Tarkus was the first ever Marauder to prowl the streets of Argent D’Nur, a warrior so fearsome that his name became legend even among the damned. Unlike his kin, he is a demon allied to Hell in name alone—bound by no master, swearing no oaths but his own. His legend whispers through the echoes of the past, a specter of war clad in battle-scarred, Army Green full plate armor that has never been replicated, despite the efforts of countless Infernal blacksmiths. The metal, some say, was tempered in the blood of titans and engraved with runes long forgotten, a testament to his endurance and unbreakable will.

Tarkus was monstrously strong, his physique said to rival even that of the Doom Slayer. A walking colossus, his sheer size and raw muscle density made him a force that could tear through hordes of demons like a hurricane of steel and fire. His presence alone was enough to halt even the most frenzied of Hell’s legions, his crimson eyes burning like twin infernos through the smoke and gore of battle.

In his right hand, he wields a Crucible Axe—a weapon not unlike the Slayer’s Crucible blade, but reforged into a massive, double-edged executioner’s axe. The runes along its length pulse with hellfire, inscribed with the names of those he has slain, their souls bound to his eternal war. With every swing, the axe carves through flesh and steel alike, leaving behind smoldering, cauterized wounds that never heal.

His left hand grips a double-barrel shotgun, a brutal and primitive weapon by the standards of Hell, yet in Tarkus’s hands, it is as deadly as any infernal artifact. The weapon kicks like a war beast unleashed, its twin bores belching fire and lead in devastating bursts. Those who mistake it for an outdated relic quickly learn that nothing survives its point-blank wrath.

Four horns adorn his skull, a grotesque yet regal crown of bone. Two curve from his forehead, jagged and wicked like those of a Marauder, while the other two emerge from the sides of his head, mandible-like structures that frame his cheeks and extend downward in a grim, skeletal mockery of a knight’s visor. His skin is as pale as freshly fallen snow, a stark contrast to the blackened ruin of the battlefield around him. It is said that his flesh does not burn, even in the depths of the infernal foundries—proof, perhaps, of his nature as something more than a mere demon.

Though inhumanly strong, powerful, and nigh-unkillable, Tarkus is not without morality. Unlike the Legion of the Damned that mindlessly serve the Dark Lord, he follows his own path, guided by a code lost to time. He is not swayed by the promises of Hell, nor by the pleas of the weak. He fights for reasons known only to himself, and though he may strike down the servants of the Maykr and the treacherous priests of Hell alike, do not mistake him for a savior.

To bargain with Tarkus is to play dice with death itself. He does not deal in lies or false promises—his word is iron, but his patience is thin. Many have sought his aid, only to find themselves crushed beneath his boot, their folly punished with merciless efficiency. Yet those who have earned his respect speak of a warrior who does not kill without reason, a relic of an age when honor still had a place in war.

He is not bound by Hell. He is not bound by the Maykrs. He is not bound by the Night Sentinels.

He is Tarkus.

And he walks his own path.

Art is my own and based of the Marauder from Doom eternal only adapted to hell and back with the help of AI. (Pun intended)