Finn Gavalan
Member
- Messages
- 1
The guy was starting to become upset. He had walked all the way from his own village a couple of miles from the city to here with a basket on his bag with no less than half his own bodyweight of fresh, newly-collected potatoes. But that damn shop owner had closed his curtains, and no matter how many times he knocked, there was no answer - until the door creaked open slightly and the face of a small girl glanced out. He had already decided, that whomever would open, would get an earful, but her big, pearly eyes instantly melted his heart.
“Are you the partatoes-man that da’ said would come?”
He nodded.
“Well, yes I am. Carried this bunch all the way from Underbridge Farmyard, I tell ya!” He quipped and straightened his back proudly. “But where is that knave anyway?”
The girl shyly pointed a finger in the general direction of the city center.
“He wen’ towards the market square. Said ‘e was going to come back with coin enough to pay of ‘dem money-sharks or some’tin’.”
The potato-peddler frowned. He could hear quite a bit of noise coming from the town square.
“And how was he going to do that?” he cocked his head.
“Som’tin’ about getting the right ticket or whatnot.”
She passed him a note and he glanced at it – eyes suddenly wide as lips curled up.
“Well, I’ll better go find him then!”
“But ‘da said you could just leave the partatoes ‘ere..!”
“I… think I can carry them a little bit longer!”
Meanwhile at the town square, at least five dozen people rubbed shoulders trying to get first in line facing a make-shift podium of barrels, crates and a few tables – and more were still trickling in. Including the potato-peddler. But the show piece stood on top of the podium; a dwarf measuring no more than 1.3 meters, but still overlooking the crowd with a wide grin and enthusiastically waving at the crowd.
“Welcome, welcome! To ‘The Lucky Lot’! You have probably either received one of my notes or heard your neighbor talk about the event of the year! But you might still be asking: Who is the Lucky Lot? Well, that will probably be you!” He bellowed. “And, the lot of you gathered on this lot of land, may be winning The Lucky Lot behind me, that you all contributed to – a lot!” he turned and opened his arms toward a great pile of silk, furs, purses of coins and valuables, that he had just finished collecting in return for a corresponding number of named tickets for the lottery based in the value of what was invested. “I have here… ALL of your tickets with your names on!” he said and held a bowl aloft with little straps of paper in them. “The chance, to become a noble, starts now! One lucky guy takes it all!” he said with the cheering crowd intensely excited.
And that lucky guy will be… me. He thought to himself, before he turned the bowl on the head, pouring the named stripes of paper into a larger glass ball, that contained a near equal share of blanks. A fair 50% chance, it would seem. But the way he poured, audience would see the tickets falling into the ball, yet they fell from his sleeve. The named tickets stayed in the bowl thanks to a special, see-through kind of resin. His left made sorcerous movements above the glass bowl, while his right discretely threw the bowl with the names still stuck in it, into a barrel behind the podium.
The audience had their full attention fixed upon the glass bowl. As was the case in every town, city and hamlet. They say love makes you blind. If that’s true, then these people certainly love their greed. He thought before he put a lid on the glass bowl, shook it thoroughly above his head and gingerly placed it for all to see.
“Now! My Lucky Lot! Who will be able to put their throne on top of this mountain of wealth! Who will take the Dragon’s Hoarde?!?”
The dwarf, Finn Gavalan, lifted the lid, pulled up his sleeve and drew a ticket from well beneath the surface. “The one who cill call himself The Luckiest of The Lot! Is..! Wilfried Gotusods Scammerland!” He announced with another bellow that seemed to defy his size. Audience went silent. Not one hand was raised, and people looked at each other a little disappointed.
“Umm, I don’t think he’s here..!” One of the peasants pointed out.
“Who knows Wilfried?” Another one asked.
No one answered, and Finn slammed his palm into a crate.
“Well, we’ll have to find him! It must be fair. The one who brings Wilfried here will receive no less than twelve silver coins in hand!”
