Cedric Raw was over the moon. He dropped a handful of silver coins into his purse and motioned his heavies to let the craftsman go. Their young battered victim fell to his knees in a slump and Cedric crouched down in front of him and stroked the dog’s head, now more grey then ash brown, as it sat by him and growled menacingly at the frightened pot maker.
“Now then,” Cedric told the young man gently, patting him on the shoulder, “that was all a bit unnecessary wasn’t it.” The pot maker nodded enthusiastically. “Next time you miss a payment, I won’t be so kind, I won’t be so moderate. Next time I’ll give these two fine gentlemen the day off and I’ll use the dog.”
Cedric got to his feet with a grunt, the pot maker fell forward and grabbed at his legs thanking him for his mercy.
"Gerroff," Cedric snapped, angrily and kicked the young man free, "you leave so much as a scuff on these boot and I will kill you."
'Not my boots,' Cedric thought to himself, as he quickly checked them for damage, 'not my lucky boots.'
Ever since he found them, all those years ago, on that dead beggar in the Warrens, Cedric had had nothing but good luck. He had worked his way up out of the gutter and was now a guild lieutenant with his own area to control and people below him. He was a master now, with means, position and prospects. The only thing he could think of that could account for all his good fortune was the boots. Finding them was definitely when his luck changed, so he had always worn them, keeping them well maintained, always polished, always repaired. With his recent flat feet, the boots even fit him properly now.
Cedric turned and walked away from the grovelling pot maker, the dog trotting happily along behind, just like it had always done. Cedric was glad he had shared his good fortunes over the years with this scrappy little dog, knowing the animal was probably his oldest and most trusted comrade.
"We have a lot to thank these old boots for my friend," he told the dog, giving it a rare smile.