to make sure our guests have plenty of bacon on hand. When you find the place, please remember me gently. I made mistakes and was desperate to fix them. Even if I shake free of The Prince, my soul is probably damned. The price of this will not include Lizbeth.

If everything comes to failure, take what you can of my estate and leave this place far behind you. This is my doing, and the fault of it rests solely on my shoulders. Start your life over. Let the L'Rose name die. The darkness shouldn't follow you.

- Arnaud

*****

The Temple in Southmoor was a single story structure with a somewhat vaulted ceiling. Grey, baked clay tiles made up the entirety of the floor, which was bare for the most part except for two thick, woven mat-like rugs near each of the main entrances. There were two of these, each double doors at opposite ends of the single room building. The temple itself looked to be designed to be as nondescript and symmetrical as possible while allowing the maximum amount of daylight inside throughout the day. Four decent-sized braziers radiated a goodly amount of heat, evenly spaced along the room, and a fair amount of light to supplement the overcast sunlight from the windows. Two even rows of smallish shrines featured equidistant from one another, flanking a raised, rectangular dais in the center of the temple. It resembled a long table from which one may procure and light candles, either for the general center or to place upon shrines for individual deities.

Deities represented were a mixed bag, though Chauntea, Lathander, Yondalla, Liira, Selune, Silvanus, lesser known Nuada, and naturally the Luck goddess Tymora. The central dais with all of its candles made up a more neutral area whereupon one may, among other activities, put their prayers toward other powers who were not given a specific shrine.

Kosara's grand entrance into the temple and resounding Hello was met by a total of three people. Two were gathered around one of the handful of shrines which dotted the room, while the third approached. He wore common but clean clothing, over which a decently knit woolen cloak hung. His hands clutched a broom with which he seemed to be particularly acquainted, and his eyes had a glassy, bloodshot charm to them. He appeared to be a human of middle to later years. A gravelly, slightly nasal voice issued from him, along with a hand held out beside him as if to show off the area just to his rear flank. "Ah! I see the Chosen One has arrived, and not a moment too late! Dark tidings fall across the lands of Avonshire, and I, your humble Priest Militant, shall guide you into the light of truth and... and...."

The older fellow immediately fell into sputtering laughter that he tried to stifle at first, but failed miserably. "Sorry! Sorry. I can tell you're not from here. It's my turn to sweep up, and um, answer any questions for folks who don't know what to do in here or need anything simple. What can I do for you, Miss..?"

*****

The front door to the Estate House opened just a crack. It took a long while before it did, and just when there was a question as to whether anyone would answer the summons from Baronfjord. It was not Cecily, as he had called for, but one of the domestic laborers who was present for the Day-After-Brunch. She looked a little meek, even tired, as if the previous evening was not the most restful. She was rather quick to answer the question which was put forward to the absent Cecily, "No, eh, Monsieur Jon did not leave the Estate last night, because of the weather. Pleas wait here and I shall fetch him for you. He is almost ready to leave, anyway." The woman quickly pressed the door shut, trying to balance the need to keep warm with the desire not to slam the door in the face of a welcome guest.

It took a few minutes, but Jon did appear from behind the door. He was bundled in what looked like a borrowed coat, to look at the relative level of finery as compared to the very utility oriented clothing he usually wore. "Hey there, BB!" he said almost at once. "You're out and about early. I figured on having to come to you this morning. What's the occasion?" Truly, he was spared the worst of the previous evening, and it showed. "Come help me mix some oats into the horses' winter feed and we'll talk about it." He waved the much taller Dragonborn along to follow him as the Human fellow crunched out into the snows of the morning.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@Archangel89

Might be, if we can work it into the existing storyline. Fill out a CS per rules and we can discuss.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: N/A Location: Coach House Action: Ritual Magic (Phantom Steed) Bonus Action: Familiar stuff Reaction: N/A

