Zephyr stands nearly eight feet tall, his skin the color of a thunderstorm with faint, swirling white markings like clouds. He wears a heavy, floor-length black leather coat over rugged street gear. His eyes are a milky, iridescent blue that seems to lack pupils. A massive, iron-wrought revolver is holstered at his hip, and a sleek cloud-falcon named Stratus often perches on his broad shoulders.

Zephyr is a man of few words and long silences. He treats every interaction like a standoff and moves with the practiced quiet of someone who has spent more time in alleys than in the open. He has no patience for authority but holds a deep, quiet respect for the wilder, unyielding aspects of the world.

Born in a sky-citadel that was decimated by dragon-fire, Zephyr fell to the world below before he was even grown. He found no kindness in the surface cities, only fear of his size and heritage. To survive, he became a ghost in the smog, a criminal who specialized in tracking targets through the urban sprawl. He has been running from a bounty placed on him by a corrupt city magistrate for years, a debt he never intends to pay. He lives by the code of the street and the laws of the sky. His only true friend is Stratus, a falcon that was also a refugee of the upper peaks. Together, they navigate the gutter and the rooftop, staying one step ahead of the law and the shadows of his past. The massive revolver he carries was a gift from a dying dwarven gunsmith, the only person who ever looked at Zephyr and didn't see a monster.