A tall, broad-shouldered orc with moss-green skin, close-cropped black hair, and a scar cutting through one eyebrow. Allan keeps his monk's wrap simple and practical, with soldier's boots, knuckles taped for training, and a worn sash carrying old medals and prayer cords. His movements are economical and silent, but his frame still carries the unmistakable weight of a veteran who learned discipline in the mud and dust of campaign roads.

Quiet, observant, and stubbornly fair, Allan respects competence more than rank and patience more than bravado. He is dryly humorous in the way of old soldiers, saying the most dangerous thing in a room is usually the person who thinks they are in charge.

Allan was born into a warband that prized strength, speed, and the loud certainty of victory. He had those gifts, but not the bloodthirsty temper his elders expected. Instead of glory in the charge, he found himself fascinated by the rhythm behind battle, the footwork, spacing, breath, the split-second choice that decided whether a blade landed or missed. When his clan sold their spears to an army and marched under a foreign banner, Allan enlisted not for conquest, but to study the discipline of warriors who survived longer than raiders ever did. Years of service taught him how to endure hunger, fear, and orders he did not always agree with. A brutal campaign left him with a strong body, a sharp mind, and a deep distrust of commanders who spent lives carelessly. After leaving the army, he sought a monastery that taught restraint without weakness. There, Allan discovered that silence could be a weapon, and that every strike meant more when it was chosen rather than taken in rage. He now walks the world as a disciplined fighter, part veteran, part ascetic, trying to prove that an orc can be more than a weapon pointed by someone else.