A man wandered into the bar and ordered a drink. First things first. He could treat himself. He was going to be rich after all. He didn't look like it. With his old, shabby, second hand clothes, his rather red face with coarse skin, and dark circles under his eyes, he looked like a poor man on the brink of destitution. So much so that the mug of ale he held in his hand might be what had just gotten him one state to the other. Yet against all the odds, he was going to be rich. Or so Harry justified his recent purchase.

Being illiterate, he wouldn't have known of the ad if he had not heard people in another pub talk about it. Half an hour ago. He swayed a little on his legs as he stepped away from the bar and turned to face the room. But he was still sober enough to do business. "IS ANY OF YOU MARCUS QUINTIE NORTH?!" He shouted across the room. A silence fell as conversations stopped and heads turned to look at the loud intruder.