Sigil

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: Exhaustion (1) Location: Coach House Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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The majority of Victoria's goods were still in the taproom, as she had hastily emptied her errand cart in preparation of the previous night's events. As a result, she could wearily trudge over to them to retrieve her newly acquired tea set. It wasn't the most glamorous of items; simple glazed ceramic with a copper bottom, the pot and cups both, but it held a quaint sort of charm that hinted questionably at humility, considering its owner. The huge pot of water was still sitting at a covered simmer in the kitchen, be it much lesser of volume now. Still, it was much more than enough to suit her needs at the moment, which was providing a simple cup of tea for those present. The nigh-exhausted Bard filled her pot, packed a slightly more than appropriate amount of tea into a copper wire infuser, and set it to steep. While she was getting these things together, she spoke to Lizbeth. "Certainly, you may stay. We are only guests, after all. After tea, if you think it's okay with your aunt, maybe you should get some rest here." She gave a glance over to Baronfjord. While in agreement that she should have some time to collect herself, Victoria did take a liberty in suggesting that she more fully recover herself before leaving. She was unsure as to what was happening outside of their walls, but the shtick about safety in numbers came to mind. And if she was a threat, keeping her away from others might be a good idea for the meantime, too.

After enough time for the tea to steep, Victoria placed a full, steaming cup in front of Lizbeth, and then another for Baronfjord. She reserved hers for a moment, first putting a dram of the very interesting brandy into the cup before bringing it high with black tea. "I have honey, if either of you would care for some." A moment's worth of consideration informed her that she did indeed want a bit for herself, just enough to give her morning cocktail a bit of rounding. She inhaled the vapors coming from the cup deeply and sighed with satisfaction. "Lovely." The first sip was worth it.

Quick mental commands had Morty set up along the wall, nearby but out of the way. She took a moment to check in with her Raven, who had flown elsewhere in the hustle and bustle of their return. It was still within range of her sensory notice, and Victoria took advantage of this to look through its eyes briefly. This gave her an interesting view of Kathryn and Kosara in the courtyard, doing ...something... with the corpses. "What in Acheron's frigid gates..?" she whispered, invoking the name of an interesting Hell alternative.


Victoria saw the shovel. And the barrel. And the goods for making a fire out of it all. And her face dropped. "All that silk," she whispered. Summoning up her familiarity with the abilities of her Raven counterpart (which she was beginning to appreciate more and more as the days passed), she understood that this telepathic and sensory connection with the bird paired excellently with its capability for Mimicry. While presenting her wishes to this spirit-made-flesh at the speed of thought from within the taproom of the Coach House, the Raven itself manifested said wished outside, near the rest of her party.

The ebon, winged, majestic creature perched above the scene outside and cawed loudly to get their attention, then croaked in a recognizable but obviously approximated version of Victoria's melodic, colorful accent, "WAIT. Don't. Burn. Yet. Please. VaLUable. Maybe. Clues. rrrSearch later. TEA INside. Hot."

Victoria stood ready to make a move outside, just in case they wanted to continue the plan to set all that valuable silk, linens, and whatever other noble-worthy articles that qualified as vintage at the very least aflame. She intoned to Lizbeth that it was probably best to stay in the taproom or kitchen for the meantime, but declined to mention that the reason involved the shattered remains of previously undead creatures outside. Smiling through a tired expression, she turned to her Dragonborn associate and inquired, "Did you mention something about biscuits? That sounds heavenly." Her smile remained as she took a sip from her teacup, eyes regarding Baronfjord and Lizbeth in even measure.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

Alright ramblers, let's get rambling.

Or to put it differently, and as just a little bit of meta information, this encounter is drawing to a point wherein new information can only be gleaned by continuing investigation of the facts at hand. Don't get me wrong, there will be other opportunities to learn more, and there are unplanned opportunities that exist within the setting if one looks for them.

Past the next update or two, we are moving toward another time skip before something else unsettling and/or special occurs. Maybe it'll be one of those holidays. I mean, the late harvest is coming and someone has to consume rich, imperialist tidbits while sampling icewine from the harvest five years previous. Wine that has been sitting, aging in casks underground, just waiting for an opportune moment to be consumed. Best of luck.

