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Range and Penetration:
    Armor, whether manufactured or natural, provides little protection against the force of a bullet at short range.

    When firing an early firearm, the attack resolves against the target’s touch AC when the target is within the first range increment of the weapon, but this type of attack is not considered a touch attack for the purposes of feats and abilities such as Deadly Aim. At higher range increments, the attack resolves normally, including taking the normal cumulative –2 penalty for each full range increment. Unlike other projectile weapons, early firearms have a maximum range of five range increments.

Loading a Firearm:
    You need at least one hand free to load one-handed and two-handed firearms. In the case of two-handed firearms, you hold the weapon in one hand and load it with the other—you only need to hold it in two hands to aim and shoot the firearm. Loading siege firearms requires both hands, and one hand usually manipulates a large ramrod (which can be wielded as a club in combat). The Rapid Reload feat reduces the time required to load one-handed and two-handed firearms, but this feat does not reduce the time it takes to load siege firearms.

    Loading any firearm provokes attacks of opportunity. Other rules for loading a firearm depend on whether the firearm is an early firearm or an advanced firearm.

    Early firearms are muzzle-loaded, requiring bullets or pellets and black powder to be rammed down the muzzle. If an early firearm has multiple barrels, each barrel must be loaded separately. It is a standard action to load each barrel of a one-handed early firearm and a full-round action to load each barrel of a two-handed early firearm. It takes three full-round actions by one person to load a siege firearm. This can be reduced to two full-round actions if more than one person is loading the cannon.

Misfire
    If the natural result of your attack roll falls within a firearm’s misfire value, that shot misses, even if you would have otherwise hit the target. When a firearm misfires, it gains the broken condition. While it has the broken condition, it suffers the normal disadvantages that broken weapons do, and its misfire value increases by 4 unless the wielder has gun training in the particular type of firearm (see Gunslinger). In that case, the misfire value increases by 2 instead of 4.

    If an early firearm with the broken condition misfires again, it explodes. When a nonmagical firearm explodes, the weapon is destroyed. Magical firearms are wrecked, which means they can’t fire until they are fully restored (which requires either the make whole spell or the Gunsmithing feat). When a gun explodes, pick one corner of your square—the explosion creates a burst from that point of origin. Each firearm has a burst size noted in parentheses after its misfire value. Any creature within this burst (including the firearm’s wielder) takes damage as if it had been hit by the weapon—a DC 12 Reflex save halves this damage.

You grew up in an environment where the meek were ignored and you often had to resort to threats or violence to be heard.

Benefits: You gain a +1 trait bonus on Intimidate checks, and Intimidate is always a class skill for you.

Hailing from Alkenstar and in the firm grips of a lucrative contract with Molthune’s military forces, Rud “Nail-spitter” has begun supplying the Molthuni war effort with superior firearms and competent training. Imperial Governor Teldas hopes the introduction of superior firepower will afford them the edge against the Nirmathi guerrillas they have lacked in the past. You have either spent time as an employee under Rud or have received training as a Molthuni regular.

Benefit: You receive a +1 trait bonus to Craft (alchemy), Knowledge (engineering), and Profession (soldier or engineer); one of these is a class skill for you. Furthermore, Firearms fall under the Commonplace Guns rule for you. Additionally, your starting firearm loses the initial "broken" condition.

You have little to fear when there's a gun in your hand.

Benefit: As long as you are wielding a firearm, you gain a +2 trait bonus on all saving throws against curse, fear, and emotion effects.

Frig was once a slave. Born to a halfling family of consummate artists under the auspices of a minor noble family based out of Korholm, the drilling soldiers of the city's war academy were a frequent sight. Ultimately, Frig was able to climb the social ladder enough so to join the Imperial Army. He was just a month short of citizenship when he met his end. In honor of his service and loyalty, Frig's Steel Hawk was sent to his family in Korholm. The young halfling had often written of his exploits with Eldred, marking him as a true friend. After a time, Eldred is delivered the dead soldier's medallion, with thanks and well wishes from the halfling's family.

Benefit: Some of Frig's luck seems to have made its way into Eldred's possession; you receive a +1 Luck Bonus to all Saving Throws.

Eldred Pentwert isn’t all that big a man. He’s skinny, stands a spit’s-worth above 5’ 10” and keeps his brown hair cut close in the military style. Eldred’s brown eyes are in a constant squint, as though in his heart of hearts he truly can’t stand to look at the world around him. The grim, downturned scowl he usually wears doesn’t help dissuade that observation either. Add to that the long scar down the right side of his face where a misfire nearly took his eye but did take a chunk of his ear and you’ve got a man not known for his beauty.