That last bit certainly was an effective incentive, as it would cover a good portion of most people’s losses. Before long, people were fighting to leave the market square as Finn turned to the pile of goods with a satisfied smirk. It went off without a hitch, and before anyone would notice the scam, Finn would have packed his cart and be halfway to the next town.
“Are you the partatoes-man that da’ said would come?”
He nodded.
“Well, yes I am. Carried this bunch all the way from Underbridge Farmyard, I tell ya!” He quipped and straightened his back proudly. “But where is that knave anyway?”
The girl shyly pointed a finger in the general direction of the city center.
“He wen’ towards the market square. Said ‘e was going to come back with coin enough to pay of ‘dem money-sharks or some’tin’.”
The potato-peddler frowned. He could hear quite a bit of noise coming from the town square.
“And how was he going to do that?” he cocked his head.
“Som’tin’ about getting the right ticket or whatnot.”
She passed him a note and he glanced at it – eyes suddenly wide as lips curled up.
“Well, I’ll better go find him then!”
“But ‘da said you could just leave the partatoes ‘ere..!”
“I… think I can carry them a little bit longer!”
Meanwhile at the town square, at least five dozen people rubbed shoulders trying to get first in line facing a make-shift podium of barrels, crates and a few tables – and more were still trickling in. Including the potato-peddler. But the show piece stood on top of the podium; a dwarf measuring no more than 1.3 meters, but still overlooking the crowd with a wide grin and enthusiastically waving at the crowd.
“Welcome, welcome! To ‘The Lucky Lot’! You have probably either received one of my notes or heard your neighbor talk about the event of the year! But you might still be asking: Who is the Lucky Lot? Well, that will probably be you!” He bellowed. “And, the lot of you gathered on this lot of land, may be winning The Lucky Lot behind me, that you all contributed to – a lot!” he turned and opened his arms toward a great pile of silk, furs, purses of coins and valuables, that he had just finished collecting in return for a corresponding number of named tickets for the lottery based in the value of what was invested. “I have here… ALL of your tickets with your names on!” he said and held a bowl aloft with little straps of paper in them. “The chance, to become a noble, starts now! One lucky guy takes it all!” he said with the cheering crowd intensely excited.
And that lucky guy will be… me. He thought to himself, before he turned the bowl on the head, pouring the named stripes of paper into a larger glass ball, that contained a near equal share of blanks. A fair 50% chance, it would seem. But the way he poured, audience would see the tickets falling into the ball, yet they fell from his sleeve. The named tickets stayed in the bowl thanks to a special, see-through kind of resin. His left made sorcerous movements above the glass bowl, while his right discretely threw the bowl with the names still stuck in it, into a barrel behind the podium.
The audience had their full attention fixed upon the glass bowl. As was the case in every town, city and hamlet. They say love makes you blind. If that’s true, then these people certainly love their greed. He thought before he put a lid on the glass bowl, shook it thoroughly above his head and gingerly placed it for all to see.
“Now! My Lucky Lot! Who will be able to put their throne on top of this mountain of wealth! Who will take the Dragon’s Hoarde?!?”
The dwarf, Finn Gavalan, lifted the lid, pulled up his sleeve and drew a ticket from well beneath the surface. “The one who cill call himself The Luckiest of The Lot! Is..! Wilfried Gotusods Scammerland!” He announced with another bellow that seemed to defy his size. Audience went silent. Not one hand was raised, and people looked at each other a little disappointed.
“Umm, I don’t think he’s here..!” One of the peasants pointed out.
“Who knows Wilfried?” Another one asked.
No one answered, and Finn slammed his palm into a crate.
“Well, we’ll have to find him! It must be fair. The one who brings Wilfried here will receive no less than twelve silver coins in hand!”
That last bit certainly was an effective incentive, as it would cover a good portion of most people’s losses. Before long, people were fighting to leave the market square as Finn turned to the pile of goods with a satisfied smirk. It went off without a hitch, and before anyone would notice the scam, Finn would have packed his cart and be halfway to the next town.
