After his return from his week-long ‘business’ trip, more rumors had reached him about illegal wolfsbane potions that were incomplete, if not outright tainted, being sold to unregistered werewolves. Considering the events involving his niece before Christmas, the issue caused a worry at the back of his mind.

Duncan would have thought that perhaps Cinaed was involved however the work seemed too sloppy in comparison with the previous attacks. Then Lorelei’s activities were always of concern, whether this involved her or not.

Instead of thinking himself in circles, Duncan decided to go to a source of information he hadn’t seen in quite some time. He owed Nathan Briggs a visit.

It was cold, snow dusting the houses and ground. Securing his coat the Scotsman leaned back against a wall, staring at the back door to Calaveras. Brigg’s schedule was easy enough to remember, since his work hours never really changed.

The bell tolled once in the distance and fell silent. Calaveras would be closing up and shutting down. Duncan shifted his weight to his left foot. So long as there were no emergencies inside, he wouldn’t be waiting for long.

Nathan Briggs appeared as predicted out from the back door with a bag or rubbish for the bin. As of late, Nate had been relying on predictability to keep his skin on. Essentially, anyone who might follow him would well enough get bored. The Ministry, Bagnold, Tawse - they'd all be comforted in the condience they knew exactly where Nate was. It felt strange at first, living out in the open. And if anyone was going to get bored first, it was going to be Nate. But the day he found out he'd been a leg in a Theodora Kingstreet enterprise was the day he threw his hands up.

"Oi, big man," Nate greeted. Duncan McBoid was waiting for him. The back alley of Calaveras was a verifiable agora these days. Tam Handrow did too much business back here, her bludgeon of a gillyweed business. There was also the time where a werewolf had nearly expired in a puddle of his own pus and blood but for a Healer in the House. And well, there'd been Bagnold. That stack of a wizard Duncan McBoid, then, was a welcome sight.

Nate knew him from back when he'd done deliveries for the Sellaphixes from before the world went to shit. Nate hadn't seen him since before he'd been to Azkaban last year.

"Been a spell," he said coming over. McBoid had a head over Nate, in his forties and fit as a farmer. Could snap a dragon in half but lived like a hermit if Nate recalled. Always good for a gab. It was late but Nate would be awake hours yet. He pulled a flask from his coat.  His right hand was bandaged even over the fingers, so he had to undo the top with his awkward left.