Oh, and as usual, hit me up on Discord for the regular stuff.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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Weather: Temperatures rise a little in the presence of the now full sun. It is still below freezing, but more tolerably with appropriate clothing. The breeze has slowed considerably but is now near constant. It is still quite cold. The cloud cover seems to be increasing with the new day.

Time: Morning, bright and quiet.

Ambience: The sun streams down over a near idyllic series of rolling hills inscribed with the meandering lines of grave vine supports. There is a quiet cold that sweeps over everything, doubly so as the staff remained indoors - partly because of the hour, but greatly influenced by the hard night which had just passed. Cut paths of footfalls mar the smooth snowfall in the most trafficked places in and around the fields nearest the Estate House, which still bear the glowing braziers keeping the remaining Honigblume varietals from dying off in the midst of the sudden temperature plummet. The river's usual hum in the distance, ordinarily barely audible in the quietest times of the day, is as still as it was an hour ago, covered with a questionable layer of glassy ice.

*****

Inside of the Coach House, it has gotten a bit warmer. While it was nice to be out of the wind, the place didn't quite get to a much more appreciable level of comfort until Baronfjord stoked the fireplace in the main taproom. A few minutes past this and the place became downright comfortable.

Lizbeth stared at Baronfjord and Victoria for a moment, seemingly unwilling to answer the question put forth from the both of them. Her face turned away from their peering eyes and onto the papers on the table, one original, one inscribed with phonetic Abyssal, and one translated into readable, nuanced Common. The girl's voice repeated the syllables from the second one, occasionally making a correction of pronunciation as she went along as her voice was a little shaky. But as she continued, her words became more confidently fluid. Those capable of understanding Abyssal will hear a young girl, not quite an adult, with pretty, flowing hair and a cuirass made of ankheg chitin wrap her linguistic abilities around a tongue extraordinarily difficult to speak by someone with humanoid anatomy. Where certain vocal impossibilities crept up, she effortlessly utilized the accepted mortal analog, demonstrating the proficiency of a natural speaker in a Human body.

Her language then slipped into the more accepted language of the Prime Material Plane, "Farid al Ramil Sabaj al Hazred." After she spoke aloud the name of the original note's author, she looked back up at the two of them, and answered in a quiet voice, "I don't know." Looking back down at the pages upon the table, in the same quiet voice, "Do you mind if I stay here for a while, please? I don't ... I'm not feeling very well right now." Lizbeth absently slumped down into the chair nearest her at the table.

Translated Letter

-
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

Splintered masses of rock-solid, corpse-based ice were all that remained of the five figured placed unceremoniously within the servants' quarters of the Coach House. Where the desiccated remains of the figures were exposed from beneath the voluminous layers of fine textiles, these tiny shards of dead people spilled out and clinked to the stone floor like glass scattering beneath a thick, recently broken window. Oddly, they still had physical cohesion of a sort, as if something were holding them more or less together beneath their noble wrappings. Also curiously, there wasn't a drop of liquid nor scent of death upon them. The completely frozen state of these "diplomats", coupled with the low temperatures of the air and unheated accommodations worked wonders for this, barring a less mundane explanation.

Aside from the occasional tinkling sound of frozen shards slipping to the ground, the room remained deathly quiet. Outside, the near constant wind continued. Luckily, the walls of the Coach House's courtyard helped to remove some of the edge to those winds, but one's breath still condensed like a draconic fog upon exhalation. It was cold, and looked to be for some time.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: Exhaustion (1) Location: Coach House Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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The translations began as a massively confusing undertaking. Unlike Victoria's immediately successful attempts every other time she used this ritual, the results were initially meaningless. After assistance from Lizbeth, progress was made. It was faster than anyone going into the Abyssal language blind, but still seemed a ponderous process to her. Moreover, she didn't understand why the spell didn't just give her the literal meaning of the words presented, regardless of what language was being communicated in whatever script. It was a stroke of luck that Lizbeth had returned here instead of going back to the Estate House. Hopefully, her confusion and difficulty with the spell was just because she was tired. And she was tired, make no mistake.