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The enigmatic yet openly hospitable Bard mounted her ritually summoned mount and took up the reins in one hand. She extended her other hand down to Kosara and with a smile, said, "Come along up. It won't slow him in the slightest." While the truth of it was that she wasn't completely sure how much weight the otherworldly horse could carry before its performance began to drop, but the total of the two women surely wasn't enough. "Oh! If you would, please get the Sending Stone from inside. I'm afraid I was involved in the summons, here." One way or another, upon stone acquisition, Victoria began to haul herself and her magically inclined associate away from the Coach House atop the back of a steed that Bards generally were unable to conjure for themselves. Victoria marveled at that for a moment - not for the first time and very likely not the last - before commenting quietly, "Just sometimes, I feel more like a Wizard than a musician..." She let the thought linger for a moment more. She had mentioned before and still believed wholeheartedly that although she might have made a decent Wizard, she had the potential to be a legendary Bard.

When the Sending Stone issue was settled and Kosara was on the back of the horse, Victoria urged the arcane creature onward. Its steps were steady but slow at first, pushing through piled and/or drifted snow until it delivered them to the higher ground, and eventually, the main thoroughfare leading off of the Rose River Vineyard grounds. She removed her hands from the reins just long enough to secure her pashmina scarf, and then her hood, about her moderately pointed ears and perfectly coiffed head. The cold was significantly less than comfortable, but at least she was dressed for it. It was always a wonder to her how her full blooded Elven relatives were able to deal with all but the most extreme of temperatures with significantly less complaint. Her Human ancestry must be the culprit in that particular tradeoff, though it came with other advantages. It did remind her of Kosara's offer, which despite her ability (and history) to do precisely that herself, Victoria thought it was a very polite and reasonable thing to offer. Who knows? Maybe Kosara cast the same spell differently than she did and this would be a learning experience. "Please, yes. That's very sweet to offer."

As they crossed the boundary of the Vineyard, turning into the thoroughfare, Victoria noticed that her Phantom Steed had picked up its pace significantly. She looked down, noticing that the depth of snow that her horse's hooves drove through was getting lower and lower the further they moved away from the estate. It was still cold, the land was still covered with a blanket of puffy, white snow, but it was more manageable. Victoria placed her senses into her raven Familiar, flying above. Maybe a different vantage point would be useful - and it was. "The worst of the snow," she began aloud, "It's... confined to the Vineyard. This weather isn't fully natural."

The pair of them approached the edge of Southmoor, to see a town which was in the process of coming active for the day. "Hey, let me know where you need me to drop you off. There's still some time left before the Steed unsummons, but I'd rather not walk the rest of the way to Annick's. You know how I do love to make an entrance." She kept her voice light, but there was a more serious reason as she wished to be able to bolt at a moment's notice if need be, and the Medician's place was technically outside of town. There was still a little way to travel.

Eventually, Victoria found her way to Annick's. The Healer's cottage, as it were, didn't seem to have received a visitor since the snows from the previous evening as the blanket which covered the yard around appeared unbroken. She entered the home with respect and permission, and immediately got to work as she was informed that no, an undead uprising was most assuredly not an excuse to stay home. Victoria had a feeling that the older Medician was being serious. In this particular instance, she was back to copying a medical text, slowly, determinedly placing smooth penstrokes upon blank pages to transcribe a treatise on humanoid anatomy and the treatment of physical trauma. While she worked, she took every opportunity to speak to both Annick and her daughter, Annabelle.

"...it was a long time ago, I know, Madame Floquet. But you have done so much and witnessed so much more. If there is even a possibility that something similar is happening here, around your home, then we need to know what we're dealing with. I guarantee that it won't end with Toombes. And here, this time - probably for the first time in your life ever - the 'evil necromancer' is on your side. Fire with fire, Annick. Please, tell me what you know." The words were calm but dire. Impassioned yet reserved. Sincere of tone with the barest hint of frustrated sarcasm bleeding through. Something seemed to get through, even if it was only evident in Annabelle's face to begin.

The younger Floquet looked to her elder counterpart, "Mother?" Part question and part plea, this did serve to break through Annick's emotionless visage.

"You want to know about that name? Fine. I'll tell you everything I know about it:" A hard expression held for a second with silence, then, "NOTHING." She shook her head, then continued "But there is some history here. Don't know what it means, but I'll tell you what I know. You keep working while I talk. This isn't a gossip circle."