A tall, broad-shouldered tabaxi with amber fur, darker tiger-like striping, and a scar crossing one cheek. He keeps his claws neatly trimmed, wears battered soldier's leathers and a red-cloth insignia of rank pinned to his belt, and carries himself with the alert stillness of a predator trained for war. His tail flicks when he is thinking, and his ears angle toward every sound on the road.

Gruff but steady, Talon is slow to trust and quick to protect. He has a dry, almost teasing sense of humor that appears most often when others are frightened, because he believes fear loses some of its power when shared. In quiet moments he is surprisingly gentle, especially with children, laborers, and anyone who has had to rebuild a life from ashes.

Talon Rex was born to a tabaxi tribe that lived by old paths and older songs, a people who marked their hunts with laughter and their victories with painted claws. When marauders came, they did not merely scatter the tribe, they swallowed it in mist and fire. Talon survived by instinct and rage, stumbling through the countryside with nothing but a broken memory of home and the fury of being the last one left behind. In the years that followed, he learned that grief could sharpen into endurance, and endurance could become a weapon. He wandered until the Cressa River led him to Breton, a small village with muddy docks, kind hands, and no reason to trust a stranger with blood on his fur. The villagers fed him, gave him work, and never flinched when his temper broke the quiet of an evening yard. Talon found a new sort of tribe there, one built not on shared birth but shared burden. He became first a protector, then a local bulwark, and finally a soldier in spirit if not in uniform, standing watch over the people who had chosen him when the world had taken everyone else away.