Fatigue notwithstanding, things kept escalating. In terms of pressing interest, anyway. The fast pace and long hours in the cold were (hopefully) over, and with it the hot, coursing blood of one committing to action. As a result, Victoria's stamina was ebbing away. Already her eyelids felt heavy and the strength in her limbs, a thing for which she was not especially known, waned considerably. She also felt a touch absent-minded, having focused on the message to the exclusion of everything else, including the creature comforts the voiced earlier, or even building up the hearth fire. Now that she was done, it occurred to her that she was still cold. The pashmina she had acquired for herself was still over her head, covering her slightly elongated, pointy ears which were still far from the level of warmth she desired. But that was a failing of hers, taking to things which interested her almost obsessively to the exclusion of a generally wiser course of action.

After it was finally done, she reviewed it as written in translated Common. "Whomever penned this certainly has a high opinion of themself." In hindsight, the fact that the pashmina she had draped over herself for additional warmth was not specifically stolen goods (even if she meant it to be lightly insulting as an aside) gave her a grain of relief. Then Victoria began to wonder what else might be present. If the original writer of this message was going to flaunt their wealth by doling out shiny things as an opening salvo for some negotiation to make themselves feel powerful, then she wasn't going to be so prideful as to refuse. Especially with its lack of reciprocity necessary in writing. Curiosity then befell the young Half-Elf; she began to wonder what else might be upon their well-dressed emissaries.

Then she looked again at the words written plainly in the Common language of the realm, especially what she expected was the signature. Her spell, Comprehend Languages, was still active - meaning that she was able to understand the literal meaning of the words on the page. Farid al Ramil Sabaj al Hazred, or to hear her speak it aloud, "Unique One of the Forbidden Obsidian Sands." It was actually a little comical. "It's a male name. There's no title, either. I should think someone of this obvious self-importance would have left an honorific of some kind. Just to leave an impression, I would have." She mused, "Farid. I wonder if Kosara knows anything. This is outside of my experience, I am afraid." She spoke to Lizbeth in a calming voice, as best she might in that moment. The kid didn't seem to be in the best of morale. "Maybe we should find and ask her?"

Baronfjord's entrance, and the shattering sound muffled by the walls, got Victoria's attention. Though she was most satisfied with the Monk stoking up the fire. It even gave her an idea. "I shall get out my set and make some tea for us all. That sounds like exactly what we need right now. That and some rest." The last part might have been true, but it was easier said than done in that moment. "Though I am curious, myself, where did you pick up Abyssal?" This inquiry made to follow up Baronfjord's, to also repeat her astonished question from earlier, when they began translating the letter. It was very curious indeed that a girl from a rural province whose locals mainly spoke the Common trade language (Modern Human, for their enduring credit) and Halfling, could speak a generally frowned-upon and difficult tongue to master. Where could she have possibly learned it out here?

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

SO ...how are we all doing?

Excellent! Me, too. So, to business. I'll start rather cryptically by saying that Kathryn, in one of the posts, came very close to a piece of truth about the setting. Huzzah. But that said, I'm not going into it any further. That being said, offering brandy usually comes with consent, corpse or no.

Update is updated. Standard stuff applies, let me know in our Discord if I missed something, or if you need a ruling/dice roll/quick prayer to RNGeezus.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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Weather: The buffeting wind grows more steady in the early morning and the sky is mostly clear, with some cloud cover riding along the prevailing winds. It is uncomfortable overall, but nothing as cutting as the atmospheric conditions from the recent night. In short, it is cold but bearable if necessity strikes.

Time: Early morning. It is just past dawn and the sky is alight with a cool, distant sun.

