Legacy of Marcus Calerus

[Thes]

Marcus Calerus

Birth: 30th of Highsun, 1317
Age: 28
Height: 6'1" (185 cm)
Weight: 163
Looks: Well

Exposition

Born amidst the first few years of Torment, Marcus knows of no other life. Born to a couple of uncertain standing and having lost his father at an early age. He was close to his mother in those formative years and he rarely went a night without a story before bed. His mother loved to tell stories and gossip of the townsfolk and Marcus had heard them all. Tales of Old and Ill, news and stories of men who seemed larger than life. Along with these stories came adages and sayings of how to live life and survive the lands of Vitaveus, though Marcus had spent his life physically throughout the Eastern Baronies, it had felt as though he had seen his fair share of the Republic through proxy.

Many of these adages Marcus took to heart, building them central to his life and ideologies: “Idle hands make trouble”, “Clothes maketh the man”, “ a stone worth of prevention is worth ten of cure”, “the drier the life the brighter the Flame”, “a spill brings about the Ill”, “a hair misplaced on your head may bring the Afflicted in stead.” Marcus had an eye for detail and the room in his head for all his mother’s stories and more.

He took to the needle and thread to help keep his hands busy and to ensure he could help refine himself and others. He took to tomes and scripture to keep his mind busy. As he grew he noted the wisdom his mother would advise strayed further towards the dark. Expanding upon childhood stories with newfound gore, tragedy, and detail. It seemed Marcus was not the only one that had noticed his mother’s change of demeanor. Having already not been very popular due to her penchant for gossip; soon it became a subject of note amongst their neighbors and peers. Had Marcus and his mother not been so active among the community, she would not have lasted long as the Witchkin Purge had taken place in the not so distant past.

Though there was no denying something was amiss with his mother, soon enough the stigma began to surround him as well. As he would volunteer his services to fix the stitching and mend the wear of clothing for those around him, he began to notice the newly repaired items would be discarded or become a lesser favorite of theirs than before. It finally reached a point where many would not dare interact with him in person, lest they catch his mother’s madness.

Unfortunate though likely a blessing in disguise, the townsfolk never had to take the matter into their own hands. Marcus awoke one morning to discover his mother had not, a most bittersweet revelation. Certainly he loved his mother. Though it had become apparent that she, which he loved, was no longer at the helm. A fleeting moment of freedom from this stigma which had besieged the household.

Departure

Today was the day. He was determined to finally escape the quiet whispers and glares of disapproval. Today was the day. He knew this could be the path that led him to discovering if any of his mother's stories held any grain of truth or if she was never sane to begin with. Today was the day. He needed his storytelling to be convincing.

"It appears someone has lost their purse. Just as I have seemed to misplace my Quarantine Visa." Marcus said, lowering his voice as he delivered the second sentence and tilting his face with a smile towards the officiant. "Someone wouldn't have happened to turn one in, would they?"

Marcus handed his mother's old satchel over to the officiant; it contained all the currency he had inherited from his mother's passing. He had never dared touch it as he wanted to distance[ himself as much as possible from her scorched reputation. He hoped the officiant would do him two favors: rid him of the forsaken momento and be predictable in his greed.

**Following are excerpts from Marcus' own journals.**

[Thes]

Arrival

The officiant took the remainder of my inheritance, if it even would qualify as such, without hesitation. It was unfortunate I had to resort to such dishonest means to escape, though I knew less questions would be asked of me in this path. Certainly this greed will be expected of those I meet within the First Province. Still it will be refreshing to have a chance to make new first impressions.

I arrived in the dead of night and made my way through the camp. Even still, the locale was busy as arrivals shuffled through examinations to further ensure nothing too unexpected arrived with the individuals. It was a bit puzzling as to why this was not conducted before boarding the train, though I did not need to raise alarm to myself and my "returned" visa.

After finishing the examinations, they bequeathed a supply order to me. While people lined up outside the tent to exchange theirs for some item or other, I made my way toward the gate. Besides, I had not truly earned the item myself, and did not wish to accumulate these transgressions of dishonesty.

The final official at the gate seemed to have second thoughts about the legitimacy of my visa but did not care to express them. They quickly saddled me on a horse headed to Fort Praesidium.

