Human Rogue Knife Master 1
NE Medium humanoid
Init +8; Senses Perception +3


AC 18, flat-footed 14, touch 14 (+4 armor, +4 dex)
hp 8 (1d8)
Fort +0, Ref +6, Will -1

Melee dagger +4 (1d4+3, 19-20/x2)
Range dagger +5 (1d4+3, 19-20/x2)
Special Attacks Sneak Attack +1d8 (daggers); Murder +1 flank dmg

Str 16, Dex 18, Con 11, Int 14, Wis 8, Cha 12
Base Attack +0; CMB +3; CMD 17
Traits Murder
Feats Weapon Focus (dagger), Improved Initiative
Skills Acrobatics +8, Appraise +6, Climb +7, Craft (daggers) +6, Disable Device +8, Escape Artist +8, Knowledge (local) +6, Perception +3, Sleight of Hand +9, Stealth +8, Swim +7
SQ Hidden Blade, Sneak Stab

Environment jail cell with fellow hoodlums
Organization jail cell with fellow hoodlums
Gear (132 gp value, 27 lbs.) chain shirt, dagger x2, loin cloth, thieves’ tools


Even shining cities like Talingarde create refuse. They pile it outside their walls where the righteous can no longer see it. In such a place did he first notice the boy smearing a glaze of still-warm rat’s blood across his threadbare trousers. The nimble child wielded his shiv unerringly, butchering feral dogs, cats and even carrion birds to fill his orphan’s belly. Such promise had the lad!

The nameless came to be called Ferrum in his master’s transient shoppes. The pretense of apprenticeship began when his soiled rags and rusty knife were replaced with daily bread, a simple cot and one raggedly chipped dagger that seemed to swallow up light. If Ferrum could keen the blade in his master’s forge, there would be suitable work for him.

Ferrum honed the weapon much faster than the other recruits, and no sooner were his lethal wares presented to the master’s discerning clientele. They themselves, were a discretely generous lot, never purchasing for themselves what was secretly meant for another… And like a patroned artist, Ferrum always delivered his handiwork in person.

Three years later…

The master disappeared months ago amidst rumors of detainment in the Branderscar. Ferrum’s deft hands could craft death into steel, seduce locked doors and smuggle a dagger right under one’s nose and then through it. However, try as he might to salvage the master’s enterprise, Ferrum had not the wits to do so. Despite appearances, his childhood wheezing from Talingarde’s ever-burning trash heaps never left him. After one poorly promised blade and one badly timed cough, the city guard entrapped him.


Way of the Wicked gingersupremacy blakealandarst