Duggin finished off another mug of ale in the dingy tavern. As he clumsily waved his hand for one more round, an unbidden memory came to mind. Lady Serka's voice, gently mocking: You have got to be the most sober dwarf I have ever met, Duggin. Have you no taste for the brew? A deep scowl came to Duggin's face. If only you could see me now, my lady. I drink enough these days for an entire dwarf holding.

Why had he left her behind? Had he not sworn his life in service to her house, as his father and ancestors had done before him, stretching back to the ancient days of fallen Karasta? And yet she had commanded him to flee with the rest when the orc onslaught came, while she stayed behind to hold them off. Serka had called upon his pledge to bind them both to the service of the Shadowed Chain, and she had drilled into him that their duty in keeping the great titan bound was much greater than his fealty to her. A duty which had required renouncing their clan names and being branded with the mark of Moizarak, God of Shackles.

Duggin's mind drifted to the trouble that chained tatoo across his face had caused him in Cosolen. Most who saw it assumed it marked him as an escaped slave. A few knew it's true meaning. Neither group was willing to hire him. His money pouch, complete with the platinum coins he had earned for his part in defeating the orcs at P'Bapar pass, had been stolen early on in his stay at Cosolen, leaving him with little more than his nelzuk hammer, his shield, and the fine suit of dwarven scale armor he had been left by Lady Serka. He didn't even know the local language, barely getting by with his Merchant's Tongue. He could have asked for help from the warriors who had aided him in defeating Stonefang, but from what little he saw of them he could tell they had problems of their own to deal with, and he was loathe to accept charity from them in any case. As he became increasingly desparate for coin, a human merchant known as Estan Torist had come to him.

"I had heard there was a dwarf marked by Velmn here. You do not recognize the name? Perhaps you know his Merchant's Tongue designation, 'the Overlord.' Ah, yes, I see you understand now. His New Order is not understood or well loved here, as I'm sure you've learned. I myself am in a similar predicament; I am here in Cosdol to represent the financial interests of Pel Brolenon. Few here are willing to deal with me or work for me due to this. They have even been spreading preposterous rumors that I am behind recent disappearances of city residents; as if I had any use for such an anemic lot as slaves!"

Duggin struggled to follow this tirade in heavily accented Merchant's Tongue. The parts he understood, he wasn't sure he liked. The merchant continued.

"As with any merchant, I am in need of protection. You are obviously a strong and well-built dwarf, and I hear you even have your own set of arms and armor. So, what do you say? Will you work for me?"

Duggin's first instinct was to tell him "No," or at least that he needed time to think about it. Then the reality of his situation caught up with him; he had no money, no food, and no prospects for another job. He reluctantly agreed with Torist's proposal.

In truth, the work was not difficult. His job mostly consisted of following Torist around and dissuading anyone from bothering them with a glare and an occasional brandishment of his hammer. At times Duggin was called upon to deal with one of Torist's debtors in the city or a person reluctant to do business with the merchant; he rarely had to go beyond threats with them. The pay was decent, and his Merchant's Tongue was improving.

And then late one night he was called to the docks. There a Brolenese cargo ship and its sailors sat ready for loading, though none of the usual dockhands were present. Torist saw him and approached. "Ah Duggin, you've arrived. Excellent. Business has been good for me, in no small part thanks to you. With my profits I've been able to hire some of the less squeamish locals to gather some special merchandise for me. I apologize for not telling you earlier, but neither of us could afford to be associated directly with them. Ah, here they are now! This shipment is very important for us. I want you to take some of these men and make sure we are not interfered with by anyone."

Several tough looking Brandobian men approached the ship. Duggin recognized some of them from around Knife Alley, though he did not know their names. His heart quailed when he saw the bound and gagged elves and half-elves they were leading toward the loading ramp.

It was after that night that Duggin began drinking heavily.

Duggin had been alone and outnumbered; if he had tried to stop the kidnapping all he would have accomplished was getting himself killed. Besides, he bore the mark of Moizarak, and surely this kind of thing came with the territory. And if no one else in the city cared enough about the elves and half-elves to stop this from happening to them, why should he?

These justifications were easier to accept when he was drunk, so he made sure to stay drunk most of the time.

Duggin shook off these thoughts and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Torist had given it to him earlier that day.

"You disgust me, Duggin. I suppose it's my own fault; I should have known I was getting a drunk when I hired a dwarf. I'm going to give you one more chance to make yourself useful to me. My superiors are interested in locating some rather troublesome individuals that I believe may be staying in Knife Alley. They should stand out enough to be easy to spot. I want you to find them for me. Don't worry beyond that, I have some people ready to take care of the rest."

Duggin smoothed the paper and struggled to read the blurring words with the descriptions again: A Dejy half-breed warrior, a half-elf pirate wench, and a dragonborn Purifier. He crumpled the paper again and dropped it into his newly filled mug of ale, then stumbled from the tavern into the night.