Sigil

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.

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.