Dagran was born in the year 1701 in Kal’Varoth, five years before the founding of the Under-Realm in 1706, to a mother who was a priestess of the Brathmordakin and a father who was an itinerant, travelling merchant of exotic goods. Though this might have seemed like an initially bizarre union (Especially when taking into account his mother’s moralizing and his father’s womanizing), Dagran’s parent’s marriage was mostly happy – perhaps on account of the lengthy periods of time his father would spend away from the family on business. Dagran’s father, also named Dagran, was a masterful trader and importer who purveyed goods to the elite of Kal’Varoth from all around the world – from lavish carpets from far lands of Sutica to wine from the human lands of Renatus – and it was often said of him that he was a fantastically untrustworthy man who would sell out his own grandmother for a few pennies.
This is a trait that was inherited foremost by Dagran the Lesser, who lived in awe of a father who was always on one adventure or another... and in fear of a mother that would tell him Anbella would curse him if he did not behave himself. She instilled in Dagran an incredible faith in the dwarven Brathmordakin religion, which he was able to reconcile with his own ‘spirit of adventure’ – a euphemistic term for the dwarven curse of greed that so afflicted them. Though he was far too young of a beardling to fight in the Three Month War of 1724, Dagran listened to the tales of the conflict with wonder and awe, leading to a brief period where he had some ambition to be a soldier. However, after intending to join the Under-Realm’s army, he recognized that he was far more of a negotiator than a fighter and eschewed the mace and shield for the trader’s purse. Since that time he has lived the life of a travelling merchant, attaching himself to whatever caravan he can and wandering the trade routes of Arcas, buying and selling goods in the image of his father, looking for ‘adventures’ (Or rather, money) in the same caliber that he had. His travels have been mostly uneventful until this point, and he hasn’t been able to flip much for a profit. Most of his initial investments have been spent on ale, as like any good dwarf, he is rarely fully sober.
Dagran smiles as broadly as he can to the well-dressed fellow, fat fingers covered with rings outstretched as his splays his arms outward in a greeting. “Good sir,” he begins, “Oi be here to sell me wares, oi do!”
The dwarf gestures to the satchel slung over his shoulder, flipping the bag open so that the man can see the contents of the container. “So oi suppose yer right when ya say wealth! Roight here oi have the foinest candlesticks, made frem wax from an apiary in Reza! Oi’ve everythin’ else bee-themed ye can imagine. Mead, too, an’ o’ course some honey. Oi’ve come straight from there with this shipment. Can ya tell me how oi moight go about settin’ up a bazaar, on a, er, temporary basis?”
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