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 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.

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."