Tiberius
04-03-07, 03:47 AM
History:
*A large blotch of black ink mars one corner of the page, and numerous wet spots dot its surface, as though it were sitting in the rain, or beneath a crying face. A stocky man, gray and haggard in his middle years, leans close over the page, his eyes wet and red with tears, and his hand works furiously at the tiny piece of lead clutched between his fingers. Words appear on the page, some of them running and smearing when they find the wet patches, but still the man writes on, oblivious or just not caring.*
My name, is Tiberius Corvelous Maximentus. I am thirty three years of age, come this next spring. I write on this scrape of parchment, perhaps my last words in this forsaken place, this hell on earth. We have been at war now for sixteen years and they show no signs of putting an end to this fighting. How so do I miss my wife Ylis. My son Marcus. He would be seventeen this spring. Mature enough to find his own wife, his own house. Oh gods how I miss them so!
*The man pauses to wipe his eyes and blink away dirt and tears. His sniffs loudly and shifts his seated position, then bends back over his parchment, scratching away.*
They tell us that maybe this will be the last battle in this war. I do not believe them, as they have said this twelve times before, six years in a row. There is only so much fighting a man can take. Why did I have to chose this place? This time, this war? I could have been a carpenter, like my father and his father before him. Money. It was for the money, and my dear Ylis and our new born son. Money, oh how I hate that foul device that taints mans soul and drives him toward killing and destruction! How I hate it!
*The man suddenly chokes, heaving over his paper and dropping his piece of lead. Tears stream unheeded from his eyes as sobs rack his body and shake it mercilessly. After a few minutes the man opens his tightly squeezed shut eyes and feels for his lead, finding it beside his foot. He sniffs hard, exhaling softly and once more bends over his parchment.*
Sixteen years, and all of them a living hell. I do not know what possessed me to think that this would be an easy path to money and land. Twenty four years. The minimum service time, and all of them spent at the will of a man whom I've never met, or seen but must obey and give my life for on a whim. A dream, they call it. A destiny. To give your life for the Empire, in the service to Romulus himself! There is no greater glory. Family. The greater glory, it is not gods or some far off emperor and his vast empire. It is family. My family. Oh gods, why have you curse me so!
*Suddenly the man pitches himself to his feet, deeply hidden and buried anger bubbling to the surface as he wrote, and he begins to scream in a fury at the heavens above him. Clear blue sky's and faint whiffs of white cloud are the only things that hear his cries of forgiveness, curses and mercy. His cries fade into sobs and the man sits down heavily. He stares at his parchment and the writing that now takes up more than half the face. He sniffs, wipes his nose and resumes his writing.*
Cursed. This is what I am. Cursed for all eternity, in this hell on earth. It was early morning and the seventh month of my sixteen year in service to the Empire. I was looking forward to my last eight years, as they were to be in service of a small border fort, a peaceful place. No wars, no battles. The occasional fight, but nothing serious. We had just broken came, when the rains and lightings came. We did not fears the rains, or the lightnings, but what happened that day struck fear into our hearts, as sure as the sun rises each day. They seemed alive these lightnings. Snaking through the air like some great serpent, striking at the ground with explosive force that no man had ever seen, or heard before. Whole pieces of earth, and dirt, and clay flew into the air when the lightnings struck. Our Centurion, a leather lunged old veteran of twelve campaigns, began bellowing orders for us to stow our armor and weapons in leather sacks. We all thought it a good idea . . .
