Locan is a wiry teenager with a mop of messy dark hair and eyes that constantly dart around, searching for exits or opportunities. His knuckles are heavily calloused and often bruised from underground pit fights. He wears worn, grease-stained leather and hides his more valuable equipment beneath a tattered, soot-colored cloak.

He is world-weary and cynical beyond his years, speaking with a dry wit that masks a deep-seated anxiety about his family. He has no patience for authority figures or idealism, believing that every man is eventually forced to sell his soul for a copper. He is fiercely protective of those he considers his own, which is a very small list.

Locan grew up in the rot of the lower city docks, the son of a once-proud man who drowned his failures in cheap ale. When his mother fell ill with a wasting cough, his father became a permanent fixture in the taverns, leaving the seventeen year old to find a way to pay for medicine and rent. He began by cutting purses and lifting bread, but the meager gold of commoners was never enough to satisfy the apothecaries. He eventually found his way into the world of underground street fighting. Despite his slight frame, his speed and willingness to fight dirty made him a local favorite. He learned that the only way to survive was to hit first, hit hard, and never stop moving. Now, he balances his life between the shadows of the rooftops and the blood of the pits, always looking for the one big score that could finally get his mother the care she needs and get them out of the city.