Despite the delay, Kathryn was able to make up some of the lost time by loading the brassieres on the wagons in bulk, and unloading them in bulk. The work was difficult, but Kathryn was well rested. Other than some sword practice earlier in the day Kat hasn't done much to physically strain her. Other than this being a long night now she was feeling great! Ready to face off the world! Not working in her heavy armor helped too. No matter how exposed that made her feel. After many groups of the furnace like contraptions were loaded up Kathryn began her track back to the vineyard itself to help with the placements. Wondering if maybe she could continue to move them in bulk so that those setting them up wouldn't have to carry them so far, and could focus more on lighting and fueling. And once the bulk were set up she could go back and get more braziers. Simple plan but seemed good enough!

Kosara having lit herself up to act as a beacon of where efforts were being focused Kathryn prepared to unload the wagon when a sharp pain crossed over her shoulder, and down her torso, and soon down her leg. Kathryn let out a soft sound that could be comparable to a soft but pained squeak as she seemed to flinch for a moment. Then with a deep exhale she slowly began to return to her normal height. Her breathing was strained for a moment before her body seemed to relax. The rune on her belt seemed to flicker and flair like lantern fuel that had suddenly been lit, and burned itself out. She didn't know how long it was, but it appeared the rune could only run for so long before it quit on her. And when she let it burn out like that, it fucking hurt. Like her whole body was attempting to contort as it tried to tear itself apart. Then she bent over and puked out the boiled wine she had just nursed with Victoria. She knew some of the workers were watching her, so with a smile on her face, she stood upright again and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "No more drinking on the job for me. Let's wrap this up." She said in a cheerful tone, rushing over to the wagons before someone could ask her if she was okay. She needed to be strong. She couldn't afford to be weak. People were depending on her. She refused to let them down.

With a deep breath, and bracing herself for the rune to try and quit out on her if trying to start it again caused a repeat of the pain that just happened. The rune on her belt began to glow, sparks began to fly as the rune seemed to glow even brighter than the last time she activated the rune. Soon she returned to her maximum height again, nearly 14 feet tall and seemed ready to take on the world! Loading up the braziers in her arms, she walked a ways passed the ones being currently set up, and began laying out the mobile furnace like contraptions as close as possible to their spots, leaving them ready to set up. When Kathryn used up the braziers in her arms, she returned to the wagons as fast as she could to continue doing the manual moving of the braziers. Hopefully making better time than everyone else who could move them, and giving them more time to light them up and keep them fueled up. She hoped so much that she was doing enough to help. She also wondered how much time had passed. Was her timer about to go again? She wondered if she let the rune run until it burnt out again if it would hurt like that again, or worse... Or if it had a shorter time span since she just expended a use? Questions for another night. She had people depending on her.

Kathryn then heard Blackberry singing. She found herself listening, and wanting to sing along as they worked. She didn't know the words to this tune, but she hummed along, and kept the pace up. Bringing the braziers to their locations as fast as she could, and for a moment found herself ready for whatever came next. She did wonder if they had enough fuel to keep the fires going.

Weather: The snow remains blanketing the ground, though no more falls from the sky. Unfortunately for everyone outside of doors, the wind has begun to pick up. Certain gusts almost feel like a whip crack against exposed skin. Even for winter in this area, it is unseasonably frigid. To be short, it is cold.

Time: Night. An hour has passed, maybe two, maybe more at the beginning of this update. It's difficult to tell when conditions keep you rooted in the present. Time continues forward as the post progresses to the first light of dawn.

Ambience: No longer still nor quiet, wind whistles past one's ears in a manner most uncomfortable. Wagons creak and rumble along the ground while footsteps crunch snow under the action of (hopefully) careful steps. When the lulls of wind and wagon sounds match up with pauses of the too-few workers speaking, one can yet make out the crackle of multiple small fires burning in their braziers. The scent of grapeseed oil and other, coarser flammable goods catches one's nose only occasionally. The ambient light from the braziers mix with the clear moon overhead to provide enough light to work by, but not remotely enough to discern anything beyond the already worked-upon rows.




What began with uncertainty of action continued into rote repetition until what needed to be done became an exercise akin to muscle memory. Agriculture is a thing which takes years, maybe decades to master, but this task was straightforward enough. Not easy, of course, but straightforward. Gather equipment, set it up, start a fire. Repeat. Gather. Set. Fire. Repeat.

The more colorful methods of handling this, which the adventurers were demonstrating admirably, served to speed the process along in areas, but in the end, the sheer amount of space required to be worked upon turned the night into a respectable shift for a seasoned laborer. For it was not just one field, but the series of fields closest to the Estate House which bore the signature, frost marked, whitish-green Honigblume grapes, which took up the majority of the vines visible from both the Estate House and the Coach House. This was a task.

Baronfjord's song made it out and over the countryside. It was an interesting ditty that, while only a few of the people present knew of it, the rest picked up the chorus readily enough to add their voices to the sounds of the evening. Uplifting in its own way, transformed into a thing more resembling a song to keep cadence in labor. As time passed, there were occasional, sporadic refrains of the chorus which was picked up by others, resulting in shorter recitations of Baronfjord's motivational musical performance.

