Sigil

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

And here we are. Figure out among yourselves who gets there first and the actions that you take when you get there. But remember, and this is important: Clear your actions with me before committing. And just for this update, I leave it at that. You know the drill on contacting me with questions, concerns, dice rolls, and such. Let the games continue.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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Weather: Wind whips past one's ears with a seeming sense of urgency against the coming day. Snow remains as it lays, except for the spaces between the rows where the repeated foot traffic of the night has tamped it down. The sky is mostly clear, allowing the new day to assert itself fully in the sun's ascent. It is still bitterly cold for this time of year.

Time: First light. The sun has not fully crested the horizon yet, though it will soon.

Ambience: The sun crests the hill to the east, providing the soft, colorful skies of a growing dawn. There is a moment where the growing sunlight operated on par with the dim light radiating from the braziers before overtaking them, making them useful only as sources of moderate warmth to prevent the vines from forced dormancy. Snow is packed to something closer to ice underfoot with the varying temperatures and repeated steps present from the night's labor, while the more open spaces witness the sounds of puffier drifts squeaking beneath careful footfalls. One can even find one's self completely missing the newer visitors appearing, silhouetted by the rising sun.

*****

Cecily had long since retreated back to the Estate House. Her ability to perform heavier labor in extreme conditions was no longer reliable and her skills were better placed in planning as opposed to execution anyway. Lizbeth, on the other hand, seemed to take to work in the cold and darkness better than anyone - that is to say, there were no complaints about the weather after about an hour, she refused to break, and when the morning light shone across her face, she showed no signs of fatigue. She was pale. Expressionless even, with dark, sunken eyes, but slack neutrality was not tiredness, oddly, from the Human girl.

Urmdrus had already left the scene, departing with his now nearly empty pot of what he referred to as mushroom tea, now a cold, transparent, brown-tan liquid which looked like it was starting to freeze anyway. Though it was anyone's guess, it was likely that he skedaddled while everyone else was putting gear away. To the older Dwarf's proclivities, he arrived late and departed early, sticking around for the bulk of the work and returning to his own devices on his own schedule.

The other laborers, both the hired ones and the volunteers from the villages, had also taken their leave. Volunteers went first, led by the younger Mademoiselle Floquet back down the northern road to their places of origin. Despite the odd circumstances of their meeting, she did spare a wave and smile back in Victoria's direction; to a lesser extent to the rest of the party despite a lack of formal introduction. The regular staff, thoroughly exhausted from the night's full shift on top of their regular duties, slowly put equipment away and shuffled off to their places of rest and recuperation. Not a one of them noticed the event unfolding atop the hill to the east; even if they did they were not likely to have appreciable answers.

The only one of that bunch that seemed to notice on her own was Lizbeth L'Rose. The color had returned to her face, and with it an expression - a decidedly blank one. Her eyes were rooted to the spot where the sun showed darkened silhouettes of five individuals. She said nothing.

The main stablehand, a fellow by the name of Jon who was also out with the laborers tending to the vines (and Baronfjord's training mentor, conveniently enough) was kind enough to take the old army mule off of the Dragonborn's hands. Perhaps he did this out of kindness or a desire to be useful to the adventurers who were investigating the strange occurrences of the hour. Or perhaps he followed Lizbeth's line of sight up the hill and did not feel comfortable with what he saw.

Those approaching the odd collection of figures atop the rise were in for a deceptively long walk. The hill in question was a barren one, and it was not in the immediate vicinity of the planting areas. Rolling moors were interesting in the illusion of distance, with most relying on physical markers to determine this with passing accuracy. Ultimately, the question would come down to how easily one knew they could climb elevating land, and judge that against how wobbly one felt as they traversed the distance. With everyone feeling the effects of hours of frigid labor, this felt quite ponderous.

Especially for Kathryn. _{(Sorry, I had to.)}

Drawing closer, the figures appeared like something out of a macabre nightmare. Five figures that, for all intent and purpose manifested seemingly from the night itself while others labored far and below, were frozen corpses in various states of decay. All pieces were present from casual inspection, though flesh was gaunt and skin pulled tight over old bones, all covered in otherwise immaculately preserved clothing in styles of the Southern Desert peoples, some akin to the long, flowing garments of the desert traveling folk and others more like the militaristic and formal garb of the Alhazred. Four frozen figures flanking a fifth; the four of them represented by two Human males and Human women dressed in absolute silken finery respective of their cultures. Money was spent on this, once upon a time.

