Talislanta

Selling yourself into bond slavery for your people was the easy part. Lacking prospects, skills, and resources, you were just another mouth to feed to your family. An “expense”, as the hated Hadjin moneylenders would say. Famously unlucky even among those for whom the Doom hangs heavy overhead, your own personal superstitions did little to avert the constant disaster that was your life. When the council paid for a renowned Talismonger to inscribe the glyphs of community upon your face, you absorbed the karmic debt of your entire community, lightening their burdens at the expense of the dark stain upon your own soul. Provided, of course, that you took the Doom far from them. And so, bond slavery. You wear now chains, but you cannot ever return to the (blasted, haunted, desolate, accursed) homeland of your people, for all will see the signs and know your role as a Doom-Eater. Forbidden to kill you themselves (lest the curse flow back into them), wells for a dozen leagues outside Maruk still occasionally discover a waterlogged humanoid corpse with a strangely tattooed face…