Ambience: The landscape is now pleasantly bright, even if there aren't a lot of people around to witness it. From the top of the hill one has a decent view of the Estate House and part of the river. Except for the wind now, it is rather quiet. An attentive person might realize that an otherwise ever-present sound from the background is missing now - the quiet burble of the river is silent. Its waters appear glassy and still with snow drifts along its banks. Closer by, dots of essential fire gently curve along the slopes of vine-bearing hills near to the Estate House, a testament to the endurance of the laborers and the adventuring party.

*****

Loading the standing corpses into the back of the wagon was tricky in some places and easier in others. Lifting them from the ground, for example, was made significantly more difficult by the fact that their feet had settled into the ice from staying in one spot for a prolonged period of time, yet they were amazingly light once one figured out to pull straight up first. Hefting the relatively light figures wasn't a huge deal in terms of pure weight. However, the fact that they remained rigid in their pose made things truly awkward. Additionally, they were amazingly well padded. Now that hands were being put on the corpses to load them into the wagon, the practically obsessive amount of layers of clothing become more apparent.

What is surprising is a lack of expected sensory input from the figures. Where one might expect the scent of decay, there are only the faintest hints of fresh earth and something floral. Beneath the multiple layers of fine cloth where one might expect something squishier of texture, it is cold and solid, like a thing simultaneously dried and frozen. And perilously slender.

Nevertheless, when they are loaded into the wagon, those present might hear the muted sound of tiny cracks and pops; a noise not unlike glass maintaining its shape as hairlines spiderweb their way across its surface. Perhaps it was nothing. High beyond the heavens, only the tumbling of celestial dice may decide.

Meanwhile, inside of the Coach House, a very curious scene was unfolding. The Bard's magic was working, but there wasn't a full understanding of the translation as it went along. The process took easily three times as long as it might have for a full accounting of the contents of the letter. Said process started with Victoria translating the Draconic script into its phonetic Abyssal sounds, but writing the represented sounds as phonetic Common. From there, Victoria vocalized the sounds as spoken Abyssal that she, herself, could not understand. Perhaps when she got a little more practiced with the ritual casting of Comprehend Languages would have allowed her to understand her own words, but that was not happening on this day. Lizbeth would then turn the spoken Abyssal and translate it as best she could into written Common. When they were finished, it read:

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


Back outside, the informal and unconventional sharing of fine brandy was accepted by its deceased recipient without complaint. Without anything whatsoever, as a matter of fact. Its jaw was rigidly placed, but there was enough of a gap that one could pour liquid within. There was, to all observation, no response.

There was no response when the bodies were placed within the servant's quarters on the ground floor of the Coach House, no response when it was closed up, and no response when the door was barricaded. There was a brief pause of absolute quiet as even the wind died down, and a great shattering issued from behind the now shut and reinforced door. Like a hammer thrown through a pane of thick glass at force. Then continued the silence.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: N/A Location: Rose River Vineyard (The Hill to the East -> Coach House) Action: Skill Check (Arcana) Casting Spell (Prestidigitation), Ritual Magic (Comprehend Languages) Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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Victoria's eyes narrowed. It was a fool that couldn't recognize this as Necromancy, but this felt different, somehow. She was almost jealous in her own way. This absolutely smacked with theatrics, like it was all some kind of show meant to elicit some sort of social leverage. What was worse, looking around at her adventuring associates, it was working. Maybe if the group was hale and well rested this wouldn't be as much of an issue, but the timing of this event was amazingly suboptimal. Still, being one more accustomed to what was considered The Dark Arts by the common folk of the land, this still surprised her. Yes, they were good.

The reaction from Kosara also surprised her, but Victoria mentally handled that one differently. It was a dull anger that settled in the dark recesses of her mind in that moment. She looked back to the Tiefling for a half moment only, then focused her eyes on the figures in front of her. "Performative creatures," she mused internally. If they were aware they were causing discomfort with their mere presence, they didn't seem to show it.

It vaguesly registered to Victoria that Baronfjord had asked her a question. When did they move, indeed. With a flat voice, she responded coolly with, "Just a moment ago." There was something about this expression of Necromancy that she couldn't quite wrap her head around, and she was assuredly trying to do just that. The details were difficult to pick out - so many cuts and colors of Undead could be described in the same manner as these could, and they definitely fit neatly into the category of Undead. But the type eluded her. Her grasp of Arcana, even though she had something of a concentration (or at least more than a passing interest in) this subject, felt imperfect here. Maybe with some sleep and some time to mull it over, things would be different.

