The snow lay thickly on the rounded hills overlooking the little tavern. Harmonic chorus's of and "Nos Galon" drifted up the Cwm.

A snow covered lump moved slightly, "We's safe, butties, their still singing." A bleating of Baaah's acknowledged this statement.

Down in the valley a rime of frost settled on the bladders and horns neatley stacked outside the tavern, waiting for the Lord of Misrule to arrive.

Inside the jugs of ale, and gulpers of Pussers circulated.

Where was the Lord of Misrule ?? He was late, he was late !

Gareth