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.