While he doesn’t have the ropy muscles of a swordsmen or an archer, Eldred’s built up a constitution making him tougher than most. While he may not be able to deliver the best punch, he can take one. His body, while thin, is denser than oak. Eldred’s fingers, burned and scarred and calloused from his years training and being at Ramgate, could scratch a man’s face with barely a swipe. An exaggeration maybe, but do you go around rubbing your face against rocks? But what his fists can’t do, ole Lia can do much better...and louder.

He dresses in browns and greens, his military tabard - long since battle stained and mended - are the only real colors he flies. Eldred’s boots are well-worn, the soles a mass of mud and blood that serves as further reminder of the places he’s been and the things he’s seen.

Quick Reference
Quiet Man: Eldred speaks little. When he does, it's usually a warning, or a "yes, sir" for his superiors. The rough childhood under his father, then the harder life in the military has thoroughly ground out his need for small talk. He learned early that you shut up and listen, lest you miss something important.
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Low Patience: Due to his upbringing, he has low tolerance for layabouts and people of low character. Accountability and responsibility is key. If he can't trust you to put one foot in front of the other and clean yourself up after you drop a "d", how can he trust you to watch his back in a fight? "Fancies/Dandies", sellswords and thieves usually fall into the category of better dead than alive.
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No Fear: Eldred's seen too much. From idiots losing their heads during gun training (see Quiet Man) to the horrors dredged up by the Nirmathi during his stint at Fort Ramgate...there's not room for fear.
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Dedicated: He knows to finish a task. Either he was beaten by his father or by his superiors during training or cut up on a mission, Eldred knows the power of follow-thru. More importantly, he knows the necessity of standing alongside your comrades when your in country. When given an objective, Eldred will not stop...ever.
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Closed Off: After losing all his friends at Ramgate, it's a difficult task to climb over the walls around Eldred's heart. He keeps most everyone at arm's length to make sure his head's screwed on straight. But he's been alone for so long, there's a chance he may have lost the ability to form new friendships. Time will tell.

He has one remaining "friend" in Sergeant Major Keppish (referenced in the story below). Leonid Keppish was his firearms drill instructor in Korhlom.

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Fleshed Out...
He’d spent too many years in the service of the Imperial Army to have a sweet disposition. In the days of his youth as a forester...to his days trying to not blow his own head off during training...to his stint at Ramgate...life had not forged a pleasant man. At least not with strangers. Eldred has a bit of patience for those in the service. But not a lot for those not willing to do more than sit back and let others do their work for them.

He doesn’t speak a lot. Most of his words were used up in the fighting. His kind words leastways were spent upon the dead bodies of his comrades. He has a few of the other words left. Mostly curses.

Eldred isn’t a merciful man, he showed that on the battlefield. And the Imperial Army needed men for the butcher’s bill, men willing to do what was necessary to see order in the land. Men willing to do what was necessary to ensure the country continued to grow. Eldred wants to be for the Imperial Army, otherwise why did he leave home? But the things he’d seen at Ramgate...the things he’d been ordered to do...and the things he’d been willing to do. What did it mean about his loyalties? Was he on the right side? Or was it only his resolve that was the center of the question?

He sees himself as a bullet. A smooth ball of lead aimed at the heart of each and every problem towards which his superiors aimed. But Eldred was slowly seeing himself as more. He was seeing himself as the gun.

Eldred Pentwert grew up in a small farming village a few miles south of Braganza. His father Battos was a hard man, an Imperial man. Early on, he saw in his son Eldred not a farmer, but the potential of being a soldier. So, Battos proceeded to harden his son. He put Eldred to work on the most difficult tasks on the farm; from shoeing horses to keeping wolves at bay when they emerged from the Backar to the south of their farm.

The years under the firm hand (and sometimes lash) of his father paid off. When recruitment caravans arrived in their village, Battos gave his son a choice. Stay on at the farm or have a more difficult but better life in the Army. Eldred, only 17 at the time, knew only the difficulty of living under the iron hand of his father. So he opted for the military. The younger Pentwert left behind his home and didn’t look back.

He would learn to regret that decision when he received a letter many years later regarding the demise of his father. He had been in training at Korholm, laid up in the medic’s tent with a bloody gash to the right side of his face as a result of a pistol misfire. A messenger delivered two letters and a wolf-hide bound parcel, all tied together with twine.

To Eldred Pentwert, son of Battos,

Your father is dead. He was attacked and killed just outside the Backar, a pack of wolves and other animals.

