And lo did Your Humble Narrator arrive with his squire, Mark C. unto the hostelry known as the House Of So-Called Friend Jay K. and his Wyffe, the lovely Mo (who is most surely a Witch).
And these fiends did ply Our Weary Travelers with much drinke, most especially the liqueuere called Morangie for Your Humble Narrator, and for his squire a hogshead of ale brewed locally.
There was Feasting and Merriment unto an hour so late that the cocks had long since crowed and gone back in for their Cockly Breakfast, of what I know not.
And there was no Bloggynge script inscribed, for which Your Humble Narrator begs fulsome pardonne.
With heads verily sore, and throats as the desert, did Our Weary Travelers resume their journey south, more or lesse, towards the city close to the mountains, in which it is said there lurk many dragons who would steal most foully Your Humble Narrator’s trusty Sword.