Name: Targus von Cornwall Age: 17 Gender: Male Nationality: Ylissean Allegiance: Gold! Class: Mercenary Level: 1 Weapon Levels: Medium, Heavy Swords – E {0/5} Weapons: Poisoned Bronze Saber A bronze blade wrought in a low temperature forge. It is of such low quality that it accidentally poisons its opponents. Bought at a very high price despite its shoddy craftsmanship. Appearance: Targus’s frame and stature belie his age by a wide margin. While many children his age are a good deal smaller, one could argue that Targus looks more like a man than even his father – and some even say that his claim to legitimacy is dubious, given the rather poor and sodden looks of his father and mother compared to him. Targus is a broad-shouldered, tall, dark skinned boy. His skin is a shade of bronze, and his hair is a red mop that sits atop his head. While normally it would be seen as an erroneous thing to do in the court of many nobles, he finds it lends itself to his appearance as a hero – and that, combined with deceit, deception, is just another tool to push his agenda further. His eyes are the color of his skin – an intimidating bronze glare. His eyebrows sit atop them, like a crimson lion’s mane. His mouth sits at somewhat of a crook – his natural expression, of course. Whether this shows plain disinterest or disdain is often contested, in his whole self-centered opinion, but he oft can fix it into a ‘heroic’ smile as well. Of course, he never fails to be a charmer. He frequently garbs himself in leather armor. It appears somewhat as a collared shirt, and has a beige color to it. A pin in the shape of a shield adorns the edge of this collar, with red and yellow colors adorning it. Little does anyone know, this pin is actually what is commonly known as a ‘Hero’s Crest’. Over this leather cuirass, he wear a sort of vest composed of scale mail – or lamellar as it may be called – which hangs a bit loosely from even his brawny frame. This is because the smith was the same one whom had forged his sword, and was therefore awful at his job. Thankfully, there are no defects within the armor itself, causing it to still provide as much protection as typical lamellar would. Its sleeves stop a bit short of where his cuirass’s sleeves stop, which is just above his elbow. In addition to his lamellar and cuirass (and whatever may lie beneath that), he wears a set of dark pants, made out of a durable material. He also wears standard boots, meant for a variety of tasks. Personality: He is an embellished, tarnished, over-prideful, over-confident little shit, and that’s what his best friend would tell you. His thirst for wealth – and by those ends, power – knows no bounds, no measure of restraint. He will do anything and everything – all which is within his grasp – to ensure he turns a profit. However, that does not mean that he is by any means especially intelligent; yet, he learns well enough from his mistakes. After being swindled out of the majority of his hard embezzled money, he found the secret to trading with others: brute force, intimidation, and haggling. Three of the myriad of skills he has come to possess in his short time as a mercenary. He has become a novice at swordplay, yet still sells his skills as among the best in the land; he has learned how to thieve and how to spread rumors, lies, and deceit. He uses this to tarnish the reputation of those in competition with him – other mercenaries who, by no fault of their own, he simply does not see as good as he sees himself. But even he knows that he lacks experience. Desiring to build an empire – a man’s dream. Targus is certainly no longer a boy. His desires far outweigh that – and he wishes to use the current conflicts, new ones that emerge every day, as devices to further his gains and push his profits further. And through profits, his new empire will be born through bloodshed and bullion. Backstory: Much to Targus’s disdain, he was born a peasant. A somewhat well-off peasant, but a peasant nonetheless. Regardless, of social status, his father turned a pretty penny every year. As Targus grew, he would become interested in what his father brought home every harvest. Gold, he learned it was called. It was at this point that he realized his greatest desire of all: to own as much of it as possible. From there, it was a trivial matter to convince his father to allow him to go to the market in his stead. It was there he learned how to manipulate – how to get people to buy more, how to get them to spend more coin. He began to inflate prices, slowly. They would still buy, and Targus would still earn coin – but it wasn’t his. No, not yet. As he came upon the age of ten, he soon fell into the practice of embezzlement – he would take his share of the coin, permission or not. In this case, it was almost always not; for to Targus, he saw it as his right. However, that doesn’t mean he hadn’t kept it a secret. Indeed, he knew his father would notice, so he chose to only take what wouldn’t be missed. Fudging the numbers, or so they say; all the same, as the coin slid into his pockets, and his father was never the wiser. And then, as he aged, he found himself in a peculiar spot: the local Lord was coming to town, the first time that Targus himself would be able to see. It was some form of parade; something celebrating a coming-of-age. Targus was disinterested in the entire affair, but he had hatched an idea: who was stopping him from establishing himself as such a ruler? He had decided that from this day, he himself shall be such a ruler. No, more than a simple a lord. An Emperor, in his own right. And so, if you skip forward a few more years, you would find a near-current Targus, with just enough money to buy, in his rather inexperienced opinion, adequate supplies for what is now a mercenary venture. This included a blade, which he bought by happenstance: a peddler of wares entered the town, laid eyes upon the boy, and thought to himself: ‘Why, this would be a marvelous opportunity!’ Of course, this thought was in large part jest, his wares being no better than trash. What a fine chance it would be, then, that Targus would have no idea how much swords sold for either way! Targus believes himself to have snatched at a steal, though the merchant cheated him out of much coin that day. Similarly, he would be fated to be cheated out of further coin: he would buy a set of armor from this very same merchant, at even higher prices, and be left with little money remaining. Today, as it stands, he can currently be found anywhere around the Halidom, offering his services where they may be needed… even if he hasn’t necessarily found work. Notes: -von Cornwall is an abstraction devised by Targus himself. -his entire name is actually a moniker in fact. Approved by Darth