*The man sniffs loudly and turns his parchment over, as he has run out of room on the first face. He bites his tongue, trying hard to hold back more tears as they try and push their way from his face, and begins to write anew.*
. . . as these lightnings seemed to seek out the metal we all wore. I had just begun removing my armor when the horn for assembly sounded. We all stood as if in a daze for the briefest of seconds. The horn sounded again and all thought of stowing our gear and protecting ourselves vanished with that horn. We were under attack. That was the only reason the horn for assembly would be blown. Attack, and they had caught us completely by surprise. I buckled on my armor, grabbed my sword, pilum and shield and ran toward the horn. I will never forget what happened next. I was running as fast as my legs would carry me, my shield banging against my thighs and calves as I ran, my pilum knocking around in my hand as I grappled to get my sword belted on. My helmet, slung from my belt, pelting my other thigh with sharp jolts as it bounced with every foot step, my armor squealing and scraping as my body stretched and contracted it as it moved. I looked up and the Gods struck me down.
*The man abruptly shudders, so violently that he drops his lead and parchment to the ground. His hands move shakily toward his quivering face and he grips his flesh as though trying to rip it from his bones. He leans his head back and opens his mouth as though to scream, pulling his flesh away from his eyes so that the bright pink and red underneaths are plainly visible, but emits no sound from his throat. His body is caught in a vice, he can't move, he can't breathe. He shudders and exhales sharply, going limp in an instant. He again finds himself stare at the parchment and the rapidly shrinking piece of lead. He quivers, new tears forming on his dirt streaked face, and reaches for the parchment. He begins to write again.*
It came from no where, a bright white light and searing heat. It was there and then gone again so fast that I stumbled two whole steps before I realized something had happened. I stood as if in a daze, my eyes wide with terror and my mouth gaping open. Then the light and heat struck me a second time and I was thrown force ably from my feet. I remember seeing wet, brown and green earth beneath me one instant, then dark, gray and boiling mad sky above me the next. I opened my mouth to scream for help and the light and heat returned a third time, but this time didn't leave. I did scream then, but I don't believe anyone heard me. That was when everything went black.
*The man stops. He is out of room. He begins to shake, the need to write overpowering him. He frantically searches his pockets and pouches in an attempt to find another parchment. His hands find something that crackles and he latches onto it. It is in his breeches. He drops his other full parchment in his haste to pull free that which had crinkled in his breeches out and he finds that it is a letter, written to him by his wife Ylis, sixteen years earlier. He pauses, his shakes and tears gone for a moment, as he looks it over. He runs his fingers gently over its surface, memories of his wife and son flooding his vision. The tears begin anew and he turns the page over. It is blank. He casts around for his lead, finds it next to the first parchment and bends over the clean side of new parchment. He begins to write again.*
I thought myself dead. I cursed the gods, curse them still, for the punishment they had so unjustly wrought upon me. I remember the oddest sensation of falling. As though from a great cliff into a bottomless pit. Ceaseless falling. Never ending weightlessness. Then, heat. Pain. Searing hot heat and pain. I opened my eyes and I found myself gazing upon a clear blue sky with a yellow-orange sun and long, thin white clouds. I sat up in a daze, lost, confused, hurt. Where was I? Where was the legion? Where was the wet ground? Is this heaven? Am I truly dead. Then I felt my chest. Armor. My shield, next to me on the ground. My pilum and sword, still clutched in my hand. My helmet, still on my hip. This was not right. They strip the body of all useful materials and recycle them back into the legion. The deceased go to heaven cleansed of all earthly possessions. Then why did I still have my weapons and armor? I realized, I wasn't dead. Then the need. The need to write my thoughts, came over me like a great white heat. I had to write. I had to. . .had to. . .
