You stomp right out of that pig painting competition and head for the local ticket-maker's house. Ticket-makers are honor bound to never compete in events that use their tickets, and it is said around town that this particular ticket-maker went sour with unfulfilled desire in his 29th year and declared that he would henceforce no longer attend any social events at all. Now in his seventy-ninth year and with no children to take on the duty that his family has done for eleven generations in Urfictite County, he lords over a small, successful, but ultimately heartless local ticket-making empire.
No one knows what he does up there in his mansion on the hill, behind the high gates. No one knows what the noises are. You are starting to sober up, which is troubling to say the least.