The taller, looming figure in the center stared straight ahead with eyes desiccated and recessed into its sockets in a grotesque manner and its mouth pulled into a rictus grin stretching unnaturally across his dead, frozen face, equally a product of dry decomposition and intentional positioning. This one towered over the others by at least a foot's worth of slender height, but simple observation cued him as Human. He was dressed in the manner of a courtly or diplomatic figure of the lands past the mountains in the south, far into the deserts therein.

Not a one of them moving. Nary a single one of them so much as twitching against the bitter winds, except for their clothes which moved readily with the chill gusts of the morning. That, and a single piece of paper rolled into a tight tube and secured with long, broad, black ribbon. This was held securely by the outstretched hand of the tall, deceased diplomat, as if to offer the paper over.

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: Rose River Vineyard (Fields Near Estate House) Action: Casting a Spell (Prestidigitation) Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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It seemed endless. Logically, there had to be an end, like the so-called "bottomless pits" that Victoria had sang stories about. Magic notwithstanding, every hole stopped someplace. And if this task out in frigid fields of frozen grapes in the middle of the night kept up for too much longer, she was going to be convinced that magic was involved here. That, or her personal failings came back to haunt her and her soul was claimed by one or another devil, meaning that this was her Hell and it wasn't going to end, period. What cunning devils they must be, to lock her into a situation where she would willingly work herself past exhaustion for the sake of other people. Truly devious.

On the one hand, Victoria didn't think that Hell would provide her with warming, Dwarven style mushroom tea. On the other hand, their Dragonborn was singing. So she wasn't convinced one way or the other yet. All she could do was keep up the numbing, repetitive tasks before her. Gather the braziers, set them, light them ablaze. Victoria used Prestidigitation a lot for this, as it was faster and more reliable than a flint and striker; likewise required no coaxing to get a blaze going. Also, a lot less encumbering than a lit torch. With her Morty delivering the necessary equipment to her on the regular, she was confidently, if not comfortably, making excellent progress.

The others seemed to be doing well, more or less, in their own ways. This was good. It they weren't in some devil-wrought afterlife, that meant that they would get done sooner than expected with their less than full staff of workers. At least they were making a difference, which meant that their efforts were not meaningless. Victoria's decision not to return to the Coach House for late night tea and a night of sleep, like she would have preferred to do, was objectively the correct one. They were able to affect the situation in a tangible way. If it wasn't this way, she reasoned, then there wouldn't have really been a point to it all. But even this realization was made quite moot when reinforcements arrived.

Victoria's Raven flapped into view just inside of the limits of the braziers' dim light, coming to perch near to one of the fires. Apparently, spirits-made-flesh could get cold and had preferences of comfort. Not that Victoria blamed the gallant black bird as she would rather be elsewhere, herself. She was also cold. She was also tired. But she was smart enough to realize that her Familiar's presence meant that the message was delivered. Curiously, there was a message attached to its leg addressed to her, stating,

"I never said you were my favorite. The raven will return when we are on our way. I have work I cannot leave. Sending Annabelle to find others."

Sure enough, they did arrive.

It seemed another eternity later that the job was done, or done enough for the evening. There would obviously have to be upkeep, but it was probable that the existing staff would be able to handle that now that the brunt of the work was done. But that last part really mattered to the Bard - the work was done. Victoria was beyond tired, cold to the bone, and thoroughly done with everything involving these fields or even remaining awake. Morale, such as it was with her, was not exactly brimming. After politely bidding the extra workers a good morning (as it was just about to be morning) and offering her sincere thanks, she waited until they were well underway to share, "I am glad that we were able to accomplish this - proud of us all, even. We did good work for great people, and I thank the L'Roses for the opportunity to do just that. But if it pleases my hosts and associates? I would prefer to eat something hot and sleep for the next three or so days. Unless there is something more pressing that demands my attention - Messieurs, Mademoiselles, I will take my leave of you. Come along, Morty." The last part was not necessary, but served to provide a sense of finality. And in truth, she really did hope there wasn't anything remaining to handle. It had been a long day, a long night, and she was clearly, plainly tired. Victoria gave a glance in the direction of the barely rising sun, musing, "Hmm. It is already tomorrow."

