As a young, lowborn elf with no parents, I started as a "runner" for a street gang known as the Nib-Biters. They weren't muscle. they were a collection of unwanted children who haunted the trash heaps behind the Thalweg Administrative District. I would dive into the bins of the Garrison’s record halls to retrieve discarded parchment scraps, dried-out ink pots, and broken quills. As I got older and my talent became undeniable, i graduated to the Scribes of the Sink. This gang operated out of the city’s sewer tunnels (The Sink), where the humidity kept the ink from drying too fast. While living in the gutters of Thalweg, I noticed that the nobles traveling south to Montreval for the Vinolune festival were more interested in prestige than actual quality. I realized i could buy cheap, sour swill from the Thalweg docks, put it in fancy bottles, and forge "Vintage Labels of the Silver Vine". I thought this was my ticket out of gang life out of the gutters. I was selling a crate to a mid-level officer of the Thalweg Garrison. I had forged the seal of Erenzio Glim himself to "authenticate" the wine. But somehow i misspelled the name of the elder god Haqlum on the religious tax-stamp. The officer didn't even care about the wine—he was a religious zealot. Seeing the name of the God of Revelry misspeled was a "blasphemy" he couldn't ignore. He didn't just arrest me for fraud; he used his military authority to hand me directly over to the Shackled Legion as a "penance-recruit."