You approach the half-hewn steps of a decrepit doorway. The winds are whipping the confines from clothing to window-shutters, whistling around the weathered edges of a rough cobble-stone wall. The timber topped roofing looks rotted along the perimeter. Fluttering like little fingers, tiny strips of shredded bark diminish in the stubborn gusts. Ears ringing, eyes stinging as grit whips past like a microscopic bullets slinging, you wander the wasteland of an estranged space. Before long the grinding under scraped and scarred dust-scuffed boots - frayed at the laces - levels out at the cracked plateau of a flag-stone patio. An arm's-length away, the wrinkled ash-wood door is leering with a rusty rasping invitation. There's a mumbling racket behind the splintered frame; the bumble of muffled bustling behind the beaten-down doorway. You push through the entrance with your elbows forward and ready.

There is clatter and clamouring, flagons are hammering, rosy-cheeked ramblers are stammering, "jewelry jangles from breast to bangles while eye-trapped brew-tapped yappers are yammering," a gravelly muttering sidles close, parking perilously parallel to your personal space. In an inelegant sweep of side-stepping, this lush-lippy-plonker spreads hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa now, easy goes, y'knows I've no nose to don't broke, spokey-doke bloke?" What a quizzical evocation of "quixotic oration," this red-nosed rover - who we'll call Rudolph for now...- "be pleasin' forgive the breeze of my nasally needlin' but a new guest necessitates a novel narration," this...Rudolph... looks sideways, "if I drizzle abyssal in arbitrary ablation - can one appeased be pleased to pardon my position of pride in my station?" You get the feeling this was the first of many a rhetorical question.