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	[u]Weather[/u]: Cold. Determinedly so. Lucky for those still up and about, it is slightly less cold than it was am hour ago. Nevertheless, it is still below freezing, proper. The sky is getting just a touch more cloudy, and it looks like this may increase as the day progresses. The wind remains low in intensity but is still near to constant. 
     
	[u]Time[/u]: Full morning. It is early yet, and the sun still hangs low in the sky.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The area within the Coach House is buffeted against the brunt of the cold wind, though ambient temperatures remain uncomfortable to those unaccustomed to the cold, and/or are not dressed appropriately. For persons having weathered the worst of it overnight, this is somewhat milder. The light of the morning comes in readily despite the walls about the courtyard which still prevent the more directness of the grand, soft, winter sun. 

	This sun otherwise gave brilliance and life to the snow-gilded countryside and rows upon rows of mostly dormant grape vines. There remains an absence of people milling about the grounds, no doubt on account of the full night of labor on top of the previous day's usual undertakings. Were one close enough to the Honigblume fields, one might even hear the quiet rustle of several small fires within braziers, keeping just enough of the sudden, bitter cold away as to prevent the dormancy of those precious vines for just a while longer. From hill or rooftop, one might catch a glimpse of the river, come to apparent halt by the sudden freeze. 
 
[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 
[img][/img]
	Lizbeth chose to keep quiet as Baronfjord spoke reassuring words to her. While silent, her face yet bore a mote of interest working its way out from the disconnected anxiety that seemed to have hold of her. She was intently listening, however. Hooked on every word, just as soon as she learned that he also spoke Abyssal, and that it came about him in a manner which was, generously put, [i]accidental[/i]. Her expression remained as it was, but slowly her eyes brimmed with tears, unrealized until she blinked once, causing lines of hot melancholy to dampen her face. She stoically scrubbed them away with her sleeve and, when he finished his story, nodded slowly in comprehension. Lizbeth took her tea in hand and slowly sipped, uninterested in the possibility of approaching biscuits. 

	After a long night of indefatigable work and a scare of a visceral nature, like a window full of light suddenly shuttered, little Lizbeth L'Rose finally looked tired. 

[hider=Translated Letter]-
	[color=dimgray][i]Respectful Greetings.

	I express grief for the death of Master Arnaud L'Rose. I could feel the moment his soul left this realm. It is unfortunate that this death did not happen within the boundaries of his home. It would have been preferred. No arrangement of partners is perfect of execution, therefore concessions may happen to complete our transactions. Arnaud's children are dead. His remaining heir is not of age. So I call upon you to complete the terms of the arrangement. 

	As an initial demonstration of grace and good faith, I present you a gift. I pray that you accept the fine wools, linens, silks, and sundry goods layered upon my emissaries. It is a grand gift fit for nobility within my nation. This is a gift in true measure and does not come with expectation of compensation. It serves only to illustrate my benevolence before we move onto other matters. Please enjoy them without caveat attached, free and clear.

	Terms for promised compensation for the initial agreement with Master Arnaud extend beyond death and have not been met. I hope you may represent his interests here, so that I will not have to turn to his family. I will allow adequate time for a decision to be reached, and even more for the terms listed in the original contract to be fulfilled. I am not ungracious. But there is a time limit. Enjoy your holidays.

	Farid al Ramil Sabaj al Hazred 
	[/i][/color]
[/hider]

	The transport of the bodies to, and/or near a burn barrel was significantly more difficult than loading them into the servants' quarters had been. It was like they had all gone as limp as ragdolls, and while they weighed no more than they did the first time around, the sensation was more than a little off-putting. Most especially because, while all this was going on, sandy shards of frozen, desiccated corpse continued to spill out where their faces and hands used to be. The bulk of their shattered and ground to fleshgravel parts made horrible grinding sounds against each other but remained within the layers of clothing as if contained with further means. It is either by merciful design of an unnamed deity or pure, sheer happenstance that it was still cold enough to prevent this from turning melting into rancid, pooling, formerly undead salad.   

	For those giving the five formerly diplomatic corpses an investigation, there are several fairly obvious things about them. Per suspicion, they are deathly slender, all of them, entombed within enough layers of clothing to fill a wardrobe. Varying types, representing multiple cultures present within the Southern Desert realms, the mountains thereabouts, and even types favored by visiting dignitaries. Each body was a full collection of finery, and each article was perfectly preserved, without so much as a stitch out of place. The textile work was amazing, the tailoring exact. And the styles ranged from basic coloration to true resplendent works of art. Clothing which a particularly wealthy Caliph of Shiekh might adorn favored consorts with, or with which a Sultanah would array her court's ladies. Clothing of courtiers, powerful merchants, poets, performers, formal wear for Knights in the service of an Empire, the looser clothing of Dervishes from their desert tribes and travelers seeking rich cloth to keep the scouring wind and sun at bay. The two most commonly glimpsed colors were [i]white[/i] and [i]black[/i], though it seemed that everything was present; red, blue, green, turquoise, and lapis made important appearances, though the richest colors came in the form of royal, entrancing purples, enhanced, deep water blues, and fiery, mottled oranges, oft embroidered with gold, silver, and/or black. Silk, linen, and wool of a type so fine and soft as to be confused for something with a less common name dominated the materials, spun with master care and decorated by true artists.  
 
	This represented a fortune that was more than a skilled craftsman of merit and renown might make in a year, each set, easily.   

	Also obvious to basic inspection was the nature of why the corpses maintained the bulk of their shape, despite suddenly shattering. Each of them was wrapped expertly in an unblemished, unstained, continuous sections of textured silk, wrapped uniformly as if to intentionally maintain the structure of the person underneath it's rich layers. Pure of color and material, each were shrouded in this way with either black or white material. To unravel one would be to loose the shards of former human about the courtyard if not done with a delicate hand and some reverence. Nevertheless, these wrappings looked to the casual observer as being worth more than any other item present; the crown jewel of textiled cloth. 

	Of course, all of these things were over and around shattered, frozen corpses. 

	Within the taproom of the Coach House, Lizbeth seemed to have put aside her desire to remain quiet. She spoke with simple, near monotone words, [color=darkgray]"I think you are right, Monsieur Baronfjord. I would like someone to walk me back to the Estate House and to my Aunt. But if it is okay with you, I would like to sleep here for a while first."[/color]