From the night outside, a sudden silence descends upon the happy and growing group ion the tavern.
They are suddenly, and uncomfortably, mindful of the dark, and the chill, and the fragility of the fire that keeps them from the eternal cold.
Outside, the mist swirls... a dark shape is seen, or rather not seen, merely suggested by the absence of fog. The shadows move closer to the bright tavern and resolve into a ragged band of several determined-looking folkies. There are five of them.
Suddenly, the silence is shattered by their leader at the door of the welcoming pub.
'Wel dyma ni'n diwad
I ofyn cawn gennad
The rhythmic cry is punctuated by the rest of the band beating drums, yelling, hitting each other with bladders on sticks and blowing horns. Yes, horns.
Silence fell again, as the sinister group, led by a tall, pale and ragged man with a slightly disturbing yet alluring glint in his eye, and a shirt proclaiming "I Love Stony Stratford, It's Great", waited for the required response from within...