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

Allow me again to apologize for the lateness of my update. The good news is that the update in question has in fact been updated, so there's that. Now, there are a couple of things, and the first one is Exhaustion. Everybody has one level. Everyone worked through the night, and after what was assumed to he a more or less full day of pursuing whatever training, exploration, etc. you're getting yourselves into. One level is mandatory. Now brace for it - I want you to roll a CON save anyway. Make it a DC of 13. This is to see if you get an additional level of Exhaustion. The conditions all of your characters have been working under were brutal. Considering DMG Rules As Written, I believe this to be a lenient, middle ground ruling.

Get with me in our Discord for all of the usual reasons. And thanks again for your patience.

For a refresher, rules on Exhaustion are below:

Level Effect
1 Disadvantage on ability checks
2 Speed halved
3 Disadvantage on Attack rolls and Saving throws
4 Hit point maximum halved
5 Speed reduced to 0
6 Death

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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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.

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 -> Coach House -> Back To Fields) Action: Casting a Spell (Prestidigitation) Bonus Action: Familiar stuff, Morty Reaction: N/A

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Now, Victoria did say, and quite out loud, that she was open to take direction. The unspoken other half of that sentence contained the qualifier that she was speaking near exclusively to, and/or about, Cecily L'Rose. Or at least Lizbeth. She was less enthusiastic when a series of ...suggestions... came from Baronfjord. And were it not for the immediateness of the emergency, she might have even shown it. So, while she did not give a rousing and energetic affirmation of what could only tentatively be called "the plan", she did move to implement it. Mostly.

The run back to the Coach House saw her mind process what had happen, and what she intended to do. The day was not great for her. Emotional, for a lady who was good at controlling what feelings she exhibited. Then again, she was already very tired. Tired from the day, tired from the impromptu performance to clear her head, and damn near exhausted on behalf of helping to deal with the sudden outbreak of something virulent or another. She would much rather be in bed. Or nursing tea. Or even copying anatomy and medicine books rather than this. But she could not just leave the L'Rose family's harvest to the ravages of an early freeze. But how to help in a manner that was more efficient than a manual laborer (which was not her strong point by any appreciable means) wasn't immediately forthcoming. Her spellcraft was simply unsuited to things of this nature with expectations of direct influence.

But then the thought occurred that there might be something less direct she could attempt. A quick action summoned her Familiar to her, coming into existence in a flutter of black wings. They both swiftly entered the main room of the Coach House, whereupon Victoria got to work. Morty was at the same place where she left him, and her errand cart was likewise present, though still loaded down with her personal belongings and no small amount of local wine from Harvestide. There might have been less, but why drink less fine vintages when you're living in the place that makes the good stuff? Everything got piled out of her cart; chest, bottles, books, backpack, and incidentals she had for her various nefarious and non-nefarious activities and hitched Morty up to it. She scribbled a quick but legible message on a piece of note-paper and fixed it to her Raven's leg with one of her hair ribbons. It read:

"Medician Floquet,

It is your favorite practitioner of the "dark arts." I apologize for the late arrival of my Raven, doubly so for the request I make of you this evening. The cold has grown with intensity that threatens Madame L'Rose's late harvest and the illness we have been treating has waylaid many of her workers. Without more help, she might lose the crop, which isn't good for anyone expecting wages from the L'Roses this winter. People respect you and your daughter. I know it is late, but if you can convince anyone to help, I am sure that Cecily will express her gratitude. Please, if you can. More is better than less; less is better than none. One or two is still appreciated. Thank you so much for anything you can do.

- V."

Victoria sent her Familiar off with specific instructions. The spirit was to fly to Southmoor; unusual for a raven as they were not known for being nocturnal but possessed eyesight enough to discern how to get to a familiar spot. All the same, a raven calling in the night was rare enough to draw attention, which is what she wanted. It took to the air, setting a path towards town.