Additionally, a small part of Victoria was sure that someone was going to blame this on her.

Oddly, it was Kathryn's words that gave her a clue. This clue led to a different train of thought, and those thoughts led to a working possibility. This might or might not have been confirmed by the tall Knight speaking to the figures in different languages, only to receive zero response. "You said Draconic?" It was to both Kathryn and Baronfjord. The Monk had mentioned that is was an 'old dialect'. Victoria was no linguist, but she wasn't familiar with any older dialects of Draconic. It was a language that predated many of the sentient races which existed presently, but spoken by creatures longer-lived than Elves, and as such should have changed very little. Her knowledge of Arcana finally clicked, at least a little. "Draconic script has been often used as a preferred medium for magic. Spell descriptions, record keeping, instructions. I never learned it myself because I come by magic differently. I do have a ritual that can translate it. But first..."

Victoria stepped around Kathryn, but not stupidly. She made sure to mentally command her Morty to put itself between her and the tall, nobly dressed dead guy first, poised to tackle with an action ready should the thing move in the slightest. This did not stop her from obstinately reaching out and jerking the thing's head covering forward, over its eye holes. It was not the most mature thing to do, but it seemed something that might make Kosara feel a little better. She then stepped past to one of its attendants and grabbed an article of very fine fabric off of its shoulders. It was an exquisite black pashmina, trimmed with opulent gold thread in broad and thick patterns that reminded her of something abstractly floral. In truth, she absolutely adored the pattern, even if this wasn't exactly in her preferred colors. A quick couple of seconds to cast another Prestidigitation was spent to clean the fabric from whatever objectionable material that might have been there (though nothing visible shook off). Victoria then unhesitantly draped it over her head and rubbed her pointed ears beneath it, trying to get some warmth and feeling back into them. It was too cold for this mess. "They're puppets," she said flatly. Whether they were given commands to carry out under specific circumstances or they were controlled from someplace remotely, whatever the corpses were in actuality, Victoria was certain of this assessment, be it metaphorical. So she repeated, "They are puppets."

As an interesting side note, beneath the first article of clothing, there was another. And the hint of another beneath that, as if the desiccated figures were packing multiple layers of very fine clothing.

Ears now a little more bearable, she held a hand out to Baronfjord, requesting the scroll "May I? I need to get this to the Coach House to translate." She left the scene without further comment, trailing her Vicious Guard Swine, Morty, behind her.

*****

In the Coach House, Victoria wasted no time cracking open her Ritual books. The spell necessary was one of her first ones penned in her hand, and in very short order she was whispering the appropriate sigilla and tracing the proper designs in the air, building wizardly energies within herself in a way that was still a little foreign to her; magical power coming from understanding and intellect as opposed to improvisation and strength of personality. But she was able to do this in the span of a few minutes. What she discovered alarmed her.

"It's ...gibberish."

She spoke these words aloud, surprised at the result. The spell had worked. The spell was working. Her new understanding of the script showed what she had suspected earlier. It was Draconic. It was written in script that was uncommon and yes, old-fashioned, but this was the standard Draconic language as used commonly. But instead of words in Draconic script, it was a series of chaotic syllables, hard consonants, and throat sounds that were difficult to pronounce quickly. While the spell was still active, Victoria scrambled for a pen and paper, trying to pen the sounds in the Common language phonetically, so she could at least speak them back later. Maybe it was a puzzle?

Absently, as she wrote, Victoria quietly spoke the sounds to try to mentally reinforce her work. It was then that Lizbeth spoke in a hushed voice, "That's Abyssal. It isn't Draconic." Victoria stopped cold and looked over to the girl, still standing in the corner, still looking concerned. What was she saying? This was phonetic Abyssal, penned in Draconic script?

Victoria had several questions, the first one of which she asked in a harsh whisper, "How do you know this?"

