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Weather: The weather outside is frightful. But the fire is so delightful. And since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Okay, maybe
frightful isn't really the best term. It is fully into winter now, and light, puffy snowfall descends slowly to the earth. It is suitably cold. However, there is very little wind, leading to a rather gentle, picturesque winter evening.
Time: Early evening. The sun is setting and night is swiftly coming over the Rose River Vineyard.
Ambience: It's actually a grand, soft evening, punctuated gently by the whispery sound of fat, lacy snowflakes making connection with their brethren piled up on every surface in sight. The slightest vision of red-purple light which represented the setting sun through partial cloud cover pressed the last of its radiance across the landscape. A large, clear moon stood on the other side of the sky, promising an element of dim but reliable illumination as the sky clears later on.
Within the Coach House, things are quite cozy. So long as one sticks near to the fireplaces, one can hardly tell that it's distinctly freezing outside. Or for that matter, having time to adjust to the colder temperatures of the season, one might even cheerfully tolerate the evening out-of-doors for moderate amounts of time, owing to the lack of wind - provided that appropriate attire for the occasion is worn. Scents of cooked meats, fresh bread, and grapeseed oil lamps make for a comforting bit of ambience, and the firelight does leave a warming flicker about the well-lit taproom. In the kitchen, there seems to be an ever-present pot of simmering water, helping immensely with maintaining the temperature on the ground floor as well as providing hot water for tea, or other appropriate uses.
The place has recently been cleaned, restocked, and is as fresh as the day you first came upon the Vineyard.
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Deep within the reaches of the southern moors of the Avonshire region, things might look quiet from afar. A bird's eye view cresting the hills of the area paints a portrait of solid, calm wonderment, stretching as far as the eye can see. It's ideal, really; a piece of rural bliss across a cold, quiet landscape which yields enough agricultural plenty to keep the neighboring regions, as well as the standing armies of the nation, fed and hale. Those on the ground know that appearances can be deceiving. It is a muddled truth to say that nothing bothers this idyllic place; perhaps more acceptably stated that nothing overtly bothers this place. Issues both incidental and concerning appear sporadically, dealt with or not by those with their feet on the ground, seeing greater shades of the truth of the region. It has been an interesting few weeks, to be sure.
Taking an element of control over the situation, Cecily L'Rose insists that the remains, or what remains of them, be transported from the hidden distillery to elsewhere. Be it to Fort Darenby for the Sheriff's people to deal with, or to Avonshire Township to he interred within hallowed ground, it doesn't matter so much to her. She does say that she will try to find records of any workers from decades past who went missing. It might even be as simple as asking some of the older folk around town, be that town Southmoor, the Township, or parts more distant.
The barrels of brandy, or at least two of them, found their way into the Estate House per Cecily's instruction. The final one - the one which was tapped in the distillery, remains behind at the Coach House as a reward for finding and dealing with the situation.
"This would mix into a lovely Port, or perhaps a special reserve of our Fortified Zinnoberrot," she mused.
Luckily, waiting for the group back in the Coach House were six sizeable ceramic jugs full of fresh, lightly bubbly, apple cider, with instructions to "place jugs in simmering water to heat." Such luxuries did wonders to wash away difficult days. Or weeks. Also luckily, the spacious bathtub had been delivered to the Coach House a day or so following the Hidden Distillery incident. It was left in the front area of the taproom and would require a concerted effort to place it in a more convenient, and hopefully warmer, location. Cecily made good on her promise, be it a couple of days late.
Master Urmdrus, in his characteristic tradition of barging in whenever he feels like it, barged into the Coach House because he felt like it. He had his huge Sack O' Stuff, in a traditional burlap style of sack, filled enough to make closing the top of it within his meaty fist mildly annoying. He flapped the sack onto the nearest table and helped himself to a mug of cider. He downed the whole of it in one long go and plunked the empty drinking vessel back onto the bar.
"Apples. Like apples. Do not have them back at home." A substantial belch followed. Urmdrus was truly a Dwarf of mystery and talent.
But speaking to his talent, the stocky fellow returned to his bag and upended it, dropping a series of green, chitinous items out. Some of them were obvious in nature, others less so. A person who made it a point to visit the crafty fellow might have noticed some of these pieces coming together - at least the larger ones. They were a rich, embossed green, strong, well articulated, quiet, with the critically necessary flexibility of live bone. Notably absent from the items were the shield and cuirass which the older Dwarf was first working on, but there were interesting tidbits to be found. Urmdrus first went to Kosara with the items she specified. Smaller items, for the most part. Decorative. Things to go in her hair, maybe a decorative clasp that might fit about a horn. Knickknacks, if you will, made with Dwarven craftsmanship, if not a notable amount of flowery embellishment.
"Heard talk about something. Had extra. Early Frostval gift." He held out a coiled length of treated, braided leather, the business end bearing painful slivers of Ankheg chitin. The same material studded the lengthy handle and made up both the heel and collar of the device. The length of the braid was lightly tinted green, competing with the chestnut leather stain.
"Lizbeth likes whip of Constable. Made you one from your kill. You don't like, ask her trade." He then grunted and turned to Victoria.
"You said make yours second. Made yours. This - some of my best." He lifted from the pile a thing which looked like a cross between a cuirass and a corset made of green Ankheg chitin mottled with black, secured to a backing of rich, silky material.
"Good protection. Wear under clothes. Dance, ...somersault... in this." But he wasn't quite done. One last item was handed over. It looked like an enameled cloak brooch or large pin made of the same material, in the rather caricatured but easily identifiable shape of an Ankheg facing. Upon it was a rune in what appeared to be an older style of Dwarven rune, for anyone exposed to the written language.
Shortly after Urmdrus finished gift giving, Lizbeth bounded into the Coach House with a look of absolute glee on her face. Over her winter skirts and kirtleing she wore a masterfully put together cuirass of green chitin, near perfect of fit but allowing for a necessary amount of growth to occur comfortably. In her arms, she carried the finished shield that was under construction in Urmdrus's workshop, appearing as giant grape leaves of Ankheg shell, layered atop one another with silvery metal embossments. From the look on her face, Lizbeth was obviously there to show it off.
"Isn't it perfect?" she asked joyously.
"Isn't it just perfect?" Evening settled over the Rose River Vineyard, bringing with it the hope of the season of rest, and eventual renewal. But for now, a blanket of snow settled quietly across the landscape rather peacefully. Everyone existed in the hopes that it would remain that way.