Despite delays caused by various factors in getting the supplies necessary from the structures to the fields, the combination of Kathryn's strength and the organization made possible by the party's additional wagons and beasts/spells of burden compensated for these, almost completely. Lost ground was still lost ground. Luckily, so long as the new plan of action involving distributing from the larger wagons into the smaller carts for easier use among the rows was in place, lost ground could be recovered in time.

Furthermore, the use of simple spellwork from Kosara and Victoria had a huge impact on getting the braziers lit quickly and seamlessly. Faster than they could be brought out, set down, and filled with fuel, one or the other of them could get them alight. The rows that either of them claimed for themselves was alight before anyone else's, and there was ample time to see to the unlit sections of those around them. Even the ones bearing torches couldn't quite get them going as quickly. There was one exception from an unlikely source, if anyone thought to check with her.

Lizbeth. She moved with no great speed, but was utterly tireless. While others took a few minutes here or there to warm their hands over a fire, she persisted with endurance beyond that which Kathryn had noticed coming from her during their combat training. And her braziers seemed to birth a decent flame almost as quickly as those of the Warlock or the Bard. She would look up every so often, her face seeming to be overly pale in the dim, flickering light of everyone's handiwork, dark circles around her eyes as if from fatigue, though she showed absolutely no sign of slowing. Lizbeth was a machine.

Cecily, however, was not. Despite being a youthful woman of her early middle years, recent times had seen her as more of an administrator or manager of the Estate, as opposed to a person committed to direct labor. One could tell that she knew what she was doing, as she acted with a practiced hand and was no stranger to this sort of work. This did not change the fact that she began to falter in the cold after a while. She slowed down, had to take short breaks more frequently than others more recently suited to manual labor. Madame L'Rose was not having an easy time of it. Still, she insisted upon continuing until one of the laborers, with as much tact as he could muster, insisted that she take a more substantial rest, "...just long enough to close your eyes a little, Madame L'Rose. We can take care of it from here." Reluctantly, she acquiesced.

She was not the only one showing the effects of exhausting labor in the middle of the night amid temperatures cold enough to damage cold-tolerant flora. Others were beginning to slow at about the halfway point of their efforts. Still, everyone pushed on as best they could, knowing what a lost winter crop would mean for not just the L'Roses, but for the greater economy in the area of Southmoor and villages beyond.

It was maybe another hour later that two things happened, and be it the whim of Tymora, Norebo, or some deity more benevolent, both of them were positive. Roused from what might have been a fitful slumber came the squat, broad form of a Dwarf with black facial tattoos, covered in fur-lined leathers and carrying a pot full of steaming liquid. The pot was massive; apparently too massive for this shorter fellow to maneuver comfortably without burning himself (or others), yet he somehow managed. It was Urmdrus the handydwarf, naturally, and the violently steaming pot had the distinct smell of mushrooms wafting from it. He shuffled off a carrying satchel containing a ladle and several cups, all of simple design and excellent craftsmanship.
"Fungus tea. Here to help. Move over; give me a torch."

The other bit of good news was heralded by the flapping of wings. Not immediately, considering the meaning of the expression "as the crow flies." In this instance, it was a Raven. Some time passed between the return of the Familiar and the tromp of boots coming up the way from the main road, bright lanterns at the fore. The party did not recognize any of these new faces with one exception - a woman of maybe twenty years with her mother's steel expression, who once aimed a loaded crossbow in Victoria's direction. "Mother couldn't join us tonight. She apologizes, and sends some volunteers. Where do you need us?"

While the reinforcements do not make for a full complement of laborers and many of them were not agriculture workers, they were desperately needed hands and willing to listen. The sense of a broader community took hold within the people of Avonshire, whether they be from Southmoor, residents of the Vineyard, or collected from the villages dotting the ways and streams around. It was not a perfect, tireless night, but following the morale boost of hot drinks and extra help, those upon the fields managed to get the job done just as the sky lightened to an expectant purple. Exclamations of gratitude rang out from the locals in weary voices as many departed for homes away from these fields and others made for quartering within.

Everyone was tired. Perhaps moreso than they had been for a long time. Bone weariness sapped strength as the weather sapped warmth from bodies, upright or otherwise. Depleted, or nearly so, makes for an apt descriptor.

As people make their mass exodus/grueling trek back home, calling faint farewells and promises of events of camaraderie, first light breaks over the horizon. It is a lovely, colorful start to dawn, accenting the now familiar hillsides in ways which may inspire poetry.

However...

There sit looming shapes upon the nearby hill, backlit by the rising sun. Five of them, humanoid, and unmoving; even against the bitter chill of the near merciless wind. They have remained easily far enough away as to not be detected by the revealing light of the fires, yet obvious of presence for the coming daylight, out in the open. Stoically stand the figures, four of them in posture of supplication or subservience to the fifth, whose height towers above the others like a tyrant, sculpted for this purpose precisely.