Markus Basaran

History

• Biography

  Born into nobility, he was dropped into the finery and edicate that befits the son of a Lord. Manners and literacy were of the utmost importance, and he and his sister wanted for nothing. His parents were rather distant with both their children, far more interested in politics and bettering their house. Their children were put on the sideline for the sake of joining another house to their own, or to help advance their position in the courts. At the age of seven he was made a page, and sent to serve in the castle. The knight he was to serve under was none other than the Purple Rose Vivian of house “Xanister”. As a page he ran her messages, cleaned her arms and armor and drew her baths. Anything she needed that he needed that he could do for her he did. In time he came to see her as a motherly figure, where he had not seen his own in quite some time. Though it was rare to spend any time with either of his parents even before that. She taught him court edicate and reigned him into her routine. Not only did tend to Vivian, but to her young daughter Anavi as well. His duties often involved babysitting her when it was necessary, though only when Vivian was home. Should she leave for a sortie, or to battle he went along with her. Reigning him into her courtly regiment, meant teaching him the basics of combat. This started almost immediately, believing it to be very important for him to start early. Though she always demanded he remain at camp during battle. Motherly as she was to him, she did not wait very long to involve him in war. She was there to have him fitted with armor, and had trained him well. A sword and shield to match her in combat, she trained him well.He would be brought into his first battle alongside her when a band of barbarians threatened the outlying towns of Ymir’s kingdom. His first kill was a young man dressed in furs and rags. A tall man who carried a crude but heavy axe. Twenty to his twelve. Training paid off, and his shield arm was strong. Turning blow after blow of the axe before plunging an arming sword deep into the man's stomach. He still thinks it from time to time, and how he had never been that scared, before or since. When he returned he was different, suffering from nightmares for several days before he was once again led into conflict. He would not return to the field of battle for at least two years, when at fourteen he became her squire officially. On that day, she took his training more seriously. Treating him less and less like her son, and more and more like a man. His sparring partner oddly enough was not often than not, her daughter Anavi. Who was being more extensively trained as she aged, just like him. During this time he would attend her at tourneys and in battle. Bearing her standard and tending to her horse and armor. Serving beside her in combat, seeing more and more blood each day as the rebellious barbarian tribes of the mountains became more and more daring. Greater numbers of tribal warriors were flooding out of the mountains, and it was becoming more and more clear that they would have to march into the mountains and root out this rabble eventually. It was years of skirmishes and ambushes in the mountains till a formal force was set loose from the city of Ymir. He and his lady were in attendance, he was 21 at the time. He had grown into a fine leader, often his suggestions led to great victories over the barbarian horde. Though his words were not heeded often, Vivian took his council to heart. Often asking for his opinion of battle plans or marching lines. He was a natural tactician it would seem, but it wouldn’t be until his knighthood that these would come to the attention of seasoned commanders. Through valor and bravery, he was to be dubbed a knight when he returned to the capital. Before that however he was to accompany Vivian and now her daughter into the depths of the mountain crags to face this insurrection head on. No fighting occurred on their way into the mountain passes, and only the quiet stones marked their passing. Suddenly the horde came from caves that dotted the craggy walls of the canyon. Barbarians mounted on massive lizards that crawled down the mountain, clinging to the walls ambushed the column. The fight was brutal and bloody, grown men being torn into by massive beasts. Markus was thrown from his horse, and after being taken into the mouth of one of these great beasts. It ravenously tried to bite through his armor, and in a panic was brought to the edge of a cliff by his allies spears. The beast lost footing, and fell from the cliff into a deep canyon with Markus still caught in its jaws. The fall did not kill him, as the beast took the brunt of it. Still his leg was broken, and he passed out from the pain.
  