You will find a token of your father’s esteem with this letter. Wield it well.

Then a second letter, this one penned by his father...

To my son,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve moved on from this world. My hope is I went down with a fight, not at the plow. You’ll never know how hard it was to send you away, but I knew it was for the best.

You’ll be a hard man, I made sure the seed was planted. The Army will make sure it takes hold and grows. Be sure you don’t get so tough you break.

I hope as you grow, you’ll come to forgive me.

Your father, Bottos Pentwert.

Eldred closed the letter and his heart to the pain that had sprung up. Instead, he inspected the small parcel, noting that the messenger service had already opened it to verify the contents. Inside the box was a sheathed dagger. It wasn’t a weapon of controversy, but it was honed. Obviously old, judging by the worn, ironwood handle, but the blade was well-maintained. On the steel, just shy of the hilt guard was an engraving. From what he knew of metal, it appeared etched more recently than the forging of the blade itself.

For my son, a keen edge is life.

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In the years that followed, Eldred completed his training in Korholm. While others in the newly formed regiment had lost fingers or been killed at the hands of their own foolishness, Eldred had excelled in the use of the pistol. Bearing the weapon assigned him by the Imperial Army and the scar along the right side of his face, he was given his first orders: Assignment to Fort Ramgate.

Some of the soldiers had taken to calling it the Dark Gate. Nothing that passed through the doors of that place ever shined again. Not the guns, not the swords...especially not the soldiers. But Eldred found himself in the company of the 2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts, the only group of souls he’d ever call his friends while he was at the Dark Gate.

And he saw them die, one by one.

There were few guarantees to live on in the Ramgate, not in that place; one was the near certainty that most would die who went into the field.... Another; Eldred Pentwert somehow was inevitably among those that did. Some in his company thought it luck, others thought it a curse and actively sought reassignment within the Fort. A few took to calling him “Dread” because while his comrades dreaded going into the field with him, his officers dreaded not sending him. Eldred was good with a gun. Steady under pressure. And he was willing to go as far if not farther than their enemies. Nothing shook the gunslinger’s resolve. Not the Nirmathi rangers nor whatever horrors the tree-hugging mystics threw at him. Looking at “Black Powder Fortune” Trait if I qualify

Over time, as he saw the last of the original regiment fall, Eldred volunteered for the more dangerous missions. Especially the reconnoiters where he could depart on his own. It was after the 10th such mission that his officers decided Eldred’s skill with a gun couldn’t be wasted on a single suicide mission. Eventually, the dice just wouldn't fall his way. Before the pips came up ones, they reassigned him. The grizzled soldier needed to pass on what he’d learned.

Two things happened next; Eldred had achieved his 10th year of service in the Army. Far more than was required to earn his citizenship. The second was an assignment to the city of Braganza. He would aid in recruitment efforts and aid the local constabulary in keeping the peace during the Building Season.

Eldred had sat on the end of his rack staring down at the last (and only gift) his father had ever given him. For my son, a keen edge is life. He decided then and there that he would continue his service to the Army. To do otherwise would mean finding a place in normal society. That in turn would mean reconciling his life in the Army...the things he’d seen and done, with being an upright citizen.

He sheathed his dagger, packed up ole Lia and some bullets along with the rest of his gear and moved on to his next assignment; Braganza.

Looking at the Rud’s Wastewares Trait if I qualify

The rain was fillng the ravine where he was hiding with Frig. The Halfling was bleeding, but Dread couldn't see it for the rain. Frig was gasping into the night, each outflow counting down to his last breath this side of the dirt.

"Powder's wet, Dread." Frig gritted out. He had his hands gripped around the neck of an all too skinny powder pouch.

"Yeah." What else was he going to say? He had his ole Lia held tight, the white oak grips warm to the touch. The rain had started only a few minutes ago, so sudden it'd taken them both by surprise...all their training and they'd not had a dry-satchel close to hand. Idiots.

Dread adjusted himself, his seat squelching in the mud, his back aching from the roots they were hiding against. "They'll be on us soon, Frig, we're gonna have to move."

"Where to, Dread? You have a house nearby? Something with a dry bed?" In the dark and the rain, Dread couldn't see the blood in his friend's grin.

They both heard the dogs...and whatever other light-blinded creatures the Nirmathi rangers were using. Dread cursed the squad of tieflings that had betrayed them into this mess and slipped his pistol into his belt and drew his short sword. Then his pack went into the mud.

"Hope you don't think I'm carrying that..." The Halfling's voice, shrill and resonant was carried away by a fit of coughing.