In the growing morning light I watched many nocturnal members of wildlife perform their final rounds before they retired for the day. I am most thankful the steed was more tempered to their presence than I. My arrival at the Fort was heralded by two sets of bells, one from the proximity of the southern gate where I had arrived which rang at a hastened pace. They were followed by leisurely ringing bells that seemed as if to beckon all that heard them. Church bells. Perhaps it would be best for me to attend to pay homage to all the Virtues I have overlooked over the past day.

Conscription

A few days have passed since my arrival. Thankfully I met an individual who could finally spare a moment to give me some directions. They also introduced me to a fellow tailor, though it seemed as though they wished nothing to do with me. They claimed to know of a handful of other tailors, a bit disappointing really. Furthermore, the marketplace was overcrowded with vendors attending shop stalls. I spent a fair allotment of time perusing their wares. I must have stopped at every single one, keeping track of anything of note and trying to determine supply and demand of the population. I was amidst these observations when a rather tall woman collided with me in the upstairs of the public craft hall. This individual must give me a moment of time. I was the one standing in a singular location and not the primary actor in this accident. [Revision: Looking back upon this day I no longer believe this was entirely an incident.] Surprisingly, she was familiar with my earlier docent of the Fort. Upon disclosing my trade I was met with a much more animated response than before.

A bit of a whirlwind ensued. I was in quick succession introduced to a most interesting cast of individuals. A land pirate, a gentle yet firm-gripped woodsman, and a bit of a suspicious man. The First Torian Legion, I knew of the Legion, though this was a most odd division and yet oddly named still. If I were to survive in this new land I must stay busy. I have seen firsthand what trouble idle hands and idle minds may bring. To reclaim Tor, and provide support in rebuilding the province. To help a greater cause. To help. To help. To help. That will be key, it is ill form to dispose of the useful. The useful should be immune; Immunes.

I signed on, I could work with the colors. Perhaps this assortment of individuals could become a sort-of stand-in family. Perhaps this decision should not have been made in such haste, though I suppose there are those with worse outcomes.

I do wish I had taken a moment to consider the walking distance from Fort Praesidium to Fort Perseverance.

[Thes]

Bane

Paddings. Always paddings. Are we truly needing to forge this amount of armor? Are we arming every individual in the First Province? This is what it feels like though I know we cannot possibly be aiming for it. The numbers simply do not work.It seems as though all my time is sewing these tediously simple paddings. It was not true, I did have a surprising amount of freedom despite my enlistment. Freedom though I had, I possessed no coin of my own and any that came under my purview went towards supplying the paddings. The ones made of leather were easy enough to supply. It seemed many around me were more than capable of removing skin. Noted. However, thread for cloth was much less abundant. Occasionally a wild cotton or flax plant would be stumbled upon on the trek from Fort Perseverance to Fort Praesidium.

Within our walls, I have discovered what appears to be a now-forgotten patch of dirt where the corpses of plants previously perished still reside. A garden. Perhaps I could grow what I require here. It was clearly unattended and surely the Praefectus would understand. I have begun visiting the patch daily and even still it seems undisturbed.

Any time outside of the Fort of the First Torian Legion was spent within Fort Praesidium, likely within the marketplace. I long for a day where “Calerus Crafts” adorns one of the stalls, with a well-mannered employee to interact with customers. Naturally, they would be adorned with well sewn garments themselves. It should make a most excellent first impression, establishing the expectation of quality for what is in store.

Sadly, the market is just as crowded as the day I became acquainted with the Legion. Besides, there were no means by which I could pay the employee themselves, let alone the fees requested by the Foundry to establish a shop.

I can be found in the tavern much more frequently than I wish to admit. A disturbing habit that should not be indulged so easily. Certainly there were more pressing matters than allotting this much time to loaf and imbibe the spirits within.

Garden

So far it appears that my keep has been earned within the Legion. The neglected patch of dirt has turned out to be a large boon to my work and morale. What I have learned in growing my own small plot of cotton I have applied towards growing a small assortment of vegetables. This in turn has benefitted the First Torian even more. It seems they are also in need of someone to provide rations for the many mouths of Legionnaires, both in raw and refined supply. The seeds I sow have become somewhat more deliberate with this need in mind.

