Flies? What flies? The bat is embarrassed. Oh, wait, never mind. Fruit bat. Relieved, the little bat leaves a small spot of guano behind, beside the hearth, and flies off, silhouetted by that first full moon of the month. The next one will be blue, like the Danube, digresses the bat, getting thinner despite being indefatigable.

A house elf whizzes the guano away. Now there is a puddle, but it evaporates immediately thanks to the cackling fire.

A random witch cackles in harmony, which takes some doing. A haphazard hippie, at variable intervals, is throwing some of those pinecones-that-burn-in-pretty-trippy-colors into the flames, and the witch's cackling is, synesthetically in harmony with the color changes too, which takes even more doing. Not to mention some perceiving.

Percival is impressed, as is the horse he rode in on.

Love the Tavern! warbles the bat to the tune of Sound the Pibroch (patchy fog, fog, fog was the wether report, given sheepishly by the baaat upon reentry through the window).

Meanwhile, on the tower, the gory variable ratio has been patiently waiting its turn for the conditioner...