OPEN | this winter brings all the cold to the yard

[northcliffpass]

𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕝

surprise!

I. Snow!

A mere week after the grisly discovery in the Deep Forest and the subsequent dispersal of the eerie spectral visitors, all Northcliff Pass residents wake one exceptionally frigid morning to find themselves buried under several feet of snow. It is of the light and fluffy variety--at least for now--which provides no shortage of entertainment for the village children, and means one is less likely to throw one's back out while trying to shovel it clear of doorways and the streets.

That is your first order of business, as it happens: free yourselves from your wintry entrapment. Or don't, if you've got enough food and drink squirrelled away in your tiny peasant house that you don't need to venture out into the elements. The world is your cold, shitty, socially stratified oyster; ditch your responsibilities, sleep in.

II. Fete! at ye olde tavern

All Souls' Day came and went, and nobody can really be blamed for forgetting about it what with the ghosts and the gloomy business of seeing to the bodies. All that aside the Hammer and Spoke seems especially welcoming that first wintry night, once all the snow shovelling is finished and the streets are clear enough for foot traffic again; lit lanterns glow warmly outside the door, and from within come the sounds of joyful music. Fiddles, whistles, a drum, and plenty of laughter; it seems the snow has stranded a troupe of minstrels in the village, which means at least two or three nights of great fun for village residents.

In truth it will take more than a few nights of drunk mischief to lift the pall cast across the village after the previous month's discoveries, but maybe that's why so many people gravitate to the light and levity and warmth of a party. After such a close call with so much death, it's good to remind oneself that there's joy in the world, too.

III. Cramped Quarters

The nights might be filled with good company, food, and drink, but during the day the village has to contend with another frustration: the roads in and out of Northcliff Pass are closed until the snow melts.

This is a common experience--in late December, January, and February. Not so much in November, when farmers are preparing to take their surplus harvest and livestock down the mountain to Cliffside, or when caravans with schedules to keep to are preparing to head east towards Woodsedge. (The only road clear in that direction is guaranteed to take them past Turn--something no one wants to risk.) Even a few late-season pilgrims have found themselves stuck between Gods' Reach at the summit of the mountain, and the creature comforts of Cliffside below.

There's nothing to be done for it, of course, except to endure the unusually crowded streets, the lack of vacancies at the tavern, and the occasional herd of sheep or goats picketed in very odd places.

Comments

Beane | OTA

[beane]

I. Shoveling Snow Keeps One Warme

It began as a necessary action, shoveling the snow away from the front of the Inn so he could make his daily mini-pilgrimage to the church. But, of course, he first needed a shovel, and to borrow one, he had to exchange for it a favor. That favor was to shovel the owner's path, and then out of some noble good intention, Beane felt compelled to shovel the owner's neighbor's path. A frail old woman, by his estimation, and it seemed only right to put himself to good use.

The front of the Inn did eventually get de-snowed, but only after several other houses and storefronts got the same treatment. He did not make it to the church for his morning prayers. However, he did speak to the owner of a vacant storefront about renting the space, and the living quarters above it, since it looks like Beane will need to stay even longer than previously thought.

Surely the Gods and Saints will forgive him for not praying this day, as he spent the bulk of it doing good deeds? He can't count on that. So when he stops for a rest, he takes a seat where his rear won't get soaked through with snowmelt and hopes that he'll be forgiven for this aberration.

II. O! Cruel Fete!

The festivities, warmth, and laughter in the Hammer and Spoke is a much welcome distraction from...well, everything outside. Beane does not partake in drunk mischief or seem to drink alcohol at all, but he's content to sit out of the way and clap along with the music and generally have a good--if boring--time. He will try his best to steer clear of Elena, and at some point give Lance a friendly pat on the shoulder and congratulations or general well-wishes in the wake of the specter problem. Lance is the last man he spoke to about the spooky goings-on, it seems only right to follow-up with good cheer.

III. Moving In

After a few days or more of taking up space at the Inn, each sunrise bringing with it a fresh dose of guilt, Beane begins the process of moving into the living space above that storefront he inquired about. His belongings are few, so it's not a prolonged process. The biggest hurdle for him is finding a source of beeswax for his candles, as he does not have bees stashed away in his pack. That would be ridiculous!

Once he's freed up the room in the Inn for someone more in need to take, he spends most of his time getting the shop ready and asking around about supplies.

IV. Wyldecarde

[ Lay on, Macduff ]

III

[engravitas]

One such supplier is about as friendly as ever, which is to say, not at all.
A grunt greets Beane as he enters the carpentry shop, and Ben is sitting alone in the workspace, sanding the legs of a chair in progress. He doesn't even look up, but the sound seems to be a prompt for the customer to state his business.

[beane]

"Hello," he greets, first-off. With it comes a pleasant nod, and an awkward clearing of his throat. It's been a while since he's had to commission chandlering supplies. Or furniture. "I'm looking to fix up the vacant storefront in town, turn it into a chandlery. Would you be able to fabricate a few things for me, if I give you the specifications? I have some coin, and some items I can trade for the labor and materials."

[engravitas]

Another grunt follows, and Ben looks up, plucking a cigarette from his mouth as he blows out a breath of smoke.
"What things," he asks flatly, seemingly willing enough but not the strongest customer service representative.