*The man stops, unable to finish. The words, have fled. The need to write, has fled. He no longer feels the pull to scribble out phrases he never knew he had. He sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of a grimy hand. He then looks to the sky. The sun is bright in his eyes and he has to look away. He stares at his two pieces of parchment and tiny piece of lead. He sniffs again. He then gets to his feet, spins in a few circles for a moment, trying to decide what to do, before gently folding the two parchment and lead into a small packet. He then stuffs this into a small pouch on his belt. He sniffs and rubs his nose again, and bends to retrieve his helmet, shield, pilum and sword. He shoulders his shield and belts his sword and helmet to his waist, while holding his pilum in his hand. He then gazes silently at the ground where he first woke up, then gazes out across the rolling plains the world around him. He hefts his shield, sniffs again, and starts to walk. He does not know where to he is walking, or where he even is. All he does know that wherever he is, it isn't home and that's where he needs to go and in order to get there, he needs to start walking.*
~~~~~~~~~~
Name: Tiberius Corvelous Maximentus
Age: 33
Sex: Male
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 185 Lbs w/o armor 225 w/ armor
Hair Color: Brown with streaks of gray
Eye Color: Pale Blue
Appearance: 17 years of an adolescent life in the Ancient Roman Empire had left Tiberius with a very rough looking appearance. 16 years in the Imperial Army, did little to help this. Bearing numerous scars on all parts of his body, Tiberius could only be called handsome by those who knew what he looked like before war. Now he was is what most would call "Horribly Scarred" and brutally ugly because of it. Most noticeably about these scars, is the one that runs from the bottom of his left jaw, straight up his cheek and then straight across his nose and bridge to just under his right eye. It never healed quite right and is a very bright white and puffy, noticeable from yards away. Another noticeable scar runs from just to the right side of his left eye, down across the first scar, beneath his nose and across his mouth. Buckling it and drawing it up on both sides like some sadistic clowns smile. He can flatten his lips to make them look normal, but he stopped doing so long ago, as no one seemed to care what he looked like, so long as he fought, hard and well. He stands at an average height of five feet eight inches and weighs in an average weight of one hundred and eighty pounds. There is no fat on his body, as the hard life of an Imperial Soldier allows for none. It is all hard muscles, toned by sixteen years of continuous training, campaigning, construction and fighting. Tiberius has not seen a day of rest since he joined the Army.
Clothing: Tunica The standard issue tunic worn over linen undergarments and underneath his armor. Red-orange colored, stained brown from years of use.
Caligae His standard issue military boots. Almost like over glorified sandals.
Cingulum Militare The standard issue belt. Rather narrow and is decorated with bronze strips, all the way around.
Focale The red-orange scarf worn to keep the metal from his armor from scraping his neck.
Sporran An apron consisting of a number of leather thongs to which are riveted metal plates, weighted with bronze to act as both a formal decoration, and a genitalia protector.
Equipment: Galea His standard issue, Legionary Helmet. Constructed of bronze with an iron trim, this helmet features a projected piece that shields the neck, a smaller ridge that protects the face, and at the sides are large cheek pieces that are hinged at the top to allow for adjustment, greater mobility or to just simply move out of the way.
Scutum The large standard issue Roman shield, which is curved to fit the body. It is made from thin sheets of wood, glued together so that the grain of each piece was at right angles to the piece next to it. The whole is bound around the edges with wrought iron and the center is hollowed out on the inside for the handgrip and protected by metal bands. The outside surface is covered in leather, on which is fastened gilded or silvered decoration, in bronze. The shield can be hung from the shoulder by a strap, allowing for easier carrying while on the march.
Lorica Segmentata Plate Armor. This armor was made up of many pieces of laminated iron all bound together to form a very flexible, strong and a very effective piece of bodily protection. It only covers the chest, the top of the shoulders, and the back down to the top of the hips.
Weapons: Gladius The standard issue Roman short sword. It is a double-edged weapon about 18 inches long and two inches wide, with a corrugated bone grip formed to fit the users hand. A large round ball at the end helped with the balance. The primary use is for thrusting at short range. It is carried high on the right hand side so as to be clear of the legs and the shield arm. This weapon is constructed of steel.
