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	[u]Weather[/u]: Steady winds now blow out in front of the recently uncovered passage underneath the sycamore hill. Perhaps these winds were responsible for the approaching cloud cover, which could mean nothing. Or it could mean more snow. For now, nothing drifts softly from the sky just yet.   

	[u]Time[/u]: Late morning. Let's say Elevensies. 

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The air within the hidden distillery has let out somewhat. It is still its specific sort of dank, but much less overpowering. At least one can figure out the source now - two corpses and a fine collection of utilized distilling equipment. In fact, knowing the difference lets one's senses fully appreciate the sweeter air coming from the outside, which beckons with its clear jolt of colder air. 

	The crates, barrels, and two distillery tanks remain inside, in good condition considering their sedentary nature over the years. Though neglected, this underground hideaway maintained fairly stable and dry conditions. It is mostly safe to assume their integrity for travel if necessary. The barrels, at least. The tanks look a bit harder to move. 

	The dead people remain being dead, but... well, more below. 

	Those venturing back outside will note that the temperature has not risen a whole lot from earlier in the day. The glistening elements that signal the beginnings of a thaw did not progress any farther, meaning the sun's most direct rays were kept behind the semi-translucent grey and white clouds above. The hills in this area are mostly untouched, save by the footpaths trudged into common walking areas.  

	A notation: The effects of the Wild Magic remain. 

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

	Kosara's search of one of the bodies bore a marginal amount of fruit, if one considers a few small tools and some silver coins marginal fruit. The advanced decomposition makes things a little difficult and something may have to be done to make these items more pleasant to be around, but we take the wins where we can get them, yes? 

	In contrast, Baronfjord's misadventures with dead people continues. The leathery remains of the corpse's face-meat, particularly that of an eye, yields with barely a hint of pointy, Dragonborn poking. The smell is, to put it as accurately as possible, suboptimal. What might have been a particularly dead stare (were there functional eyeballs present) seems to be the only reaction from the corpse. In other words, the questions put to the slab of decomposed former Human go unanswered. In its own way, the rictus grin of the dead guy might even appear as a mocking smile to the context provided. 

        For those focusing on the barrels, and contents thereof, one can readily figure out that they are an excellent size to roll up the tunnel and to the outside, as it the width of it was cut to specifically accommodate said barrels. Also, the full barrels are extraordinarily heavy and will require either ropes and animal assistance, a group effort, or someone particularly large and strong to manage them out of the hidden distillery. Unless one wishes to roll the barrels across the vineyard, one may avail themselves of simple levers and pushcarts located within the tool sheds nearby to the fields. Alternatively, an actual wagon might be a less labor-intensive option, though it requires a full return to the lands around the Estate House, temporarily taking one further from the continuing investigation. 

	Elsewhere within the bounds of the southern fields, previously viewed anomalies remain for others to view. Barren (even for the winter season) vines entwine frames and stakes in orderly, slightly curved rows. It was a gradual change for those walking toward the affected area, but after a while those with any knowledge of agricultural processes would recognize the signs of a place marked for clearing and replanting. The few leaves remaining on these vines were brittle and dry; tendrils which were once vital and held the vines snugly to the planting frames were woody and snapped with ease. these plants appeared biologically incapable of supporting flower nor fruit. Nevertheless, two spindly bunches of smallish, near-to-black grapes hung from a vine, sporting tough, withered skins. They bobbed lightly as the cold, winter breeze pushed them about, an eerie sight of withered fruit growing on deceased vines.