[beane]

"Drying racks and perhaps a bench-mould," Is bench-mould the right word for it? Who knows! It's a thing for making uniform candles in any case and it looks like a bench with holes in it. "And some shelves would be handy."

[engravitas]

"All right," comes the disinterested reply, and Ben continues sanding. "Kit will come by to take measurements when he's back." They haven't discussed this, of course, but it's safe to say Ben is generally not the one who makes the house calls.

[beane]

"Any idea when that will be? Just...so I can know when to expect them?"

[engravitas]

"When he's back," Ben says, with growing irritation. He's not his partner's keeper! What a stupid question.

[beane]

"O-oh, um...very...very well then. I shall...await his arrival."

Each hesitation between words takes him haltingly back towards the door, and once the sentence is done, he nods politely, looks unsure, and leaves.

What a grump.

II

[infinitewatch]

Lance's shoulder has to be patted on Beane's way into the tavern, because as a rule he doesn't attend these things: whether that's because he's working or because of his crippling social anxiety remains to be determined, but it's probably safe to assume a combination of both.

He looks surprised at the contact as Beane passes, but then gives a little nod of acknowledgment, pleased at least to have solved one (1) bullshit mystery in this place.

[beane]

The appropriate number of minutes later, Beane steps out of the tavern, bearing two mugs of cider and two hand-pies. He offers one each to Lance.

"Since you're out here in the cold, I thought--" He says, the sentence ending in a vague shrug rather than a full-stop.

"Are the nights to be ghoul-free from now on, do you think?"

[infinitewatch]

"One hopes." Lance looks a little surprised by the gesture, but gives a faint nod of thanks and raises the mug. He's never going to turn down sources of warmth.

"There'll be something else," he murmurs after taking a sip, and heaves a long sigh. "There always is."

[beane]

"S-surely not always," Beane asks, clearly concerned that their reprieve from specters is only temporary. Perhaps if it's not him at fault, though, it's better than waiting for the axe to drop.

[infinitewatch]

Lance just looks at him with unspeakable weariness.

Always.

[beane]

Beane says some appropriate religious euphemism that bears the same feeling as "aw, fiddlesticks" and seeks comfort in the warm food and drink.

III.

[ferruginous]

If there's one thing Fíadh has in plenty of abundance it's fire, you know, being the smith and all. However it took until about three days ago for her to run out her small supply of candles. She had tried to get by rigging up a platter of glowing coals carried around her home by a pair of tongs, but after nearly burning the building down twice she finally admitted she might have to just, you know, get new candles.

Luckily for her word has been spreading of a chandler trapped by the sudden snowfall and willing to take up his trade here. So Fíadh finds herself walking into his sparse shop with a sharp knock on the doorframe.

"Hello?"

[beane]

Sparse is right. The shop has barely any furniture beyond the built-in architecture of shelves and a counter, and those shelves and that counter have very little on them. Some candles are in view, to ensure that nobody would confuse this for a tannery or a bakery or a butcher's. They'd poke their heads in, see the candles, and say Ah, a candlemaker lives here!

Or...you know, something like that. The point is, at the moment Fíadh knocks on the door jamb, Kendrick is in the process of hauling in a sizeable cauldron. He looks to the door with a welcoming smile.

"Ah, hello!" He greets, setting the cauldron down. "Forgive the disarray, I'm still tracking down the supplies I need do get things started. What can I do for you?"

[ferruginous]

Fíadh watches the man move around getting flashbacks of her own shop setup not that long ago.

"I need candles," she says simply before furrowing her brows. Quickly she seems to make some sort of internal decision as she walks over to the cauldron and picks it up with nary a grunt.

"Where do you want this?"

[beane]

Oh. Oh my.

"J-just over there, thank you," he indicates the area between the back door of the shop and the counter. "How many candles do you need? I have only a modest supply just now."

[ferruginous]

She gives a nod before trudging the cauldron over to the desired spot and setting it down gently. Wiping her hands on her trousers she keeps looking down at the large pot, thinking. It's not like she wants to deplete the whole stock when other townsfolk are likely going to be in the same situation she is. She sets her hands on her hips and looks back over to Kendrick.

"Four? How much of a dent would that put in your supplies?"

[beane]

"Not enough to worry about," he assures, and digs around in the chaos to find something to wrap the candles in. "If you'd said you were looking to light an entire cathedral, well. Then we'd have an issue."

Four candles are neatly wrapped and handed over with a nod. "That'll be...sixpence."

It's usually a shilling, of course, but she did help move that heavy heckin' cauldron.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's bought enough candles in her lifetime to know around where it should come out to, and sixpence doesn't exactly add up. She narrows her eyes at the candles then looks up to Kendrick.

"Are these damaged or something?"

[beane]

"What? No! No, goodness me, it's a discount for your labor," He gestures to the cauldron. The last thing he expects is anyone to help him set up shop, so her doing so automatically, even such a small action, is surprising and appreciated.

[ferruginous]

Her mouth curves down to a frown as she continues staring at the chandler.

"That's not why I did it. How much?"

[beane]

His mouth gapes and waggles like a gasping fish while he very quickly backs down from his attempt at generosity and kindness, but his words are limited for a moment to abuhbuhumuh until he recovers.

"T-twelve. Th-that is, er, a-a shilling."