A Rogue

The scars and ink on your naked body tell of a cruel past. The knife wound across your torso, a gunshot that never quite healed, and feyish words that the tattooist said would bring good luck. A beautiful woman, not-so-tastefully nude, surrounded by roses, and with her cunt formed from swirling thorns.

Orphaned at birth, you spent your childhood in squalor. You learned stealing not long after learning to walk. The ratways under Parliament Isle were your home, and the plaza in front of the House of Lords was your hunting ground. You cut purses there until you graduated to burglary [+ Creeping Shadows].

You killed your first man not long after. He did not bleed much, and his screams stopped after the second stab – or the third. No one else tried to rob you after – not for while. Just one more lesson learnt at the school of life.

But something has changed. You are no longer a criminal – no longer just a criminal. How did you come to be a Mariner, and an officer at that?