Ahoy there, fellow chiropter, have a drink! squeaked our bartending (pro tem) bat, relaxing into their native supersonic (to most humans and other beasties) language. We have the cloud of bats who've fled several belfries in bewilderment ahead of you, but what'll it be? You're ahead of the cauldron who will not get served here for a while... such as combativeness, battlers, bloodbathers, and similar unwelcome visitors.

Several folks and a couple of other things in the tavern, having heard nothing but pouring, stirring, clinking and teakettles whistling, wonder vaguely why so many bats suddenly stop flitting about the rafters and start queuing at the bar, but most of them can't bring themselves to care, just yet. Overcome with benumbing, bloody, billowing, completely understandable and thus oxymoronic bewilderment, they can't even. (And who can blame them.) The few that do split into 10 groups, one who queues up also, and the other who knows binary. Free drinks for that one.

One additional mostly unheard squeak specifies, The vampire bats can serve themselves...