Morty was set, the Raven was on its way, and now Baronfjord wanted their mule and wagon. What started out as no problem whatsoever quickly became an issue as she had completely forgotten to empty and downstack the contents of the wagon from earlier - a mistake already made from earlier and one of the duties she had set to herself when they arrived - and so had to waste time doing just this. In the dark. With the mule already attached. This was amazingly suboptimal. To make matters a little comical, the coffin which was reserved for Monsieur L'Rose that the Goblins had appropriated for themselves (after consuming quite a bit of its contents in a drunken stupor) and that Cecily expressly did not want back clattered out of the back awkwardly, as if Victoria was trying to inexpertly move a body in the dark. Sighing, she hauled the thing to the nearest interior wall and leaned it well enough to brace. Then she ran back to the wagon and set off for the fields, Morty in tow.

The now quite tired but heavily determined Bard made her way back toward the twinkling of firelight in front of the silhouette of the Estate House and hopped down, handing the reins off to her Dragonborn companion, Baronfjord, and focused her attention to Morty, and the utility with which the poor, dead beast might provide. Victoria and Morty went to the nearest supply wagon that had arrived and allowed the workers there to put as many stacked braziers as possible into her cart, then claimed a row for herself.

The work itself, in this role, wasn't bad. Or it wouldn't be if she wasn't already dead tired and freezing. Lucky for her, Victoria had a means of speeding things along. As each evenly spaced brazier was set and filled with fuel, she went back behind them and called upon her quieter magics - the classic Prestidigitation - to light them up in short seconds. Every so often, she cast the same spell upon the hidden armor underneath her slim coat or her boots. Sometimes keeping warm pockets helped with her hands. She was a musician. Tough, skilled hands, just not suited to manual labor. Some care had to be taken.

It was at this moment that she realize that her violin was still strapped to her back within its case. Why she hadn't dropped it off made no sense to her whatsoever. Well, too late now. There were controlled fires to place.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

And we have finally made it! I have noted the successes and delays of the characters by means of their dice rolls and declared actions in the IC and/or in Discord. If you're concerned that I didn't catch something in the update, let me know so I can confirm, deny, or wag an unapproving finger at the screen and not tell anyone about it. In any case, now comes the part where the more physical aspect of this event/challenge takes place. Meaning, the characters are all subject to the effects of the environment and work they're doing, and the only way to come out unscathed is to announce that your character is pulling out or quitting. I will be making die rolls in the background for each of us. Those with a low Con score beware.

Now, there are things one can do to help out with this. But I'm leaving that up to your imaginations. It's the middle of the night and well below freezing. You're participating in manual labor. There isn't exactly a burgeoning amount of steady, overhead light to make things easier, and the available firelight is going to mess with darkvision. Good luck.

Oh, and as always, get with me in the Discord about plans of action, die rolls, rulings, etc.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Rose River Vineyard

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Coach House

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Weather: The snow has, for the time being, ceased, leaving an otherwise quietish landscape. The winds are barely present, meaning that whatever conditions of temperature are, for the present, static. Lucky for you, these conditions are cold, as if the air itself was still, intangible ice, ready to crack and splinter as the barest tap.

Time: Nighttime. And as we all know, the nighttime is the right time.

Ambience: The stillness of the evening is severely marred by the action cascading upon the grounds of the Rose River Vineyard. Bodies, too few of them, move from place to place as their livelihood for the season depended on it. Thick snow remains, even around the braziers and buckets between the rows of grape vines, though it is retreating slightly. Speaking of which, many small, controlled fires have already been lain equidistant in hopes of maintaining a merely frigid environment, as opposed to a catastrophic one.

*****

It is understandable for the adventurers to not quite comprehend the nature of what needed to be done. Even among agricultural folk, this sort of practice goes against most established norms, but grapes were a unique growing experience that had, like many things, their own set of rules. This particular rule invoked the vintner's need to maintain a balance of conditions and the ability to adapt quickly, which unfortunately was made difficult by the diminished staff, let alone experienced hands. With this in mind, the feel of the evening is "no ideas are bad ideas", even if we know that this philosophy isn't wholly accurate.

And so, we have our scene.

