With a baffled shake of her head, clover mutters softly to herself, "My dear, the more you speak, the less sense I can make," and heads for the door, seeming to begrudge the weight of her pack and crossbow as they resettle onto her back.    "Well, lovelies, I'm off to the tavern," she announces casually, then adds with a sardonic grin, "I'll try to stay out of bar-fights and fusty old codger's laps, but it's hard to say how I'll behave without a chaperon."<br/><br/>Clover strolls casually along the storefronts, her long legs crossing elegantly with each step.  As she moves, she hefts her quarterstaff overhead and stretches, twisting with it tucked behind her neck and looking over the street for anything of the slightest interest.  She pauses for a moment, pretending to still be enjoying the stretch of her weary back, and watches the faithful make their way to the church, then sighs softly.  "Who needs company, anyway?" she mumbles, and heads on to the tavern to ask about.<br/><br/><em>Rolls to be sent.</em>