Your companion drops behind the wall, tugging you after into an uncomfortable crouch. "Steady on," you object.
They press a finger to your lips just in time for you to hear a whispered "Hist!" from the other side of the wall.
"Riddle me this, fool," they mutter to you. "What manner of character visits the graveyard with her friends, her shovels, and her wagon in the stillness of night and digs as many holes as she can before dawn?"
"A diligent horticulturalist?"
"A graverobber," they spit. "Worse than any highwayman. It takes no wit or nerve to tell the dead 'your money or your life.'"
You lean your head back against the stones. "So if they've targeted the dead, they should have little interest in us, correct?"
The sound of grumbling and stomping feet on the other side of the wall carry over to you. The stranger just raises an eyebrow at you.
Onward