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

Hello, hello. Once again, we see ourselves dealing with odd and/or interesting things which may or may not want to kill us. Well, if we're lucky. And just think, this is premium vacation time! Yes friends, you're wintering in wine country, just like the title of this particular Act. Unfortunately, you're trying to vacation in a D&D based world, so good luck with that. In any case, this update is toward the short side, as a single event has transpired that needed to transpire, which limited other in-scene events from the DM's point of view.

Anyhow, I have gotten your approximate character locations from our Discord and have taken that into account. And speaking of our Discord, please drop me a line there for all of your skill check and/or question answering needs. Likewise, if I have not been amazingly clear about a description or something due to flowery phrasing, let me know and I will clarify. Thanks!

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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Weather: It is still cold in a way that is positively unseasonal, but at least it isn't still snowing. The wind is painful along exposed ears and fingers, which hasn't shown any signs of abating. In fact, the arrival of the sun seems to have made the gusts less frequent, but longer lasting.

Time: Dawn. There is finally a complete, gorgeous, round sun on the horizon. The details it reveals aren't necessarily as picturesque.

Ambience: The chill in the air is most certainly due to the weather, but the newest guests of the Vineyard do their best to bring that feeling to the bone. The sun is now fully above the horizon, but just barely, still barely painting the countryside with a hint of color but perhaps more importantly, better illuminating the features of the apparently deceased persons standing before the group in their opulent finery. Dead, glassy skin reflecting the sun as if solid, dull ice, visible only from hands and faces as they were the only parts exposed. Nevertheless, the better look in the broader light of the new day reveals husks of once-humans who, while amazingly preserved, appeared to be desiccated by time and intention while simultaneously frozen solid.

The snow remains present, giving the most constant color available upon the land, textured in the places where it was trodden upon, while the braziers in the fields nearest to the Estate House dot the landscape in a series of regular, even rows. Behind the group is the proof of the party's diligent work, and ahead is another fragment of an ongoing mystery.

*****

If the night was a bustle of activity and teamwork, then this morning gave the immediate feeling of quiet and solitude, at least in comparison. Even Lizbeth was nowhere to be seen, when she was previously rooted to the spot when Victoria and Kathryn had come to check on her. The workers took their leave prior to the most recent events of the early morning, and Cecily herself took her leave while it was still dark out. The reinforcements from the villages departed mostly without comment, as well. So now, despite the fact that this was a successful, profitable vineyard spanning a more than respectful amount of acreage, a feel of emptiness settled over everything within sight.

The figures standing atop the hill with the party were no longer hidden by the night, nor by conflicting firelight. Any looking in their direction saw them plainly, even if distance muddied the details. Perhaps this was one of the reasons that it was so quiet, aside from the early hour and overnight push of labor.

A number of moments after the scroll left the hand of the singularly tall Corpse Diplomat and those present did what inspections and observations they might, certain subtleties began that, when taken apart could be brushed away as imagination or happenstance; the wind, perhaps, or the product of a mind left exhausted by a full day of work followed by a full night of it, all without rest. Tiny, incremental things which, when pressed together in a shortened span of snowballing time culminated in the tall, dead creature turning its head directly at the lady who first took the scroll.

And then it smiled.

It was a painful thing to watch. Its tissues (or what remained of them), lacking of the necessary flexibility of life, slipped back to bear its teeth fully into a cruel mockery of gratitude or mirth. The ends of its mouth widened impossibly with a sound like rope groaning under a herculean weight before, as overstressed ropes do, it snapped. But unlike the thready pop of hemp fibers popping, this was the loud and unmistakable glassy crack of ice - thick ice - fracturing along previously unseen fault lines, many within a fraction of a second from the last.

Simultaneously, all of the members of the diplomatic entourage shifted position to stand loosely, shoulders thrown back and arms at their sides as if waiting for a chambermaid to gently take their housecoats. Splits fissured their exposed skin where they had not existed before; cracks multisecting their ice-brittle flesh. What pale flicker of awareness might or might not have been present died away in this moment, leaving them standing upright in dead submission to the elements and their natural state of being.

