Live in Infamy

The rattle of wagon wheels on stone is your only company, the roar of waves somewhere to the right your only point of reference. A rough sack over your head and shoulders keeps you blind and disorientated, while heavy manacles chafe at your wrists and ankles. The crude rags they gave you back in Mathryn do little more than preserve the last scraps of your modesty, and were it not the height of summer you might very well have frozen to death in the back of this carriage long before you reached your destination. You are tired, you are filthy, and you are pretty sure you have fleas.

And, of course, you're on your way to be executed. Can't forget that one. The guards certainly haven't - the odd jibe or cutting taunt is the only time anyone has addressed you since the trial, and your impending death sentence a favoured topic.

Bastards. Not one of them understands why you did it, they haven't even thought to ask, but from the way they act you'd almost think they take it personally. How dare a dwarf commit such a crime? Your people are rich, educated, respected, how dare they lash out at the society that has given them so much? It sickens you.

With a rattling jolt, the carriage comes to a halt. You tense, hands balling into fists, but nobody approaches. There's a distant murmur of conversation, the muffled exchange of passwords, followed by the dull rattle of chains - a portcullis? Some kind of gatehouse? - then the wagon lurches back into motion. You feel the wind pick up, whistling shrilly from seemingly all directions, and the dull crash of waves goes from somewhere off to the side to directly below. Yes, that's right, Branderscar is on an island, you remember that much. You're on the bridge, then. Almost there.

Another lurching halt, another brief exchange, another set of rattling chains. Two gatehouses? You feel a sense of dread slowly gather in your heart, but you push it down. You're not dead yet, and no prison is inescapable. You just have to figure out how. The distant barking of dogs marks another complication, especially when they fall silent moments later at a sharp command. Well trained guard dogs, then, likely patrolling the courtyard.

A third and final halt, the sound of the waves muffled now. The wagon creaks in place, and then a moment later someone is jangling your chains, unlocking the bonds holding you in place. Part of you wants to throw yourself at them, take the guard out at the knee, but what would that accomplish? You're still bound, your arms and legs tied together by those heavy chains, and there is an entire garrison standing between you and the shore, much less freedom.

"Alright, prisoner," the guard grunts, laying a calloused hand on your arm and hauling you upright, "Down you get."

You almost fall, descending from the wagon, and from the muted chuckles you think you were meant to. Stone cobbles rub at your bare feet, replaced a moment later by wet grass as you are hauled across some manner of courtyard. The guard slams a booted foot into the back of your knee, forcing you to kneel, and a moment later the heavy sack is removed from your head. You squint, spikes of pain radiating through your skull as your eyes adjust, and piece by piece the visage of the man before you comes into focus.



"Name?" the elderly man asks, and for a moment you're almost too surprised to answer. There's nothing military about this man's garb at all, only the tight-cut trousers and frilled shirt of a scholar at his leisure, but the cold edge in his one good eye is equal to that of any soldier.

You open your mouth, but before you can speak one of the guards who escorted you here steps forwards and hands the old man a piece of paper clipped to a board. Ah, of course. He wasn't asking you at all.

Article:

What is your name? Dwarf names tend towards hard consonants and are usually two syllables, like Agna, Dolgrin, Kotri etc.

[ ] Name (Write in)

What is your gender?

[ ] Male
[ ] Female
[ ] Nonbinary

"I see," the old man says dryly, looking over the sheet and then down at where you kneel before him, "Welcome to Branderscar, Dwarf. I am Matthias Richter, Warden of this institution. Your stay shall be brief - according to this, your date of execution has been set for sunrise, three days from now."

A cold pit forms in your gut, but you won't let this man see your fear, so you force yourself to smile instead. "Really? A shame. Though given the woeful state of your hospitality so far…"

Richter simply sighs, as if bored of the whole performance. "You will be given the opportunity to write a last will and testament, which will be delivered to your family after your execution. I encourage you to think carefully on what you will say to them. Should you wish spiritual guidance or a chance to repent, we have a priest on staff who has volunteered to minister to your spiritual needs."

The cold disappears, replaced now by a hot ember that burns your throat as you swallow it down. Except… why bother? You've spent your whole life choking down your spite and your rage, and what has it gotten you? They're already planning to execute you.

"To the pit with your priest," you growl, baring your teeth like an animal, "and with your god too, Talirean."

That draws a reaction, if muted - a narrowing of the lips, a raising of the eyebrow. Richter is a man of order, you can see that now, the sort of person who likes it best when everyone sticks to a script. Still, there is no malice when he gestures to the nearby soldier, nor when he speaks. Only the next stage in the script.

"Sergeant, I leave him in your care. Fetch the branding irons."

Article:

The Dwarf Kingdoms of old are dead and gone, but your people yet remember the old ways, and your family can still trace its ancestry back to those forgotten holds. Choose one of the following to represent your Heritage:

[ ] [Heritage] Anvil
Your ancestors were craftsmen and artisans, and you grew up surrounded by the few works they could bring from their mountain holds. You are trained in the Crafting skill, and get the Speciality Crafting feat, giving you bonuses to two specific sub-areas of crafting, like metalwork or masonry.

[ ] [Heritage] Forge
Your ancestors dwelled in the most hallowed depths of the old holds, where stone turned to magma and the air hurt to breathe. You reduce all fire damage by an amount equal to half your level, and find hot environments one step easier to endure.

[ ] [Heritage] Strong Blood
Your ancestors were merchants and envoys, bargaining and intermarrying with the kin of other holds. You reduce all poison damage by an amount equal to half your level, and double your progress in reducing long-term afflictions stemming from poison.

In Pathfinder 2nd edition, all attributes start at +0. As a Dwarf, you get boosts to Wisdom and Constitution, bringing them to +1, and a penalty to Charisma, bringing it to -1. You also gain a free boost, which can be assigned to one of the following attributes:

[ ] [Boost] Strength

[ ] [Boost] Dexterity

[ ] [Boost] Intelligence

Finally, choose one of the following Ancestry feats, which reflect the lessons you learned from your upbringing and how you relate to your people's past.

[ ] [Ancestry] Dwarf Lore
You memorised all the stories your parents had and then went looking for more, hoarding the cultural legacy of your people and holding it close to your heart. You are trained in the Crafting, Religion and Dwarven Lore skills. If you pick this and the Anvil heritage, you are trained in diplomacy.

[ ] [Ancestry] Stonecunning
Your soul longs for the mountains, and even in these cities of brick and wood the stone speaks to you. You gain a +2 circumstance bonus on any check to notice unusual stonework, and may test passively without specifically looking for it.

[ ] [Ancestry] Vengeful Hatred
Your heart burns hot with rage for those who took your ancestors from their homeland, and you swore to see their crimes repaid. You gain +1 damage on all attacks made against Talirean humans, or other people who have wronged you and your ancestors.