His taunts had barely left his mouth like the clouds of breath before a snowball hit him right on the back of his head, splatting into a burst of tiny fragments that rained down upon the table Oberan was standing on. His green hat was lodged off of his head by the impact, sent flying a short distance through the air before it started its descent. The Mortalborn stood there for a few moments, arms spread wide, expression frozen on his face before his thoughts caught up with him.
Quickly he angled one foot upwards and caught the falling hat with the tip of his shoe before it could fall past the table.
“As I was saying,” he spoke, launching his hat back into the air so he could theatrically snatch it up mid-flight, “I bet no-one can hit me with a snowball.”
Perhaps if he did not acknowledge it’d happened, people would forget about it. He placed the headgear back on his scalp and grinned wildly.
“Those who can however,” the jester smiled, “well, let’s say they will be given the opportunity to win a--” he looked over at his employer, as he was about to deal out prizes he really had no authority to give away. “—free… lunch? Here at F’mos? Yes, let’s go with that. Free lunch here at F’mos Ate Most. Asterisk.”
He then proceeded to quickly and rather quietly mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “terms to be determined by the owner. Oberan cannot be held accountable for any dissatisfaction regarding the deal made with the owner, nor for the customers’ stupidity when believing the word of a jester.”
“First some ground rules,” he established in a louder tone of voice, “Only hits to the torso and head count, so aim for those. The first ten to score a hit will be entering the next round.”
The Mortalborn let his gaze wander across the room, observing the expressions of the people present. Most seemed rather excited to win a free meal, chattering excitedly among themselves. While he wasn’t certain if his employer was going to like the addition of a prize, the man had not been against the snowball fight as a whole. Perhaps he’d see it as a business opportunity. In any case, those were issues for later.
“Well then,” he then boomed, throwing his arms out for what could be a big hug, a confident, shit-eating grin winking tauntingly at the patrons. “Let’s get started, shall we? Three, two, one! Start!”
He barely had time to finish, the first snowballs were already being thrown, and the jester had to duck and weave to avoid being hit.
Quickly he angled one foot upwards and caught the falling hat with the tip of his shoe before it could fall past the table.
“As I was saying,” he spoke, launching his hat back into the air so he could theatrically snatch it up mid-flight, “I bet no-one can hit me with a snowball.”
Perhaps if he did not acknowledge it’d happened, people would forget about it. He placed the headgear back on his scalp and grinned wildly.
“Those who can however,” the jester smiled, “well, let’s say they will be given the opportunity to win a--” he looked over at his employer, as he was about to deal out prizes he really had no authority to give away. “—free… lunch? Here at F’mos? Yes, let’s go with that. Free lunch here at F’mos Ate Most. Asterisk.”
He then proceeded to quickly and rather quietly mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “terms to be determined by the owner. Oberan cannot be held accountable for any dissatisfaction regarding the deal made with the owner, nor for the customers’ stupidity when believing the word of a jester.”
“First some ground rules,” he established in a louder tone of voice, “Only hits to the torso and head count, so aim for those. The first ten to score a hit will be entering the next round.”
The Mortalborn let his gaze wander across the room, observing the expressions of the people present. Most seemed rather excited to win a free meal, chattering excitedly among themselves. While he wasn’t certain if his employer was going to like the addition of a prize, the man had not been against the snowball fight as a whole. Perhaps he’d see it as a business opportunity. In any case, those were issues for later.
“Well then,” he then boomed, throwing his arms out for what could be a big hug, a confident, shit-eating grin winking tauntingly at the patrons. “Let’s get started, shall we? Three, two, one! Start!”
He barely had time to finish, the first snowballs were already being thrown, and the jester had to duck and weave to avoid being hit.