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Sellsword. Thug. Pirate. Thief. These monikers and many more have been worn by Marxon over the years. His story has been a tale of the pursuit of profit and pleasure, wherever it may lead, and that path has been a long and a wending one. As a wee lad, Marx was orphaned when his parents were killed, fighting on the orders of some lord or other. He remembers little of that life, truth be told, and his memories of childhood are centered on the streets of the Boroughs and learning how to survive alone. He has, it must be confessed, run afoul of troubles with the law from time to time... but who hasn't, really? Across the years of his life, he has accrued something of a reputation on the streets of Arx as a getter of things and a solver of problems.

A foreboding man whose height and broad shoulders combine with a dark complexion to grant him a vaguely sinister and menacing appearance. The way his bright green eyes dissect his surroundings, hungrily seeking and weighing, does little to diminish that impression. His black hair and beard are peppered with gray, both kept short, but hardly neat. His skin is weathered by age and elements, his face heavily creased and lined in a way that suggests a hard-lived life. A jagged, uneven scar mars his features, beginning near the left temple and terminating below the jawline across the corner of his mouth, which draws his lips into an uneven smirk.

Narcissistic to an absolute fault, Marxon views the world through the lense of his own desires. He can be quite the affable companion, if somewhat cutting with the sarcasm and banter, when he so chooses. Others see the face he's been hired to show them: implacable and merciless. He is given to humor, of a particularly dark variety, and prone to enliven even the most sober of moments with a well-turned quip. He is known by many to be a man of poor control, evidencing little in the way of reserve when his wild emotions take hold.