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"It seems that our host is indeed rather late.... late as in the late Wightbarrowwight," Enca observed. She too had been snapped back into what some people might call "the real world" in order to help push an old car from one side of the garage to the other. Go figure.
Rather thirsty from the minimal manual labor, she sought out a drink. Being but 16 (therefore no Old Winyards allowed for her) and of the opinion that champagne was quite possibly the foulest thing ever created, she came upon a pleasant-looking bowl of punch.
As she looked around, Enca thought that this was one of the best parties she'd ever attended. Anything that combined the undead and verse had to be pretty good, she decided. And since it seemed that the limerick game was slowing down, she figured she may as well see if she couldn't start it up again. She climbed onto a chair with her cup of punch and announced,
Where in the world is our host?
I do hope he's not comatose.
So in the meantime
We can have punch and wine
But I think that champagne is gross!
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