I was tending to this patch when a pounding came from the eastern gate of our Fort. This was a bit odd, the gate did not receive much traffic as the western and southern gate were much better suited to access many of the amenities of the Fort. Hesitantly, I held the gate into place as I unsecured the lock before pulling it marginally open and pressing my face into the miniscule gap created.

Standing a bit below eye level was a woman in a masterfully exquisite blouse sewn of what appeared to be emerald velvet. After a brief but close inspection of this gorgeous garment, I discovered it had been arranged with the Architecti Prior that she be here. I allowed her entrance and insisted I escort her through the Fort for her errand. In order to do so, we had to pass the garden I had been working within.

She shared she used to spend time among trade routes with her father and had seen a wide variety of produce. What followed was her explaining in great lengths the variety of which she is aware. Much of this definition was exceedingly focused on the variety of cucumbers, which were her favorite.

By sheer serendipity there had been a modest but productive harvest of cucumbers the day prior. We stopped in the meager kitchens so I could retrieve and share them with her. She was elated, asking if she may slice them herself to eat them immediately. Which she then proceeded to do immediately after receiving permission.

I believe I will continue to plant cucumbers.

[Thes]

Confidant

Beyond my usefulness it appears I have begun to earn the trust of some of my comrades within the First Torian. The conversations no longer only pertain to simply our duties. For instance, the once seemingly care-free carpenter has shared with me the turmoil he faces within his bed. I am not certain I truly wished to learn this information, though it seems it will be helpful to understand the dissent that is growing within our walls. He claims that the architect and himself are somewhat of a spoken item, of which the Legatus’ son does not respect.

To be truthful, I have never seen the architect show any affection in excess towards him, they simply share a house of which they built together. From our introductions it seems they arrived in this quarantine around the same time, becoming acquainted during the time it required the officials to process the surge of refugees. I suppose the threat of torment leads some to claim soulmates after but a few weeks' time. On the other hand, the recent Praefectus and the Architecti share affection as openly and frequently as though it were praise for Decus. I do wish they would refrain from it whilst consulting me on matters.

While these personal conflicts should be of no concern to me, it does appear to have a considerable impact on the morale of the First Torian. Perhaps this is the consequence of being accepted by others. In a feeble attempt to help quell the sorrows of our lone carpenter, I offered my ear and kept pace in his consumption of spirits. It seemed as though the liquid contained happiness itself, how it cheered his mood so. We were joined by the Armicutas, a welcome surprise: three skilled craftsmen of steady hand and steadily decreasing balance.

I slowed my pace in observance of my intent to end my reliance on nightcaps, though the two did not. This led to them joining the several empty bottles which now lined the floor. For a moment I believed I may join them, thankfully this belief dissolved with the bracing of the tinkerer table beside me. It was at this time I began to feel a tug on my robes, the familiar firm grip I recalled from when the carpenter first introduced himself. Surely the trajectory with which he pulled would topple me over himself. Why would he wish such a thing? Why would he attempt such a thing? My knuckles grew white upon the table.

I must leave. Hurriedly stumbling my way to the entrance of our now sullied craft hall, I used the walls to keep myself upright. The stars were out. Continuing my forward momentum towards the horses’ pen, I purged the second-rate rum to cement the ruse. I laid down to watch the stars.

Before long, the woodsman worked his way over to his pen whilst I pretended to be incapacitated by my intoxication. He draped me in furs. Surprisingly persistent, he waited aside me for a time. Finally it seemed he was to retire for the night, I began a count to ensure proper time to clear the area.

Except he had not entirely retired. He lay in wait in the bushes affront his and the Architecti’s house. It would be impossible to make way to my own bed without confronting him. As I approached, he claimed he could not bear to rest inside this house he had built.

Had I not rid myself of the excess rum, I may not have perceived his true suggestion. He wished to bunk in my cramped quarters. Unacceptable. I inquired if he had another place to rest, preparing the reasonings for why he would never enter my sanctum of slumber. I am most thankful he did not press the matter, and the carpenter conceded he would spend the night in the bed of the clinic. Eager to clear him out, I assisted him across the fort and to the door. Along the way he tripped, bringing myself down with him. Though the surroundings were beginning to twirl, I managed to throw my weight in a direction opposite him.

I shall not share a beverage with him again.