  He awoke a prisoner of the mountain tribes, locked in a cage of branches and sinew. Primitive in construction, but sturdy enough to keep him locked inside. It was the first time he had ever been captured, and he was surprised he hadn’t been killed on the spot. Perhaps they had thought he killed the beast himself, still caught in its jaws with a blade only steps away from where he lay. Soon enough his stirring brought pain to his body, as his right arm was dislocated from the fall. Glancing down, it seemed his right leg was in bad shape as well. A sharp stone lodged into his thigh, though missing his artery by sheer luck. He stared at it as he considered whether or not to pull it out. He might only be alive because of the way it was lodged, so he dared not remove it. He rooted around with his good arm for some time, finding a piece of branch and some twine left in the dust beneath him he made a bit for his mouth. Looking around, he found it was dark out. The only light came from a campfire that was tended to by a rather large hairy man. He wore little clothing, and he squatted shape wasn’t flattering to look at. Still would have to wait till he was preoccupied. It wasn’t until he stood, and started snapping branches for the fire that his chance came at long last. He waited, and timed his movement. Biting down on the branch, he grabbed the wrist of his dislocated limb. Snapping it back into place in tandem with the snap of a branch. The bit helped him from biting his tongue, and he managed to keep from screaming. Looking around the small camp he noticed other cages, several of them housing villagers from the outer reaches of the kingdom. Others held wounded soldiers that had been captured as well. A few even held tribal men and women, likely from a rival group. He took a moment to rest after his ordeal, checking over himself to see what remained of his gear. His armor and sword had been taken, and his shield with them. They left him with his boots, and hidden away with handle that matches his boot leather was a knife. He sighed with relief knowing it was there, and decided to wait and consider his options. Soon enough his decision was made for him, as a strangely painted group of the savages gathered around the fire in the middle of the camp. They gathered wood, and piled it onto the fire, making the flames taller and hotter, throwing on various herbs and a strange powder that made the flames leap and jump with a shower of sparks. They chanted in strange tongues, and drums began to beat. Their war chief had arrived, brought into the clearing on a palisade made from wood and bone. Carrying a great club, he strode off the palisade and stood before the fire. Chanting something in a deep voice before walking along the outskirts of the clearing, looking in each cage. Till finally he came to the cage that held Markus. A toothy grin fell on him, and he pointed at the cage door and shouting. Soon the door was cut, and Markus was dragged out by another man, who bound his hands in the front. Throwing him before the chieftain, who squatted down and said something demeaning in a language Markus couldn’t understand. Reaching his great arm back, he called for a weapon. A tall cudgel, with a great knot on the end. He raised that great cudgel as Markus was shoved to his knees. He held it over his head, shouting and calling out to his people. Who all shouted in return, and he pressed the knot to the back of Markus’ head. Raising it up over his head like an axe, Markus watched the shadow cast by the fire. With quick timing, he dipped his head left, dodging the blow of the club. Bringing his knee up, he seized his knife from his boot as the club was buried deep in the dirt. He turned on the ground, and stabbed the man behind him in the thigh, and again in the chest as he fell to the ground. Their chieftain struggled to pull the club from the ground, and as Markus turned to face him. He stomped just below the head of the cudgel, snapping the head and sending the chieftain tumbling backwards. Markus jumped on him as he fell, bringing the knife to his head. Splitting his teeth with the blade, and driving it deep into his skull. He swiped the jute that bound his hand on what little blade wasn’t buried in his head, and finally his hands were free. Looking up, Markus rolled for his sword, which was leaning on the chieftains palisade. Turning to a pair of men rushing him with axes, and he cut them both down with swift precision. Making his way around the cages, Markus cut open every one, setting soldiers and villagers free. The soldiers scrambled to take up arms with Markus, and the villagers grabbed what they could to fight alongside. Clubs and spears cut from branches would arm them. Markus led these soldiers through the camp, cutting down those that opposed them. Forming a wall of shields around the villagers, they made it out unscathed. Though some of the soldiers were wounded in the trip. Those tribal men and women that had been set free thanked Markus in their own way, and fled together into the mountains. Armed with what Markus could spare, axes and wooden shields taken from fallen barbarians. The trip back to the capital was dangerous, but with Markus for their commander, they made it home safely. He was met by his Lady, who embraced him like a lost son. Her daughter did as well, and were relieved to find him not only still alive, but having saved the lives of over 20 captured people. Not including the others he rescued who parted ways with them in the mountain pass. The account was told again and again, each time more of the same. It was written in times, and Markus was knighted that same day. He made a lieutenant in the 9th Legion as well, and given men to command. Most of them volunteers from the team that he rescued from the mountain tribes. In the years that followed he proved himself time and time again in the field as a leader. Given more and more men to command, he still maintained his central few, who he promoted beneath him when the need arose. His presence was requested at every strategy meeting and war council that occurred on the front lines. Slowly he rose to the rank of captain at the age of 25, one of the youngest men ever to do so. Three years later, the war with the barbaric mountain tribes was coming to an end. Markus was on the rise in military ranks, and rumors began to spread that he would soon replace the commander of the 9th legion. Though he cared little for these rumors, the idea that he could become a legion commander and serve directly at the Kings side was enticing. This did not sit well with the current commander of the 9th, Lord Tytus. Known well among the Legion Commanders as “Tytus the Mad”, he was known for marching men into battle against unscrupulous odds. Sacrificing the lives of countless men for the sake of victory. So long as one man on his side of the field was left standing,Tytus considered it a glorious victory in favor of the King. It was no surprise when men flocked to join Markus and his men. He was well respected among the other captains, the Legion Commanders and his men. His pedigree was well received, with his mentor as one of the Roses directly under the King. His ascension to Tytus’ position was assured, only a matter of time. It was due to this game of hats that Tytus would do the unthinkable, and March his legion into the lion's den. Tytus declared an offer of peace.
  
