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<font face=calibri>A scraggily looking twenty something Legionnaire of broad figure and thick neck. His face is marred with legions of pock marks, scars, nicks, and lesions of patchy, dry skin half torn upon his common looking face. His roughly shaved head is no better, dented and marred by old, graying scar tissue that depicted a life of toil and hardship. Artagh looks perpetually tired, drooping bags under his eyes dark wells of exhaustion against his gaunt cheeks as he lazily focused on whatever held his present attention.

He is armored with a adamantite cuirass that covered his torso, but left his arms unarmored to ensure his sword play was not impeded. He bares steel greaves and sabatons, and the Legion sun sits on his cod piece. A great sword of well polished steel nearly as tall as Artagh is bound by rough leather straps to the back plate of his armor, ready at any time to be unslung and used in some good, manly fun. With a large body made hard by long years of farming and the routine of hard soldiering, this peasant clearly meant business.</font>
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