Pilum The standard issue Roman javelin. It is seven feet long and very light, as it is often thrown just prior to engaging the enemy in melee, to disarm as much as wound them. The top three feet were of soft iron with a hardened point. The iron is soft because as soon as it is thrown and lands in either the ground, a shield or in a person, the tip wound bend in such a fashion that the javelin would become useless as a weapon, be a hindrance to carry around in a shield, and wound an enemy in such a way that they would have to retire from the fight. If they could escape from the field that is. It can also be used as a one time use, impromptu spear should the need arise. However, because of the soft iron head, it lacks the solid punch of most conventional spears, so is not readily used as such. He currently has 2.
Pugio A standard issue Roman dagger that is anywhere from 7 to 11 inches long in similar width to the gladius. Tiberius's is quite plain but still makes an effective secondary weapon, should be become disarmed. It is attached to the belt on the left hand side. This weapon is constructed of steel and is 10 inches in length.
Skills/Abilities: Legionary Discipline Discipline is engraved in this mans bones. When faced with numerous enemies and unfair odds, the Legionary will not back down just because he is out numbered. He is too proud, too strong to do as such. He is often considered overly brave, but is instead just highly disciplined and will not run easily from a fight.
Legionary Conditioning Sixteen years of constant training, construction and war have formed this Legionary into a very fit, very strong, very effective soldier. He can maintain a steady to slightly accelerated trot for dozens of miles, carrying a load of upwards of sixty pounds. He can lift his weight, and a full one quarter of that again with only some difficulty. He can throw a full three quarter of his own weight a distance of six feet with only some difficulty. He can fight for a full forty five minutes at the same if not slightly slower pace that whence he started before showing noticeable signs of fatigue. He can then continue for another half hour before suffering from exhaustion.
Legionary Training Sixteen years of constant use of his weapons, hands and feet, either in combat, training or construction, have given him good to very adept use of his weapons. With his sword he is rated at slightly above average. With his shield he is rated at average. With his pilum he is rated at average.** With his pugio he is rated at average.
** He can throw it for a total distance of seventy five yards and hit a target accurately at forty. That is if that target is running straight for him or away. If the target is running in a horizontal path, he can hit accurately at a distance of twenty five yards.
Languages: He can only speak the ancient form of Latin that was used during the Roman Empire.
*A large blotch of black ink mars one corner of the page, and numerous wet spots dot its surface, as though it were sitting in the rain, or beneath a crying face. A stocky man, gray and haggard in his middle years, leans close over the page, his eyes wet and red with tears, and his hand works furiously at the tiny piece of lead clutched between his fingers. Words appear on the page, some of them running and smearing when they find the wet patches, but still the man writes on, oblivious or just not caring.*
My name, is Tiberius Corvelous Maximentus. I am thirty three years of age, come this next spring. I write on this scrape of parchment, perhaps my last words in this forsaken place, this hell on earth. We have been at war now for sixteen years and they show no signs of putting an end to this fighting. How so do I miss my wife Ylis. My son Marcus. He would be seventeen this spring. Mature enough to find his own wife, his own house. Oh gods how I miss them so!
*The man pauses to wipe his eyes and blink away dirt and tears. His sniffs loudly and shifts his seated position, then bends back over his parchment, scratching away.*
They tell us that maybe this will be the last battle in this war. I do not believe them, as they have said this twelve times before, six years in a row. There is only so much fighting a man can take. Why did I have to chose this place? This time, this war? I could have been a carpenter, like my father and his father before him. Money. It was for the money, and my dear Ylis and our new born son. Money, oh how I hate that foul device that taints mans soul and drives him toward killing and destruction! How I hate it!
*The man suddenly chokes, heaving over his paper and dropping his piece of lead. Tears stream unheeded from his eyes as sobs rack his body and shake it mercilessly. After a few minutes the man opens his tightly squeezed shut eyes and feels for his lead, finding it beside his foot. He sniffs hard, exhaling softly and once more bends over his parchment.*
Sixteen years, and all of them a living hell. I do not know what possessed me to think that this would be an easy path to money and land. Twenty four years. The minimum service time, and all of them spent at the will of a man whom I've never met, or seen but must obey and give my life for on a whim. A dream, they call it. A destiny. To give your life for the Empire, in the service to Romulus himself! There is no greater glory. Family. The greater glory, it is not gods or some far off emperor and his vast empire. It is family. My family. Oh gods, why have you curse me so!
