The Origin of Tarkus

 Tarkus of Nowhere 
Tarkus never knew his father.
His mother — a quiet Vudrani seamstress with tired eyes and a gentle voice — died before he was old enough to remember more than the smell of jasmine in her hair. All he inherited from her was a name, a half‑remembered lullaby, and a pair of unsettling violet eyes that made strangers stare and whisper.
He grew up in the crowded streets of Niswan, Jalmeray’s great port city — a place of monastic towers, spice markets, and shadows deep enough for a child to disappear into. Tarkus learned early that no one was coming to save him. So he learned to run, to hide, to steal, and eventually, to fight.
The thieves’ guild found him before any temple or monastery ever did.
At first he was a pickpocket, a lookout, a street rat with quick hands and quicker feet. But as he grew, his body hardened faster than his grace. His shoulders broadened, his fists hit harder, and the guild began sending him on jobs that made his stomach twist — intimidation, collection, “reminders” for those who owed coin or obedience.
Tarkus hated it.
Every time he raised a fist at someone weaker than him, something inside him recoiled — something old, something instinctive, something that whispered this is not who you are meant to be.
Then came the Thingus.
He never learned what it truly was — a relic, a ledger, a charm, a secret — only that the guild guarded it obsessively and wanted it moved under cover of night. Tarkus saw his chance. He took it. Not for profit, not for power, but because it was the one thing the guild wanted most. Stealing it was the best way to give the Guild a big ol’ middle finger as a resignation letter.
He fled Niswan before dawn, the Thingus wrapped in a ragged cloth, and boarded the first ship leaving port. He didn’t care where it was going. Anywhere was better than Jalmeray.
He sold the Thingus in a dingy market stall in some nameless Inner Sea port for a handful of silver — barely enough to buy food and a bed. He thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The assassins came weeks later.
Silent figures with veiled faces.
Men and women who moved like smoke.
Killers who knew his name, his face, his habits — who struck without warning and vanished without trace.
They hunted him across the Inner Sea:
•     In the alleys of Absalom
•     On the docks of Magnimar
•     In the forests of Varisia
•     Even on lonely roads where no one should have known he passed
No matter how far he ran, they found him.
Tarkus didn’t know why.
He didn’t know what the Thingus truly was.
He didn’t know who wanted it back — or why they wanted him dead even after he’d sold it.
All he knew was that he was tired of running.
Somewhere along the way — maybe in a tavern brawl, maybe on a lonely road, maybe in a moment of drunken clarity — Cayden Cailean found him. Or maybe Tarkus found Cayden. It didn’t matter. The god of freedom, bravery, and second chances didn’t ask for explanations. He just offered a hand, a laugh, and a path forward.
Tarkus took it.
Now he carries a shield instead of a guild’s threats.
He protects instead of oppresses.
He fights for others instead of for coin.  Well, coin IS nice but… Freedom!
And though he still doesn’t know the truth of his bloodline — the reason for his violet eyes, the shadow in his soul, the mythic echo that follows him — he knows this:
He will never again be someone else’s weapon.
And if the assassins come for him again?
Well…
Tarkus has stopped running.