Thug Life: The (debatably) Concise and Factual Biography of Rastan Cain.

I doubt that anyone will ever read this, but please do, especially before claiming that I've put no thought into the character. I'm also going to write little escapades of Rastan which will be more like stories than this, and will be extracts of Rastan's many adventures or daily life.

Thug Life: The (debatably) Concise and Factual Biography of Rastan Cain.

Deep within the grimey slums of the docks of Luskan, a dirty child is born, to no father and a drug-addled woman by the name of Veira Cain. This child is given the birthname of Rastan. Growing up poor and uneducated, Rastan has little choice but to take to a life of crime at a very early age, picking mug's pockets at the tender age of seven, along with a crew of half a dozen paupers just the same as him, his closest and sole friends. Never caught, or at least punished, Rastan had something of a talent for this "occupation", until he grew too old and too big to be inconspicuous during his puberty. Menacing even then, Rastan was a surprisingly stocky lad for someone on such a bad diet. Too ominous to pick pockets, he and
his three closest friends formed a tighter crew: "Stealy" Joe - named for his kleptomania (even by Rastan's standards)-; a man that would later become "One-hand" and then "No-hands" Pete (so just "Pete" for now), and a Chultic immigrant called later only by the moniker of Ice, his birthname lost. This crew was known as the Murkle Street Mans, named for the Temple of Myrkul on the end of their street. They used to loiter around the back of the temple, mostly for the convenience of the looming shadows, but partly because the fumes of the incense wafted naturally behind the back of the temple, along with any scraps thrown out. This crew took part in various street gang warfare, culminating in mostly fights, another previously unknown talent of Rastan's. Winning, they would break out in what they called "victory skanks", a crude and obnoxious dance over the broken and bleeding adversaries, all the while screaming "Murk man! Murk man!", in a crude display of dominance.

As the Murkle Street Mans got older, they discovered quickly that this did not quite pay the bills and put food on the table. They took to burglary. Breaking and entering in Luskan is, to say the least, a risky business practice with the presence of the Hosttower. The Murkle Street Mans, however, were blessed with fortune of sorts; Ice in particular was said by the others to be extremely lucky. So lucky were the crew that very few limbs were lost during their home invasion exploits. They were not quite so lucky enough to avoid being caught, but that was no matter; Rastan often boasts that "no cage can hold the Cain!". It is yet to be seen that he is wrong.
It's a miracle that he wasn't executed on the spot.

At nineteen, standing at five foot eleven, sporting many scars on his body, and with forty-two convinctions to his name (and twelve unsolved cases), Rastan seeks employment upon privateer's vessel, legally stealing and looting Neverwintian ships and ports. Along with the rest of the Murkle Street Mans, all poor and wanted men, he is taken on by one Captain Annhius, on the Lunar Dawn. This was, in a trend for Rastan and his crew, a very clever idea. With the wages being "Whatever you can take from the corpes of these decadent fools", the four friends became very rich indeed, with their talent for sneaky murders and robbings. Captain Annhius also insisted on extensive weapon training with rapiers, short swords, maces and clubs, something that would be his folly.
However, Captain Annhius also enjoyed giving both copious amounts of beatings and lip to instill order. Rastan had had enough floggings for being disorderly. He had had enough. Gathering up the Murkle Street Mans, they lay in wait in Annhius' chambers one night, armed with large bats, and beat the living shit out of Annhius, dumping his (living) body overboard. They had mutinied. Setting himself up as captain, Rastan claimed the Lunar Dawn for his own, rechristening it "The Flying Fist". Buccaneering his way across the oceans, Rastan and his crew raided and robbed everything they came across, until eventually, he himself suffered a mutiny two years later. Set afloat with then Two-Hands Pete, Ice, and Stealy Joe, they eventually washed up, back at the Luskan docks.

In the same position as he was at nineteen, Rastan, against all odds and common sense, got himself enrolled within the Assassin's Guild, where he recieved training and completeda few lucrid contracts, before being thrown out for disorderly conduct; something about robbing them blind and burning people's feet.

Reunited with the Murkle Street Mans, still poor as ever, he continued mucking about, doing oddjobs around Luskan for the next two years, living a relatively normal life.
One day, two years later, he had a plan: the biggest job in Luskan, ever.
They were going to rob the Hosttower.
Needless to say, it didn't end too well. Caught red-handed by a more competent apprentice, Rastan and his crew narrowly high-tailed it out of Luskan, he himself winged with a nasty mind-affecting spell, compromising some elements of his sanity over the years. Leaving the Murkle Street Mans to go their separate ways and try their luck in different cities (who knows, they may even turn up in Luca), Rastan stowed aboard the fastest boat to Luca.

A long and perilous journey later, Rastan broke out from the brig of the ship, and took to spreading his unique brand of crime to the Lucan streets, where his exploits brought him to the attention of an ambitious strifelord, Creed. Blinded by the empty promises of eternal life, vast riches and security from the law enforcement, Rastan was inducted into the cult of Cyric as Avarice, or Greed, fittingly. Not caring much for Cyric or his rituals, Rastan took a back seat and managed to stay out of the murderous rituals, for the most part, and Creed was either apathetic, or didn't notice. Rastan much preferred his back alley robbings and burglaries to the more organised spreading of strife that Creed was behind, and so continued to practice these.
All was well in Rastan's twisted mind, when he sorely misjudged a target manor. Caught!
Biding his time in a Lucan jail, planning his escape, Rastan was approached in his cell by the then mayor of Luca, one Ghost Shadowfist.Having seen Rastan's rapsheet, he had a deal for Rastan: be his on-retainer assassin and agent, or face the gallows the next morning. He accepted. Mayor Shadowfist was not an idiot; he supplied him with supplies and lodgings, as well as plenty of gold, in return for advancing his political career via back-alley means, though at this point their interaction was strictly business.
Upon Ghost's termination as mayor, Rastan was yet again thrown out on the streets. Immediately, he took back to his classic means of putting food on the table: beating people senseless.
Rastan tried a manner of jobs that allowed him to do this, from him hiring himself out as a mercenary, to organising his own underground fight club and betting heavily on himself.

It was during what was meant to be a risk-free burglary that the owner, having been permanently silenced by Rastan, rose again in an undeathly groan. Scared witless, Rastan filled his pockets and escaped to his safe house, adjacent to the sewers. The apocaylpse was upon him, and he knew it.