*Suddenly the man pitches himself to his feet, deeply hidden and buried anger bubbling to the surface as he wrote, and he begins to scream in a fury at the heavens above him. Clear blue sky's and faint whiffs of white cloud are the only things that hear his cries of forgiveness, curses and mercy. His cries fade into sobs and the man sits down heavily. He stares at his parchment and the writing that now takes up more than half the face. He sniffs, wipes his nose and resumes his writing.*
Cursed. This is what I am. Cursed for all eternity, in this hell on earth. It was early morning and the seventh month of my sixteen year in service to the Empire. I was looking forward to my last eight years, as they were to be in service of a small border fort, a peaceful place. No wars, no battles. The occasional fight, but nothing serious. We had just broken came, when the rains and lightings came. We did not fears the rains, or the lightnings, but what happened that day struck fear into our hearts, as sure as the sun rises each day. They seemed alive these lightnings. Snaking through the air like some great serpent, striking at the ground with explosive force that no man had ever seen, or heard before. Whole pieces of earth, and dirt, and clay flew into the air when the lightnings struck. Our Centurion, a leather lunged old veteran of twelve campaigns, began bellowing orders for us to stow our armor and weapons in leather sacks. We all thought it a good idea . . .
*The man sniffs loudly and turns his parchment over, as he has run out of room on the first face. He bites his tongue, trying hard to hold back more tears as they try and push their way from his face, and begins to write anew.*
. . . as these lightnings seemed to seek out the metal we all wore. I had just begun removing my armor when the horn for assembly sounded. We all stood as if in a daze for the briefest of seconds. The horn sounded again and all thought of stowing our gear and protecting ourselves vanished with that horn. We were under attack. That was the only reason the horn for assembly would be blown. Attack, and they had caught us completely by surprise. I buckled on my armor, grabbed my sword, pilum and shield and ran toward the horn. I will never forget what happened next. I was running as fast as my legs would carry me, my shield banging against my thighs and calves as I ran, my pilum knocking around in my hand as I grappled to get my sword belted on. My helmet, slung from my belt, pelting my other thigh with sharp jolts as it bounced with every foot step, my armor squealing and scraping as my body stretched and contracted it as it moved. I looked up and the Gods struck me down.
*The man abruptly shudders, so violently that he drops his lead and parchment to the ground. His hands move shakily toward his quivering face and he grips his flesh as though trying to rip it from his bones. He leans his head back and opens his mouth as though to scream, pulling his flesh away from his eyes so that the bright pink and red underneaths are plainly visible, but emits no sound from his throat. His body is caught in a vice, he can't move, he can't breathe. He shudders and exhales sharply, going limp in an instant. He again finds himself stare at the parchment and the rapidly shrinking piece of lead. He quivers, new tears forming on his dirt streaked face, and reaches for the parchment. He begins to write again.*
It came from no where, a bright white light and searing heat. It was there and then gone again so fast that I stumbled two whole steps before I realized something had happened. I stood as if in a daze, my eyes wide with terror and my mouth gaping open. Then the light and heat struck me a second time and I was thrown force ably from my feet. I remember seeing wet, brown and green earth beneath me one instant, then dark, gray and boiling mad sky above me the next. I opened my mouth to scream for help and the light and heat returned a third time, but this time didn't leave. I did scream then, but I don't believe anyone heard me. That was when everything went black.