Cecily and Lizbeth both remained in the fields, the former doing her best to direct the activities of the laborers in the dead of night, while the latter joined the labor pool dispensing what portable sources of heat they could. Flint and strikers, tinderboxes, and the like were busied toward the purposes of ignition just as fast as they got the braziers down. The going was demonstrably slow. A lack of light and fumbling commonly associated with the cold made absolutely certain of this. Despite the best people for the job applying the skills of their trade, things were not progressing optimally.

The query posed by Baronfjord concerning the lack of workers was taken seriously by Cecily, who had been giving this no small amount of consideration, herself. "I truly do not know. A lot our usual workers are sick. There might be others on their way, but we won't know until they get here. I don't suppose we might beg, borrow, or steal people in the dead of night from the villages around Southmoor - but there isn't enough time to raise a labor pool from the Township and get back here in time. Not in time for it to matter, anyway." She looked to the edge of the field, hoping to see the first of the carts returning with braziers, only to give an impatient sigh when nothing was forthcoming in the darkness outside of the reach of the meager firelight. "We've worked too hard to lose this crop now."

Delays above and beyond that which was already delayed made matters more hectic. The disappearance of Kathryn for the sake of speeding up the process of getting their equipment to them was noted, as was the sudden absence of Victoria, also hopefully to lend aid to the ordeal in front of them. It was an unpleasant mixture of hope and worry - one assumes that the adventurers had left to gather resources, but the default Madame of the Estate and the younger Heiress Apparent might have felt better with all hands available on site. Still, all they could do was wait and work with what they had, little though it was.

Ever attempting to manage the emergency, Cecily took Kosara's words into her planning as best she could, considering that her knowledge of spellcraft seemed to stop and start with how to spell the word "magic". She gave a quick look in the Tiefling's direction and proclaimed, "Yes, well... Okay. Forgive me; I don't know what that means. I can see that you're very well lit, which I am sure will be of help to anyone around you tonight. I hope it helps your unseen servants, too. If it means more hands, then please have them offload the braziers in the same pattern as the others, if they ever get here." The last bit came with a scrap more of impatience.

As the hour progressed, the first of the wagons Kathryn was loading up began to arrive. There was a delay, true, brought about by the difficult terrain of snow as well as the tall lady getting a touch lost in the process, but just as soon as the vineyard's carts reached the proper storage shed (and the workers got over the fearful novelty of an actual giant loading them up) they were on their way back to the unfolding emergency in mostly quick order.

Shortly after this, Victoria arrived in the driver's set of their covered, mule-drawn army wagon. Next to her, jerkily navigating the uneven, frozen ground was her burlap-wrapped companion, pulling the Bard's now emptied errand cart. The cart itself would not haul any great loads, but it might help between the rows as suggested by their Monk associate earlier. The timing of her arrival coincided very near to the arrival of the vineyard's hauling vehicles, implying that the lady had her own delays. Hopefully, the presence of the tireless, not-quite-dead Morty and their more maneuverable, much smaller cart would help make up some of this time.

Lizbeth, for anyone giving her notice, had grown quiet, apparently immersing herself in the work of setting up what equipment they had alongside their present workers and getting fires going. Many carried their own sources of fire, in the form of torches, tinderboxes, or the like; each getting this initial field lit up as best they could. Lizbeth seemed to take to it with remarkable speed, spending no more than a couple seconds at each brazier/bucket before a decent blaze was going. Cecily pulled her own weight as well. Yes, she was the lady who handed out salaries and signed papers now, but her familiarity with the task at hand marked her as a woman unafraid of getting her hands dirty. Temperance and stubbornness had replaced a shaving of the vigor she might have had a decade prior; to her credit, she maintained herself respectably. When the carts carrying more braziers arrived, she exhaled her relief and called to anyone in her vicinity, "Gods above, they've arrived! Let's get started in earnest! There is so much left to do!"

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) Action: N/A Bonus Action: Familiar stuff Reaction: N/A

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The approach to the field was not particularly long for Victoria, but it was illuminating, both literally and metaphorically. true, she had run off practically mid-sentence, but felt a bit better about it when she heard the heavier footfalls of Kathryn behind her. She was without her usual cadre of thralls, even if most of them were recent of origin. It might not have been fair to categorize her Raven as a thrall, persay, as the spirit-made-flesh was bound to her by ritual as opposed to manifested with Necromancy. And her Phantom Steed wasn't exactly a thrall, either, so much as a ritually invoked force of semi-real shadowstuff, formed partially from her own imagination. Victoria was a Bard. She was good at imagination. Morty, on the other hand, was most assuredly her thrall. The forces which animated the formerly living (and now potentially very tasty) swine were an arcane extension of herself, utterly loyal but ultimately temporary of animation.

