The door swings again, and in walks a man with the dust of a long journey on his clothes. He eyes the tart with a slight smile, scratches the loyal dog behind it's twitching ear and gives the visitors a nod. Stepping up next to the wanderer at the bar, he orders a pint of ale.

The loyal dog gives the man's pant leg a short investigative sniff, and sits beside the man obediently, while eying the gravedigger with a distrustful gaze. The dog shifts uncomfortably, and decides to remain sitting in caution and astute awareness.

"Quit eyeballing me, boy!" yelled the gravedigger.

The Visitors gasp at the Gravediggers nerve. Does he not know who Sir Joe the Regular is? They edge away from the pair who are now standing face to face, glaring. The wanderer watches with an amused smile. He has seen these two bantering before, the ritual is always the same. The only thing that varies is how much furniture will be broken before they work through whatever is troubling them this time.

The tart quickly but quietly looks over the room and begins to walk around putting chairs against the wall and moving any breakable object on the tables that is not nailed down in anticipation of the upcoming 'conversation' about to take place.

Far away, the Sorceress senses a faint disruption. Stilling, she mentally follows the trail to a small inn and a confrontation occurring between two strangers. Gauging by the lack of intensity being emitted, she decides there is nothing that needs her assistance...err...interference. Gently, she withdraws her mental sensor from the scene.

The Escapist darts away into the shadows. (that's me)

The Hairy Beast gazes into the room from the shadows of the nearby forest. Musing the activity but not really understanding the unfolding scene. It holds his interest. The night is upon him and the fog creeps through the forest while the quarter moon casts minimal light.

The pale, yellow glow of a single candle in the window of the church faintly shows the silhouette of an aging priest. He gently rocks to and fro as he chants his evening prayer. Somehow he knows that the outcome of the coming day is questionable, but he feels a hint of trouble in the air like a warm summer breeze, present but nearly unnoticed. With the coming of dawn he prays for God's mercy on all the towns people. He snuffs the candle and retires to his rickety bed.

OH! I am the Priest. (duh)

The tart, feeling fairly confident that she has secured all she can in the room, slips behind the bar trying not to be obvious as she reaches under her skirt to feel the cold steel of a 9inch blade secured to her thigh with a lacy garter. Her mum had given it to her as a teen and told her to keep it close in times of emergency. She feels the tight knot of nerves in her stomach as she feels something violent in the air.

*ahem* a slightly dusty cough, edged with a strange scraping sound intrudes on the tart's hearing. As she whips round, her hand going automatically back to the blade, her jaw drops. Empty sockets beaming with earnest curiosity, stare up at her from a disembodied skull, floating in the air at a little below shoulder height.

"Whatcha doooin?" asks the skull, in a little sing-song voice, made only slightly less harmonic by the gravelled scrape and clatter of bone.

One of the Visitors covers his eyes with his hands and nervously reaches for the hand of the other Visitor ...

The Escapist is still watching from the shadows, taking it all in (and chortling under her breath at the skull and the tart), ready to flee at any sign of impending danger. She does, however, notice that the Tart has a blade, and wonders what she's going to do with it.

the cow moo's quitely in the meadow...

Teh Escapist, who moonlights as a spelling nazi, points out the cow's error.

While also employing a meme.

Then she runs away again, back to the pub, and nicks a brewskie from the cooler.

the cow is bored.

The gravedigger thinks to himself: Is them two fellers a-holdin' hands?:eyebrow:

The man turns back to the odd crowd, and leans his back up against the bar. Turning his head to survey the group, taking a long drink of ale. He begins to speak, "I did not come here tonight to move furniture my friends. Come Gravedigger, quiet your mood, let me buy you a pint. Sit with us and tell us what is truly on your mind. What is it that drives your crazy eyed ranting?"

The loyal dog walks away from the visitor after it is assured of no real conflict by the gravedigger. The roaring fire and scraps of food that fall to the ground are now back at the top of the priorities....The loyal dog lays in full flush, with a small sigh, in a heap by the fire-eying the gruel being served to the visitors, hoping a spot of lamb will hit the floor.

Still anxiously watching the conversation not unfold in the bar, and holding hands, one of the Visitors drops his entire bowl of gruel on the floor! The bowl smashes and gobbets of lamb are spattered not-so-liberally around the Visitors'* feet.




* Extra brownie points for ultra correct apostrophe usage, please!

The gravedigger turns his back to the group. He picks up his Wild Turkey and water with both hands. And, as an uncontrolled shiver wracks his entire frame, he mumbles something almost incoherently, something about a capybara...

The tart searches frantically for a clean towel and rushes to the spill surrounding the Visitor's feet. She was almost glad for the interruption of the conversation that she was dreading to witness. Feeling some of the tension of her stomach relax she began to clean up the mess scattered on the floor trying to get it up faster than the dog could lap it up.

Simultaneously, as with one mind, The Visitors kick the tart in the bum ...

....shoving the tart into the hound who moves slightly but regains quickly as it has found a large piece of lamb attached to a bone. The loyal dog marches triumphantly away with the dripping bone in its mouth, back to the fire. It watches the gravedigger with his back turned, suspiciously, while lapping up the juices on the lamb chop, delicately.

And in the cool of the moonlit evening, the Queen srtrolls pensively through her pristine garden.....
But wait! She notices something awry!
"What is this? Has one of my prized roses been plucked from my very own garden, unbeknownst to me? Who would dare do such a thing? And why? I will dispatch a messenger to the inn to listen for tales of a rose thief....."

The Tart tumbles to the floor and out of instinct reaches for the blade attached to her firm thigh but quickly regains composure as she rethinks her actions. Instead, she seductively rolled up into the sitting position and winked to the Visitors who had so rudely kicked her in the bum, and sweetly remarked, "takes a better man than you to keep this ole tart down for long." With a smirk, one of the Visitors wink back and then turns his attention back to the gravedigger.

Meanwhile, unable to sleep, The Priest tires of the tossing and restless turning and gets out of bed. As he walks by the window he glimpses movement out in the wooded area across the lane. Peering deeply he spots the outline of someone in the woods. "not someone..." he mutters to himself. "That is the Hairy Beast"! He scrambles for his clothes and decides to hurry to the inn to warn the others, hoping not to find trouble there as well.

The Queen rings for a servant, and a flusterd lackey appears promptly.

"Send for my guards!" she orders. "I have a task for them".

And the Queen commanded the servant, "Tonight whilst on my moonlit stroll, I sensed something awry in my beloved garden. And lo and behold, a single rose pluck'd from 'neath my very nose. Dispatch my wiliest guards to the village, to discover the rogue who darest cross me! Command them bring him to me post haste!"

The guards, having been to the village inn many times, buckle daggers in discrete places inside their clothing, take some stout staves, and set out across the countryside, where the waxing moon peeps through the swirling mist.

Faintly through the night air they hear a long, mournful howl, too wild to be human, but too haunting to be an animal. Both guards tense as the sound chills their bowels and raises their hackles.

"Fear not" says Brutus, the elder of the guards. "'tis but the hairy beast in the valley of the Priest".

"Aye" replies Wolffe "with the moon not yet full, it shall not roam far from its den."

For all their brave words, they walk a little faster, until the inn appears before them.

You know what? I totally forgot about this thread. So sorry...:blush: Let me read all the previous posts before submitting something. :p