*The man stops. He is out of room. He begins to shake, the need to write overpowering him. He frantically searches his pockets and pouches in an attempt to find another parchment. His hands find something that crackles and he latches onto it. It is in his breeches. He drops his other full parchment in his haste to pull free that which had crinkled in his breeches out and he finds that it is a letter, written to him by his wife Ylis, sixteen years earlier. He pauses, his shakes and tears gone for a moment, as he looks it over. He runs his fingers gently over its surface, memories of his wife and son flooding his vision. The tears begin anew and he turns the page over. It is blank. He casts around for his lead, finds it next to the first parchment and bends over the clean side of new parchment. He begins to write again.*
I thought myself dead. I cursed the gods, curse them still, for the punishment they had so unjustly wrought upon me. I remember the oddest sensation of falling. As though from a great cliff into a bottomless pit. Ceaseless falling. Never ending weightlessness. Then, heat. Pain. Searing hot heat and pain. I opened my eyes and I found myself gazing upon a clear blue sky with a yellow-orange sun and long, thin white clouds. I sat up in a daze, lost, confused, hurt. Where was I? Where was the legion? Where was the wet ground? Is this heaven? Am I truly dead. Then I felt my chest. Armor. My shield, next to me on the ground. My pilum and sword, still clutched in my hand. My helmet, still on my hip. This was not right. They strip the body of all useful materials and recycle them back into the legion. The deceased go to heaven cleansed of all earthly possessions. Then why did I still have my weapons and armor? I realized, I wasn't dead. Then the need. The need to write my thoughts, came over me like a great white heat. I had to write. I had to. . .had to. . .
*The man stops, unable to finish. The words, have fled. The need to write, has fled. He no longer feels the pull to scribble out phrases he never knew he had. He sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of a grimy hand. He then looks to the sky. The sun is bright in his eyes and he has to look away. He stares at his two pieces of parchment and tiny piece of lead. He sniffs again. He then gets to his feet, spins in a few circles for a moment, trying to decide what to do, before gently folding the two parchment and lead into a small packet. He then stuffs this into a small pouch on his belt. He sniffs and rubs his nose again, and bends to retrieve his helmet, shield, pilum and sword. He shoulders his shield and belts his sword and helmet to his waist, while holding his pilum in his hand. He then gazes silently at the ground where he first woke up, then gazes out across the rolling plains the world around him. He hefts his shield, sniffs again, and starts to walk. He does not know where to he is walking, or where he even is. All he does know that wherever he is, it isn't home and that's where he needs to go and in order to get there, he needs to start walking.*
~~~~~~~~~~
Name: Tiberius Corvelous Maximentus
Age: 33
Sex: Male
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 185 Lbs w/o armor 225 w/ armor
Hair Color: Brown with streaks of gray
Eye Color: Pale Blue
Appearance: 17 years of an adolescent life in the Ancient Roman Empire had left Tiberius with a very rough looking appearance. 16 years in the Imperial Army, did little to help this. Bearing numerous scars on all parts of his body, Tiberius could only be called handsome by those who knew what he looked like before war. Now he was is what most would call "Horribly Scarred" and brutally ugly because of it. Most noticeably about these scars, is the one that runs from the bottom of his left jaw, straight up his cheek and then straight across his nose and bridge to just under his right eye. It never healed quite right and is a very bright white and puffy, noticeable from yards away. Another noticeable scar runs from just to the right side of his left eye, down across the first scar, beneath his nose and across his mouth. Buckling it and drawing it up on both sides like some sadistic clowns smile. He can flatten his lips to make them look normal, but he stopped doing so long ago, as no one seemed to care what he looked like, so long as he fought, hard and well. He stands at an average height of five feet eight inches and weighs in an average weight of one hundred and eighty pounds. There is no fat on his body, as the hard life of an Imperial Soldier allows for none. It is all hard muscles, toned by sixteen years of continuous training, campaigning, construction and fighting. Tiberius has not seen a day of rest since he joined the Army.
Clothing: Tunica The standard issue tunic worn over linen undergarments and underneath his armor. Red-orange colored, stained brown from years of use.
Caligae His standard issue military boots. Almost like over glorified sandals.
