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	[u]Weather[/u]: Fat but airy flakes of snow descend to the already respectable accumulation of the frigid, pale stuff upon the ground. It is cold. While the winds do not currently blow with any sort of malice, the merely occasional gusts of wind begin to become more frequent. The temperature seems to drop a little more with each revisiting of the wind.  

	[u]Time[/u]: Evening. The sun has fully set just now, and night has settled gently upon the whole of Avonshire. 

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The disappearing of the final light of the day heralded the arrival of colder temperatures. Soft snowfall took on a more diagonal route earthward, some moments more angled than others. The previous, utter stillness of the evening was not fully banished by these turning of events, though the currents of air did add the occasional low, rushing whistle to the surroundings. The moon lay in its usual spot high above, providing a marginal amount of dim light which scattered atop the white, porcelain landscape despite enough cloud cover to provide snowfall. 

	The Coach House remains the warm and inviting haven for the party, as flickering orange hearthfire mixed adequately with the brighter yellows of multiple oil lamps. On the rare occasions of an exterior door finding its way open, the distracting drop of heat was merely momentary. While the Coach House was not a place of great luxury, it was perfectly capable of maintaining creature comforts for its inhabitants, so long as they weren't especially demanding. The pot of simmering water continued its quiet burbling within the kitchen, venting warm steam about which collected along the ceiling like wispy, interior clouds.

	As it was an hour previously, the Coach House was fresh, tidy, and well stocked with foodstuffs and various forms of drink associated with this sort of locale. 

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

	Large ceramic jugs of cider joined the reclaimed brandy atop the bar, tapped with spigots in the manner appropriate to their distribution, courtesy of the Mistress of the Manor who, by default, was Madame Cecily L'Rose. Cecily herself was not present at the moment, seeing to her own affairs this frosty evening. Her niece, Lizbeth, remained. She was still bedecked in her chitinous green cuirass and held her matching shield, the borrowed shortsword still at her belt. She had been taking training with Kathryn zealously, to the point of near obsession. An impressionable girl learning how to be a warrior over a winter was certainly full of zeal. The rather nonchalant way that she slowly moved to appropriate the Constable's whip for her own training on a less "borrowed" basis. To her credit, she did so [i]after[/i] Kosara had lain claim to the Ankheg whip. She did have a touch of jealousy upon seeing the craftsmanship and uniqueness that the green weapon demonstrated. [color=darkgray]"That looks so good, Mademoiselle Kosara!"[/color] she exclaimed. [color=darkgray]"I'd bet that hurts a [i]lot[/i]."[/color] Not that a direct experience nor contest was necessary. Lizbeth was still quite the novice and she knew it. 

	The young lady did make herself comfortable among the adventurers within the Coach House, so long as they did not object, even willing to commit acts of light service in the way of preparing sandwiches or refilling drinks. She did take certain liberties for herself, be they limited by modesty and/or marginally keeping to her aunt's wishes; the latter being that she indulged in a healthy-sized mug of cider, but diluted it with well water. [color=darkgray]"Hey, they're going to be okay, aren't they?"[/color] inquired Lizbeth, trying to sound as grown-up as possible but honestly unsure whether she should have joined them. Etiquette in formalities was unclear as to her place with this circumstance. In the end, she didn't follow. Instead, she leaned against the bar with continued, forced nonchalance. She was training with adventurers, after all. This was what they did, right? 

	Meanwhile, outside of the warmth and safety of the Coach House, things were starting to take an unfortunate turn. No blizzard assailed the lands of the Rose River Vineyard, nor a flash flood from upriver. No, it was a much more visually subtle antagonist which stretched its grip across the countryside, and it arrived with unyielding presence. From sudden, unseen places, the near frantic ringing of a serviceable bell clearly rang out over the lesser din of freezing winds. It might have taken a moment or two for one to catch on that this was an alarm which was being raised, especially for those without rural and/or grape growing backgrounds. Those who popped heads out of the Coach House were greeted with what one might [i]hope[/i] was an unusual sight for agricultural land. 

[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/jzy5WcF/Fire-vineyard-start.jpg[/img][/center]

	Lizbeth did come from a background of winemaking and agriculture, and as such immediately plopped her mug onto the bar and ran for the door, pausing only long enough to throw her winter coverings over herself. As soon as she took in the sight of the fields nearest to the Estate House, she gave a breathless, [color=darkgray]"Gods above, we have to [i]run,[/i]"[/color] and immediately burst into a sprint in the direction of the flames.