Urist was down on his luck. He had never really done a hard day's work before, no thanks to some negligent overseer treating the children in his old fort as surplus population. He got by pretending to be useful, sometimes randomly seizing craftdwarf's workshops to tinker away, and thereby giving himself some form of training in basic dwarfy skills. One day someone dug too deep, and his home was overrun by violence and madness while he was outside frolicking with the fisherdwarf's daughter. Urist lost his home in one fell swoop of fate.
Urist became an outcast. An immigrant. The kind of dwarf that might beg entry into other fortresses only to be used as live sacrifices to demented gods. Not wanting to take his chances with dubious immigration policies and the whims of pathological overseers, Urist traversed the wilderness, with his new wife and baby dwarf in tow, to a large human town, where surely they would be civilized.
Urist does not enter unarmed though. Besides the clothes on his back he has in his pockets a set of magick dice, mastercrafted in a fit of childhood obsession from the bones of a marble titan. It is studded with rare cymophane, and images of bearded dwarf women striking lewd poses are etched on each face. He feels the power emanating from them as he crosses the threshold into the town. Leaving his family in a more decent part of town, he heads towards a row of shady pubs and alleys to do what he feels he was born to do.
Inventory:
Raggerdy clothes: dwarvern shirt, trousers, thongs and socks with threadbare cotton fibre. Worn out cotton fibre shoes.
A set of magick masterwork dice. There seem to be as many of them as there needs to be.
Skills:
General Dwarfiness
Status:
Suffering from an acute lack of alcohol. He hasn't had a drink for months.
He also hasn't changed his socks and underwear for a similar length of time, and smells like it too.