Dwarven thug


Bral (pronounced “brawl” – Dwarvish for wrathful heart)

A dwarf with little morals and a feeling that this was the only chance life had left open to him. Bral is an angry little man who seems to make poor life choices. Beldal has saved his skin more times than he can count, but then again he was never very good at numbers. The Grey Wardens offered him a new life when the old was was just about up, so if he has to crawl through the muck for them, well that’s not much different from what he has been doing his whole life. At least the Wardens offered him some freedom, some respect, and a chance to finally make some real coin.

Although thoughts of running were always in the back of his mind, after Thisletop and the Catacombs of Wraith, Bral found himself useful for the first time, irreplaceable even. More importantly he discovered the thrill of waging war on those who stand before him – not the bullying of a mark or a mugging of some drunkered but standing toe to toe with a foe hell bent on slaying you; the rush, the dangers, and the thrill of standing over their vanquished corpse. The huge amounts of gold help too!

Scraggly and short bearded when the party first meet he has been cleaned up and tends
to dress more like a dwarf of means, wearing fancy clothes, polished armor, and wearing his beard long, oiled, and bejeweled.

Hard lessons learned on Hook mountain, Bral has become one of the “fancy pants holyer-then-thou” warriors he has always been so spiteful of back in Orzammar; Never one to use the “trappings” of the dwarven warrior class Bral is seeing the wisdom of shields and heaver armor more and more – can’t count your coin or drink with your friends when your dead, and although having some coin in your purse is nice have actual friends in all the more valuable. Bral is not about to give that up – even if he has to spend all his hard earned gold on some fancy armor and a new shield.



That word used to mean home, though little comfort did it bring. Once Long ago, in my Grandfather’s father’s day, we belonged to the warrior caste. Truly a noble house to hear my father’s tales, but he never knew, for he was a coal cartsman too. Apparently one of my forefathers decided the blight was no longer worth fighting, or he had a plan that would have saved us from them forever, or he only came up from the deeps to “get a new ax forged”. That’s what I‘ve been told my whole life but I know better; he was a coward. He was scared and he ran as far as he could get with out leaving the city as he was no doubt scared of that too. He took work in the coal mines hauling carts of coal; he could bear the disgrace as long as it kept him in the upper reaches of the city. And from father to son, from Hardin to me that has been our lot. Even when my father’s cousin was named a Paragon she chose to leave us behind. Pulling a cart, wrangling a donkey, and coming home with black hands every day to squalor and drink, that was to be my life. Is it any wonder I took to gambling, and drinking, and crime too when I had the chance. I am not proud of the things I have done but I don’t deny I did them.

      It was the crime that got me here. Torich, Garel and I thought to rob a fancy little shit we saw walking alone too late one night. Must have done well for himself at a gambling hall we thought, and we might do well to relieve him of it. No one ever comes to the dust to do good, not even us. He killed Garel with a smart slice below the chin, Torich and I put him down but too late we noticed how fine his garments were and the cloakpin of his house. Seems we had tried to rob a noble just come back from his bride to be, fucking noble hunters. He got away and we panicked. Torich died two days later from a gut wound he barely noticed at the time but by then they had come looking for us. The guards from the east and the dregs from the dust. The noble had recognized our cast by are garments and lack of branding so they knew what area to look in. The shadows from the dust knew exactly who we were and were unhappy that we caused this commotion. I should have stayed and accepted my punishment, or stayed and fought – my life was hardly worth living and maybe I would enjoy being castles more than a cartsman. But Like my forbearers, I ran. I left Orzammar in a dirty cart full of coal and snuck away from the only home and the only people I ever knew. I guess being a coward runs in the family.

      I tried to make it with the sun touched, but never fit in. The same pattern of drinking, gambling, crime, and whoreing always lead to moving on in the dead of night. The last time they even cut my beard before I managed to get free. They were going to split me open when they found where I had hid the ruby. I chipped my tooth smashing my goalers face with my own but I got up and he did not. That was when the wardens came for me, as if the smug bastards were waiting for me. middle of night, just sitting there with that cage on wheels, door neatly ajar, on the side of rarely used path to the south. With nowhere left to run and a rock I was not looking forward to passing, I once again climbed into the back of a cart and left home.