Cingulum Militare The standard issue belt. Rather narrow and is decorated with bronze strips, all the way around.
Focale The red-orange scarf worn to keep the metal from his armor from scraping his neck.
Sporran An apron consisting of a number of leather thongs to which are riveted metal plates, weighted with bronze to act as both a formal decoration, and a genitalia protector.
Equipment: Galea His standard issue, Legionary Helmet. Constructed of bronze with an iron trim, this helmet features a projected piece that shields the neck, a smaller ridge that protects the face, and at the sides are large cheek pieces that are hinged at the top to allow for adjustment, greater mobility or to just simply move out of the way.
Scutum The large standard issue Roman shield, which is curved to fit the body. It is made from thin sheets of wood, glued together so that the grain of each piece was at right angles to the piece next to it. The whole is bound around the edges with wrought iron and the center is hollowed out on the inside for the handgrip and protected by metal bands. The outside surface is covered in leather, on which is fastened gilded or silvered decoration, in bronze. The shield can be hung from the shoulder by a strap, allowing for easier carrying while on the march.
Lorica Segmentata Plate Armor. This armor was made up of many pieces of laminated iron all bound together to form a very flexible, strong and a very effective piece of bodily protection. It only covers the chest, the top of the shoulders, and the back down to the top of the hips.
Weapons: Gladius The standard issue Roman short sword. It is a double-edged weapon about 18 inches long and two inches wide, with a corrugated bone grip formed to fit the users hand. A large round ball at the end helped with the balance. The primary use is for thrusting at short range. It is carried high on the right hand side so as to be clear of the legs and the shield arm. This weapon is constructed of steel.
Pilum The standard issue Roman javelin. It is seven feet long and very light, as it is often thrown just prior to engaging the enemy in melee, to disarm as much as wound them. The top three feet were of soft iron with a hardened point. The iron is soft because as soon as it is thrown and lands in either the ground, a shield or in a person, the tip wound bend in such a fashion that the javelin would become useless as a weapon, be a hindrance to carry around in a shield, and wound an enemy in such a way that they would have to retire from the fight. If they could escape from the field that is. It can also be used as a one time use, impromptu spear should the need arise. However, because of the soft iron head, it lacks the solid punch of most conventional spears, so is not readily used as such. He currently has 2.
Pugio A standard issue Roman dagger that is anywhere from 7 to 11 inches long in similar width to the gladius. Tiberius's is quite plain but still makes an effective secondary weapon, should be become disarmed. It is attached to the belt on the left hand side. This weapon is constructed of steel and is 10 inches in length.
Skills/Abilities: Legionary Discipline Discipline is engraved in this mans bones. When faced with numerous enemies and unfair odds, the Legionary will not back down just because he is out numbered. He is too proud, too strong to do as such. He is often considered overly brave, but is instead just highly disciplined and will not run easily from a fight.
Legionary Conditioning Sixteen years of constant training, construction and war have formed this Legionary into a very fit, very strong, very effective soldier. He can maintain a steady to slightly accelerated trot for dozens of miles, carrying a load of upwards of sixty pounds. He can lift his weight, and a full one quarter of that again with only some difficulty. He can throw a full three quarter of his own weight a distance of six feet with only some difficulty. He can fight for a full forty five minutes at the same if not slightly slower pace that whence he started before showing noticeable signs of fatigue. He can then continue for another half hour before suffering from exhaustion.
Legionary Training Sixteen years of constant use of his weapons, hands and feet, either in combat, training or construction, have given him good to very adept use of his weapons. With his sword he is rated at slightly above average. With his shield he is rated at average. With his pilum he is rated at average.** With his pugio he is rated at average.
** He can throw it for a total distance of seventy five yards and hit a target accurately at forty. That is if that target is running straight for him or away. If the target is running in a horizontal path, he can hit accurately at a distance of twenty five yards.
Languages: He can only speak the ancient form of Latin that was used during the Roman Empire.