Dread stood and grabbed up the only other living member of the 2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts. "Suck it up you pint sized dung eater," Even with Frig being a halfling, Dread was having difficulty managing the weight. He'd never been the strongest. Thin, shy of 6 feet, Dread wasn't the cut of an imposing figure. He was just hard.

The sounds of voices were drifting through the driving rain. Some shouts in elvish and other languages Dread didn't know.

"Closer..." Frig managed before coughing again.

"Yeah. Probably following that girlish chokin’ you got going on." Dread pulled his hat a bit tighter to keep the rain out of his eyes. "Which way, Frig? I couldn't tell you if the Fort was right in front of face."

"Go left along the ravine. Maybe a few miles yet." He pointed at the pack his human comrade had dropped. "Better not have the gold you owe me in there, Dread."

Despite the situation, he grinned back at the Halfling. "Stop your belly aching...and your leaking, this is my last tabard."

”Smells like orc, piss. Who’ve you been humpin’?”

”She said she was your mother, Frig. Wasn't sure so I took a shot.” Eldred "Dread" Pentwert charged into the darkness and the rain carrying his friend on his back. Behind him were the dead and the enemy. Ahead, the Fort and maybe some sanity.
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Something crashed onto the bar top next to him, waking him from his memory. The rain that had been pounding down on him so many years ago drifted away and the raucous noise of the Painted Bodice rushed in to fill the void. Eldred looked up and saw his scarred face staring back at him in the bar’s cracked wall mirror. Next to his image was a large man, a mercenary by the cut of him, his fist planted on the bar.

”My friends over there wanna see me split yer face, stranger.” The mercenary’s breath was rank with tobacco and the local swill.

Eldred barely shrugged a shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of ole Lia in her harness under his long coat. He turned an eye towards the stinking man, looking him over, then returned it to the wall mirror. ”Got enough blades to do the job, friend?”

Another slam of the fist on the bar top. ”Don’t need a blade ta cut ya, friend” He squeezed his fist enough to cause the knuckles to crack audibly. ”I can take care o’ business just fine on my onesies.”

”Hmm…I see you ain’t got Army colors, friend.”

”Don’t need ‘em to squash the likes of you.”

Eldred’s left hand squeezed just slightly on the handle of his mug. ”Colors are for me, friend…” He swept the mug from the bar and across the mercenary’s face in a single motion, smashing the crockery and the remaining beer over him.

In the same motion, his right hand drew his gun. Ole Lia’s barrel was kissing the mercenary’s chin in an instant. ”If you’re not wearin’ colors, I got every right to send your brains into the rafters. Won’t even have to sign off on the bullet at the quartermaster’s office...plus I’ll be saving space in the jail.”

His altered position caused his long coat to come open, revealing his travel-worn tabard marking Eldred a soldier. ”Now, if you’re smart, you’ll back down and let me reminisce for a while.”

Judging by the puddle growing at the feet of the mercenary, the man knew the look and feel of a gun. His hands climbed as he backed away. ”Sorry, friend. Didn’t mean to disturb ya…”

Eldred cocked ole Lia’s hammer. ”Call me ‘friend’ again. I’ll let ya know how much you disturb me.”

Sodden and cut, the mercenary backed away and rejoined his friends. Shortly afterwards, spotting that there were other soldiers in the tavern who were now paying close attention to them, the group made a hasty exit.

”A bit slow on the draw, Pentwert. Thought I taught you better than that.”

It was a voice he’d not heard in a long time. One that very nearly brought a grin to his face. But when he turned around on his seat, safetying his weapon and holstering it, he saw the back of the mercenary leaving the bar. His scowl remained. Gods he hated spineless sellswords. Only good for catapults in Eldred's book.

”Been a while, Soldier.” The old man standing before him squinted at the sash across Eldred’s chest. ”Sorry, Corporal.”

Eldred slipped from his barstool and stood at attention, knuckling his brow then his chest in salute. ”Sergeant Major Keppish, glad to see you’re still this side of the dirt.”

The old man returned the salute and nodded for Eldred to reclaim his seat. He moved up and joined him at the bar, taking the stool on the other side of Eldred. ”Got word you were bein’ assigned here.”

”Problem?” He signaled the barkeep to bring him another ale, gesturing for him to add a second for Keppish.

”No. Just glad to see someone with experience in the city. Too many greenwoods running about. Plus, I need someone with an eye for the Fusiliers.”

Eldred shrugged, taking a sip of the ale the barkeeper set before him. With a wipe of the froth from his scarred face, the gunslinger looked up into the wall mirror. ”What do I have to do?”