Birthright

Birthright Short Explanation Options
Scavenger You became an adult amidst the yearning and poverty of the least of the God-Emperor’s flock, one soul amongst countless underhivers, renegades, bonepickers, and a thousand other outcast castes that exist on the fringes of the Imperium, scavenging what they can to survive. All that you owned was claimed from the wastes of those far above you in the Imperial hierarchy or gleaned from the wreckage and ashes of past war and catastrophe—at least, everything that wasn’t taken from the bodies of your peers and rivals, of course. Yours was a hard life lived upon a knife-edge: the dark abyss of starvation on one side and death or worse on the other. A childhood where each day of survival was a triumph has hardened and honed you, but left its scars on your soul. Fringe Survivor
Fringe Survivor Life in the Imperium of Man is constrictive and stifling. You and your family did whatever it took to survive in this regime by living out on the fringes of society. Each day was a struggle, but somehow, against all odds, they found a way so you could go on and realise the destiny the God-Emperor had entrusted in you. Survivalist, Heretek, Pit-Fighter
Scapegrace An orphan of the borderland between light and dark, you spent years living by your wits as a scapegrace amidst entertainers, gangers, reclaimators, and other ne’er-do-wells on the fringes of Imperial society. Your youth was spent in a grey borderland where the near-outcast mingled with shadowed figures risen from the depths and thrill-seekers come down from safer climes. A good scapegrace knows that the law only applies to those caught by the enforcers, that a life is worth only as much as is spent on keeping it. You’ve carried these hard earned lessons on into later life. Survival is best thought of as a game, with pleasure and ease the rewards along the way. A body must eat, drink, and live well, for death can come calling when it pleases. Unnatural Origin
Unnatural Origin There are many in the Imperium whose existence is not kind; indeed, there are few for whom the Imperium is anything other than a distant and uncaring master. For some, however, existence is something to be suffered and endured. For these wretched few, life is a twisted and unnatural thing, and such men and women either find release in an early death or rise above their abhorrent origins. Some are cursed by a polluted environment, others doomed by the taint of the Warp, while others still are false-men, wrought or remade in flesh-vats and genetic vaults, their lives and bodies as clay to the whims of others. Contaminated Environs, False-Man, Tainted by the Warp
Stubjack You were born to violence. It has surrounded you your whole life, and you’ve had a weapon in easy reach ever since you were strong enough to grip one. You could have joined the PDF or even become a Guardsman, but what sort of life is that? Joining a regiment means orders here, orders there, and none that make any sense. It was clear to you that fighting for Thrones as a mercenary was the best way for a warrior to become rich in his trade and still escape with his skin. You’ve seen death, victory, and most of the ugly things that lie inbetween, but as long as there is always a fat purse waiting on the far side of the battlefield that’s fine with you. As for the dead, the Emperor will know his own. Unnatural Origin
In the Service of the Throne The Imperium is built upon the toil of untold trillions of men and women, and the blood and bones of countless generations form its foundations. Your life was spent as one in the Emperor’s service, destined to sacrifice yourself to the greater glories of His Empire. Some choose to serve; others find their service forced upon them, chosen to be one more cog within a machine of bewildering proportions. Tithed, Born to Lead, One Amongst Billions
Savant To the scholar’s ear, there is no worse sound than the tearing of parchment. It always marks a desecration of one sort or another, be it a priceless work lost or a savant destroying his own flawed labours in disgust. You know this because the murmuring of savants, clicking of lexmachinery, and scent of ink and dust have been a part of your life for as long as you can recall. Apprentices are brought young into the Adept’s trade, for there is much to learn and the human span holds little time to learn it in. Apprentices sit in attendance at meeting after meeting between elder savants, bathed in the exchange of knowledge until they know how to learn and the correct knowledge has been drilled into them. All the galaxy is packed with knowledge, and even the smallest drop of it would fill the minds of a world of savants to bursting. Yet you derive much comfort from learning—even though you could never personally know more than a miniscule fraction of all there is to know. Fringe Survivor
Child of the Creed It was not until comparatively late in your youth that you set foot in a room in which the stern gaze of the God-Emperor was absent, and during your impressionable years, you were shielded by the enfolding arms of the Ministorum from much of the hardship and uncertainty so many must endure. The unyielding visage of His statues was as much a part of your upbringing as the zealous, pure faith of those closest to you. Scripture, ritual, lessons, and priestly exhortations fill your memories, rising unbidden in every quiet moment—as though the aged, white-haired clerics who taught you still remain by your shoulder in spirit, jealously guarding over your soul. All men hear the God-Emperor’s holy words if they are born under His rule, but you heard more than most before even reaching adulthood. In Service of the Throne
Vaunted You grew to adulthood upon the spire of wealth and privilege that towers, in some cases literally, high above the common Imperial masses. You expected their obedience and lived upon the fruits of their toil, surrendered to your extended family in solemn fealty. It was an upbringing amidst proud scions, wastrel lords, and high-priced retainers of silent, watchful competence. All the distractions available to the wealthy, bored elite were arrayed before you for the taking, day after day—a panoply of decadence to enervate the body and transport the mind. Those were years of fantastical exhibitions, sordid entanglements, strange drugs, conspiracies for the sake of show, mindless rivalries, and carefully hidden violence In Service of the Throne

Birthright

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