  This offer was confusing to most, as they all knew Tytus to be cutthroat and vicious. Sending Markus to make an offer to the barbarian King. Markus marches into enemy lines with his men, and with him he carried a parchment. This scroll carried the Kings signature, and Tytus’ as well. Much to his surprise, Daxos the king of the mountains met him personally and considered the offer he was given. He wanted no more blood to be shed on his mountain, and he accepted the treaty. Markus informed him that he would need to make his formal acceptance before the Legion commander himself, in one of the mountain cities they were fighting for. An armistice was ordered on both sides, and Tytus arrived to meet with Daxos for the formal acceptance of this treaty. Each as to prick a thumb, and sign the treaty in blood. After Tytus marked the treaty, he gestured for Daxos to approach him and take the knife for his mark. Tytus suddenly cast the treaty to the ground and drove the blade into Daxos body, stabbing him repeatedly before shoving the King to the ground. He claimed that “Our glorious King would not make peace with disgusting savages,” before retreating with his men from the city while the remaining captains of the 9th were ordered to hold the city until the commander was safely away. Markus couldn’t believe the treachery Tytus had orchestrated. Never believing even a man like that could sink so low. The city was in an uproar, and as the King lay dying his people took up arms. All people of this mountainous region took up axe and spear to avenge their fallen king. The 9th Legion held its ground, while Markus awaited the command to fall back, but no such order came. When the lines began to fail, men of the legion began to die, Markus gave the order to retreat. It however, was too late, and the shield wall at the rear fell. The 9th Legion was slaughtered in that canyon, outnumbered and now surrounded. Markus himself would survive, but only just. His men were not captured, instead slaughtered on the spot. In his frantic retreat, he fought his way through a number of houses in this city. Where he met a familiar face. His name was Yurt, and he was one of the men and women Markus had rescued years ago. Yurt has seen what happened from his home, when Tytus killed his King. He still trusted Markus, and believed he owed him a life debt. He and his family hid Markus in their home, deep in a family burial crypt behind a stone slab. Here Markus remained, until the barbarian horse swept through the town killing every man of the 9th they could find. When Markus emerged, he was dressed in Yurts old clothes, and led out of the city through an old goat farmers path into the green meadows at the top of the canyon. Yurt and his family wishes Markus well, and with his life debt paid, they returned home. Markus made his way back to the capital, masquerading as a farmer for most of the trip. He finally revealed himself to the legionnaires that guarded the road to the capital, where he met with other survivors of the slaughter. Men who had managed to make it out before the enemy closed in around them. They told Markus a grim tale of the capital, where he learned he was branded a criminal. Tytus ordered his capture and execution should he be found to have survived the slaughter of the 9th legion. He was slandered as a traitor of the people, and was claimed to have killed King Daxos during the peace ceremony. The treaty was shone, slathered in the King’s blood. Markus lives now as a fugitive, reports from soldiers loyal to Tytus claiming he survived. Reports that he had come to the capital seeking asylum and conspired with soldiers loyal to his traitorous ways. Those soldiers that aided in his flight from the capital were executed, and an order for his arrest had been warranted. The bounty on his head continues to climb to this day, while he flees the watchful eyes of Ymir. Looking for a way to bring justice to Tytus, and clear his name. Markus Basaran, coined as the true Commander of the 9th Legion.