"If I were to pronounce that charitable work fulfil his debt to me, then it would," says Conuld. "But I do not recognise any such debt, in any case, and nor it seems do Cludge and Kurgahz. Your customs are just that... customs. They are not fundamental aspects of the make up of the world, like objects falling to the ground, or... or the way with a few gestures and a word, one can do this" - from the tip of Conuld's upraised finger a tiny candle-flame suddenly burns - "and I have no desire to take these youngsters hundreds of miles from their homes in servitude. Give them the money, or as much of it as you wish, and let them get on with their own lives as they see fit." Conuld looks down, and in an instant the grime of travel vanishes from his clothing, along with the small bloodstain. "Now, for the next hour, I am going to enjoy beverages made ice cold."
OOC - cast Prestidigitation.