Before the last hint of anything remotely sapient darkened within the recessed sockets of the lead diplomat, it remained locked staring into Kosara's eyes.

A single set of footprints led back to the Coach House. Within, a startled girl named Lizbeth sat in the taproom, chair pulled into the corner, staring at the door far across the room. She was breathing heavily, both from the sprint she executed to get there and a streak of utter terror that claimed her in that moment.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5 HP: 33 / 33 Armor Class: 16 Conditions: N/A Location: Rose River Vineyard (Fields Near Estate House -> The Hill to the East) Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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"No, no, no... Gods damn it." Victoria was tired. Her hands hurt from labor to which it was unaccustomed; with red marks and upon places where she did not bear callouses from her extensive musical pursuits. She was not a worker in the traditional sense, despite her willingness to get her hands dirty if necessary. And so long as her mind was on the concept of "dirty", Victoria felt like she was quite the mess. The application of a few castings of Prestidigitation would take care of this unseemly difficulty, but after having cast that exact spell dozens, maybe hundreds of times over the entirety of the night, and doing so now felt like something close to a chore. At the same time, drawing a proper bath was actually a literal chore, so she might just have to flip a coin to decide. But this new and sudden exclamation of denial and mild blasphemy came not from her present state of marginal dishevelment, but the fact that something mysterious and foreboding was spotted stop the nearby hill, and she was dead certain they were going to insist upon checking it out before any personal grooming, rest, or even a cup of decent tea was had. Victoria did like to pamper herself when the option to do so was present, and she was annoyed that the opportunity fit neatly into the category of "so close, and yet so far."

Of course she was going to join the rest of her party on the hill. But for the purposes of maintaining some separation purely for the principle of the thing, she agreed with Kathryn before walking over to check on Lizbeth. The girl was still staring in the direction of the figures atop the hill. She looked concerned, but oddly showed none of the fatigue that everyone else was afflicted by. Including Victoria. The Bard followed her gaze to the hill, where others of her group were going already. With a nod of her head, Victoria silently regretted the fact that she was not equipped for a serious fight, and even if she were, there was not a lot of enthusiasm. Well, she had her dagger and she had her music, which meant that she was not defenseless at any rate.

Victoria called her Morty over to her. It was a mental command given to a mindless but utterly loyal animated beast, one that would unfailingly walk point and block for her, which is exactly what she wanted in her exhausted condition. Likewise, for the purposes of extending her senses in necessary, Victoria recalled her raven Familiar to her and set it to circle overhead. There was a brief glimpse through its eyes as it soared through the even colder air above. Victoria wondered how the helpful spiritform took to the cold - it hadn't showed a sign of complaint in the slightest - but she couldn't be sure without a greater level of understanding. The quick look gave her a better view of the figures on the hill above, and this made her wish to hasten her walk to the rest of them. "Get someplace safe," she absently said to Lizbeth, and moved as best she could to join the others.

Upon finally reaching the scene atop the hill, Victoria was taken aback by the opulence of the clothing layered over the obviously dead and/or undead people present. Yes, and the presence of dead and/or undead people was noted, and might have been jarring to anyone else. Lucky for her, dead people were kind of her thing. She reserved her thoughts on the whole matter until more in the way of investigation could be made (and in truth was quite intrigued by Baronfjord's findings with his tracking), contributing only the following thoughts:

"That scroll? I can attempt to translate, but my books are back in the Coach House. I cannot here." More work before rest. It is to be expected. This was her role now, as it stood with the needs of this adventuring group, more than they needed a musician. As strange as it sounded to her, Victoria was their Arcanist. This revelation didn't quite suppress her more colorful flights of proclivity, as the next thought she voiced attested, "Those silks and wools are gorgeous, aren't they? In fact, that one's shawl," she motioned toward one of the attendees while still maintaining a respectable level of caution to the situation they found themselves in, "would look amazing on you, Kosara." She had her eye one or two things herself, though not to the point of distracting from what might become an ugly moment very quickly.