Titus

A crack-shot of very low moral standing

Description:
Bio:

tl;dr: Raised poor, joined a gang. Formed an assassin band, bit of more than he could chew. Got his brother killed by a cloaked figure with claws and furry hands, turned to drugs to deal with the pain.

Titus was born in a small fishing village not far outside of Retten’s Bay into a devoutly religious family of five, with an older sister, and a younger brother named Havuk. The family moved to Quaytown when Titus was 6. As a small-town boy, Titus was an immediate outcast from the social groups of the city boys. As he aged through childhood, he quickly grew bitter, learning to use guile and cruelty to get his way.

At age 12, Titus became the youngest recruit into The Whips, a local gang of poor and troublesome kids renowned for their ever-present, yet petty crimes. For his tenacity and unprecedented brutality, Titus quickly earned a reputation around town as “That Little Bastard”. Soon, he started dragging his younger brother Havuk along for his exploits, tricking the trustful boy into believing they were performing the lord’s work, attacking enemies of the gods and stealing for the poor, although Havuk eventually grew apathetic, and no longer cared when he learned the truth.

At age 17 and 14, the two brothers split off from the Whips along with two other members. On their first heist, the group accidentally killed the target merchant when a warning shot from Titus’ musket ricocheted into the man’s heart. The next morning, a parcel arrived at Titus’ house addressed to “That Little Bastard”, containing 100 gold pieces, and instructions to kill a new target. Realizing that he had inadvertently collected the bounty on a hit, Titus quickly reorganized his group into an ad-hoc band of assassins, naming themselves “The Fuse”.
Over the next two years, The Fuse became a prominent force in Quaytown. Titus developed his marksmanship skills, as it became an art form for him. Eventually, the faces of The Fuse became known, and as they began appearing on wanted posters, Havuk and Titus were disowned by their parents and sister, and moved into Fuse’s headquarters with the two others.

On New Year’s Eve, an unusual package of black leather was delivered to the headquarters. Since the rest of the group was out buying more ale, Titus opened the wrapping, and a sack containing 200 gold pieces fell to the floor, and a small note of thin paper glided magically into his hand, which read,

“Tonight at the governor’s masquerade party, see to it that the blue crow does not fly home, and you will discover another 800 gp on your doorstep in the morning”

Realizing it was nearly midnight already, Titus gathered his trusty musket Marceline and sprinted to the venue. He climbed to an open window on the second floor which overlooked the three-story ballroom containing the party, and crouched in the threshold. He located his target, a petite woman dancing with a tall man in a red crow mask, whose exquisite lapel was decorated with a number of military medals. Excited, Titus aimed at the small of the woman’s back as she turned away from him, and took the shot. However, having had a little too much ale, the shot went north, piecing the woman’s neck and burying itself into the man’s upper chest. As the room fell silent, Titus barely noticed the blue crow slouching limp into the arms of her partner, but instead was focussed on the man behind in the red mask, who was staring directly into Titus’ eyes, and shuddering, not with pain but with rage.

Jumping down, Titus climbed back over the fence and fled, first towards the slums to lose the trail, and then back to headquarters. Closing the door behind him, Titus saw the smiles of his friends as they tapped the new keg of ale, but then suddenly took a heavy blow to the head as the door behind him was splintered and broke into the room by some sudden shock. He awoke the next morning nearly blind and with a splitting headache, trying to make sense of a bizarre dream, in which a cloaked figure with clawed, furry hands had entered the Fuse’s headquarters, and eviscerated all who dwelt within, quickly darting from person to person and snarling like a wild beast. But as his vision stabilized, Titus found himself looking into the face of his younger brother, who was sprawled across the floor with long, deep wounds streaking across most of his body.

Not knowing what else to do, Titus tapped the untouched keg of ale and pulled pint after pint, drinking himself to sleep. The promised 800 gp arrived the next morning. With a renewed headache in the morning, he piled all three of his companions’ bodies into the center of the room, doused them in oil, and set the building ablaze. Six months later, Titus awoke to find himself being bounced out of a cheap brothel’s bar, with only a few coppers and bullets in his pockets, and a rusty musket slung across his back. Delirious and desperate, he stumbled to the docks and pressed the barrel of his weapon into the forehead of an old fisherman, demanding a ride to the main land. Over the next few years, Titus got by, taking petty crime jobs to make enough money to rent a shack and support a problem with pain killers that helped to sleep away the memories. When Titus rests without sedation, he still dreams of a clawed hand rending his brothers face, and often awakes in a bout of cold sweat and anger, shouting for the brother he led astray.

Titus

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