Fang is a lean, scarred dragonborn with deep copper scales, a narrow horned brow, and bright amber eyes that miss very little. He wears fitted studded leather over a dark traveler's outfit, with a scimitar at his hip and a shortsword kept in a cross draw sheath. His claws are neatly filed, his jaw is often set in a watchful half-snarl, and the faded marks of old prison rope can still be seen on one wrist.

Fang is controlled, observant, and dryly sardonic. He prefers planning to boasting, but once he commits to a cause he becomes stubbornly dependable. He rarely shows warmth quickly, yet he has a quiet respect for competence, courage, and anyone who keeps their word.

Fang learned early that a dragonborn’s size could make people fear him, and fear was useful if you knew how to steer it. He grew up in the packed alleys of a port city where smuggling rings, street gangs, and corrupt dockmasters all claimed the same alleys. Fang started as a lookout, then a runner, then the one sent in when a door needed opening and a problem needed ending. His sharp mind made him valuable, but it was his iron discipline, not brute force, that kept him alive. He studied fighting the way other thieves studied locks, learning footwork, timing, and how to strike first before a blade could ever find his throat. Eventually, one job went bad. A noble’s safe room was supposed to hold coin and ledgers, but it held blackmail, names, and a body already cooling on the floor. Fang was blamed for the murder and left to fend off city watch, bounty hunters, and the people who had hired him in the first place. He escaped with a stolen ledger, a battered sense of honor, and a vow to stop being a tool for stronger wills. Now he fights with soldierly discipline and criminal instincts, selling his blade to survive while quietly hunting the names buried in that ledger, hoping to learn who framed him and why someone wanted the truth buried so badly.