A broad-shouldered human man with a weathered, sun-browned face, a broken-in soldier's frame, and a restless stance as if he is always ready to spring into action. His dark hair is cropped short in the practical style of a veteran, and his forearms are marked with old drill scars and faded battlefield nicks. He favors worn travel leathers, keeps his weapons impeccably maintained, and carries himself with the tense stillness of a man who has survived too many marches to waste motion.

Bold, protective, and stubbornly kind, Talan is the sort of man who walks toward danger when others step back. He has a rough humor that surfaces most when tension is highest, and he instinctively puts himself between the vulnerable and the thing that frightens them. Beneath the thunderous exterior is a practical, observant mind that notices ambush points, weak walls, and who in a crowd is pretending not to be afraid.

He was born to an unremarkable human family in a border town that lived and died by the nearest banner. By the time he was old enough to carry a spear, the local levy had already taught him how to march, how to sleep in mud, and how to keep fear out of his voice when orders came down in the dark. He proved useful, then indispensable, not because he followed commands well, but because he never hesitated when a line needed to hold or a comrade needed dragging clear of the killing ground. The war ended the way such wars always do, with triumph for names he did not know and graves for people he did. He left the army with a gaming set in his pack, a soldier's habits in his bones, and a growing conviction that he would no longer let distant authorities decide who deserved safety. His temper is fierce, but his heart is fiercer. He now wanders from trouble to trouble, meeting tyranny with a grin, a roar, and the flat of a greataxe when mercy is not enough.