"Krastovs?" Peter spits with a scowl, "Those tower dwellers ‘ave been after us fora while now. What, did he send ya here to spill our blood in person? And what about your friend, what's wit ‘is colour?" it seems the mood of the people has set as most of them stand proudly behind their courageous headman, glad they were not the ones who needed to utter the judgement. They know they must be careful, for even a foreign noble is still of the blue blood, but as long as they do not hurt her, they feel they are only doing their duty to see this woman out of their Witchmark village with haste, and anyone who would associate themselves with her. In the heat of the moment, the fear of the spirit is forgotten.<br/><br/>Some are less quick to judge, or perhaps the night to come bears itself more prominently in their minds, but they shy away, hoping for a more amicable resolution. Among them are Dalibor and Slavitsa. From this smaller, more scattered group, someone suddenly exclaims,<strong>“A wagon approaches!”</strong>this is a surprise, two groups visiting and it’s not even noon, but when several people peer around the horse mounted noble and the strange Kryztofs, sure enough there it is. "An’ whose on it?" Peter demands incredulously.