But this line of thought was alien to the scene at hand. Knowing virtually nothing about agriculture, nor the growing of wine grapes particularly, all she knew was that an alarm was ringing and fires where burning where they generally, instinctively, really shouldn't be. Moreover, through the illumination of the fires and moon above, cloud cover notwithstanding, she cold detect the arrival of the rest of the group, plus Lizbeth. Logically, if she was not maniacally trying to put the fires out, then it wasn't quite the emergency she assumed it might be. And she would have the answers, being winefolk, even if she was a bit young. So her footfalls altered in direction just enough to bring her into her presence. As Victoria ran, she summoned up the mental fortitude to call upon her newest spiritual assistant. Her raven appeared beside her in a silent spark of necrotic energy, already to wing and flying higher as seconds passed. An spoken command was sent to the creature to keep an eye out in their periphery, hopefully to let her know if anything or anyone unexpected might come upon them in the gloom outside of the firelight.

When she arrived, Victoria listened to the explanation and filled in as best she could from context. They wanted the fires. And Cecily wanted them to do the things that adventurers stereotypically might for the betterment of their crop. It wasn't the worst thing that she had been asked to handle. However, she has no idea how her magic, somewhat specialized as it was, would be of help here past the odd parlor trick. If nothing else, magic aside, she was an excellent lifter of morale. The power of her voice in the most mundane but talented of application could work wonders with one's resolve. Never underestimate the ability of a Bard to motivate. Beneath the fancy hat and death-oriented spellwork, Victoria was a Bard at her very core.

However, Victoria was also tired. A full day and more of work, from sunup to nearly sundown, her emotional outburst, light hike to the watchtower and centering performance there had left very little time to rest, and from what she was hearing this was going to be an all-night affair. She would really rather be someplace warm right now with a cup of something warming and lightly spiced. Victoria was not known for her prowess with manual labor, nor as her ability to pass as a workhorse. Nevertheless, she did not immediately leave the L'Roses and staff to their own devices. With a sigh, and subtle corrections to her expression to suppress any lingering exhaustion or emotion from her features, she adjusted her voice to be heard over the movement of the workers in their vicinity and stated, "I know not what special service I may provide, but I am open to direction until I can think of one."

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@rivaan@Shoe Thief@Sigil@Arty Fox

Oh, we're all optimized for combat and/or social gatherings, full of good stories and quirky personalities galore, aren't we? But what if the challenge has absolutely nothing to do with any of that? And so, here we are. Granted, an uninvolved person can just as easily go back to bed and not help a widowed lady and an orphaned girl save their last harvest of the year from the punishing and unexpected cold of the season, but what would that make you? Let us add to this the fact that they recently lost their family patriarch and lived through a traumatizing experience involving megalomaniacal wererats, AND you're a guest of their estate. But no, you go ahead and get some Zs. It'll probably be okay.

Take to this challenge in any way that you wish to. Possible avenues include (but are by zero means limited to):

The proper equipment for this is still being offloaded for delivery in a storage shed elsewhere on the property. It's taking a while so the workers present are improvising. One might assist in the improvisation somehow, or conversely attempt to locate and assist the people going after the equipment. One might attempt to go to Southmoor to rally people to help; conversely there are other, smaller villages scattered throughout the area who might not have been touched as much by the illness running amok. Or, as Cecily suggested, the player characters have abilities beyond your average Larry the Laborer. Perhaps some of these can be made to suit the task somehow. Also, as she suggested, just being there to do physical work will be of good, respectable help. Whatever task you undertake, in fact, much of this will be needed per character before this is over. Even mundane support like fetching hot soup or the like would be useful.

There are bound to be complications. In fact, I've already made a list of stuff that can go down, and will improvise. Skill checks are open for grabs if applicable to the task undertaken. Get with me and we can work something out, regardless. Per usual, hit me up on Discord. I'm curious to see what you all will decide to do.