Septimus Artorius

Some would say that being the seventh son of a seventh son marks a person in some indelible way. Whether for good or ill, well, that is up to who you ask. If you were to ask Septimus, he would say that the fates seem to have leaned more in the latter direction.

Early Years
Growing up the seventh son and youngest of a brood of nine, Septimus had his fair share of hardships. With eight older siblings, he was always the last for anything. While some children would rankle at this circumstance, his early years were relatively happy ones. He had a loving family, a roof over his head, and always had enough to eat. But when it came to inheritance, he was perhaps unsurprisingly, last again.

Their father's farm would pass to Primus - the eldest of his siblings - at his passing, and while several of the others may have been content to stay and work the fields, the prospects for his other children were few enough that he sought to find them apprenticeships when he could. A tailor took in his two sisters, and several of his brothers would find work as smiths and masons, but for Septimus, it was to be woodcraft.

Learning the trade from a wily huntsman the locals called Owl, Septimus found that the out of doors suited him, and he picked up the craft quickly. Hunting, building shelters, cutting paths, tracking game, it all came easily to the young man, and by the time of his eighteenth name day, he was already taking on the ranging jobs that old Owl couldn't manage. By the age of twenty, he had a little home of his own in a little hamlet not far from where he had been born, a darling wife, and a little girl to fill his thoughts.

Life was hard, but it was good.

Hard Times
The fates were determined to see to it that the good life he had wrought was only to grow all the harder for Septimus in the coming years. Only a year after the birth of his daughter, he was conscripted as a scout for the armies of the Red Eagle. Here, he plied his skills in woodcraft to track enemy movements, find safe paths for supplies, and even stalk and kill messengers from the other side. It was a far sight from the work he had once enjoyed, and it took him only nine bloody months to gather the courage to slip away in the night as a deserter. All he wished was to provide for his family, and he could not do that as a dead conscript.

Upon returning home, he was dismayed to find that the family he had left behind was dead and gone, taken it was said, some months back by a fever. Distraught at this news, he became a shadow of his former self, drinking away what little coin he earned in the taverns when they could tolerate him, and drinking alone when they could not. Even old Owl turned him away after a time, ashamed of the kind of man he had made of himself. Septimus did not drink to remember. He drank to kill the memories of what he had done in the service of the Red Eagle, and of what he had lost.

In the end, violence would find him again, only this time he would go to it willingly. When a band of mercenaries came through the small hamlet two years later to seek able recruits with which to bolster their numbers, he was one of the first to volunteer. When he had heard that the Dogs of Cavenosh traveled far and wide in search of coin for their services, he could think of no better way to wipe away the memories of home. The townsfolk of Tether's Dell were glad to see him go.

The Depths of Rage
Life in the Dogs of Cavenosh was much like the life he had so hated under the thumb of the Red Eagle, but for one exception: he had a say in what he was paid to do. If ever he did not like what cause the band had been hired to take up with, he could take his pay and go his own way. Despite this caveat, he no longer shied away from the blood and violence. No, he found that when a weapon was in his hands, all he could feel was a furious rage that burned away all of the grief and loss that lingered inside him. This was better than drink, better than women, and even better than coin.

Days turned to months, and months to years. By the time he had seen twenty five winters, Septimus had managed to wash away all but the most stubborn recollections of his past life in a sea of blood and anger. It was almost as if he found purpose again amid the bloodshed, and had even earned a reputation in the Dogs for being a brutal fighter who reveled in throwing himself at the enemy. Many of the men even held wagers as to how many campaigns his fury would carry him before he was finally brought down.

But how can you kill something that was already dead inside?

Betrayer and Outcast
Fate interceded once again, and on a hilltop not far from the town of , all of his rage would finally take its toll. The skirmish started as they all had with Nobles squabbling over the supposed borders of their territory, and good men being sent out to settle the matter in blood. They had come upon the their enemy just after sunrise, rushing out from the trees as they were packing up camp. The Dogs had slain four before they could even grab for their weapons, but by then it was all but over.

Standing amid their ruined camp, the Dogs celebrated their victory with their customary looting of the dead, and when young Roderick, a new recruit ignorant of Septimus' condition slapped him on the shoulder in camaraderie, he turned upon the boy and cut him down where he stood. Shock gave way to outrage as the other mercenaries turned on him, and still lost in the bloodlust, Septimus saw naught but foes. By the time they had him bound and had beaten him unconscious, he had killed another one, and seriously injured two more. Unceremoniously, those he once considered friends dragged him back to their encampment and threw him before the Captain.

The list of his crimes were read to him once Septimus had come to and had grown sober enough to understand the things he had done, and it was only due to the Captain wishing to make an example of him that he was not executed there in the Commander's tent. Instead, he was tied to a post in the center of camp and given one hundred lashes for the brothers he had slain, and the brand of an outcast was laid upon the back of his left hand for his crimes against the others in the Company. Bound in shackles, he was dragged from camp, and down to the roadside where he was thrown into a gibbet to suffer his fate until the elements, wild animals, or thirst took him.

Only the Fates themselves knew what they had in store for him now.

Character Traits
Personality Ideals Bonds Flaws
 * I've found good food and the best company among the small folk. High society grates on me.
 * I died a long time ago, so the thought of death has lost its teeth.
 * Better to die on your feet than serve on your knees.
 * Those who fight beside me are those worth dying for.
 * My hatred for my enemies is blind and unreasoning.