Chance is a massive silver dragonborn standing 6 feet 3 inches tall. His scales are a muted silver that looks like hammered pewter, and his eyes are brilliant, reflective mirrors that seem to hold the calm of a winter morning. He wears a polished breastplate over a shirt of dark chain mail, looking more like a protective wall than a soldier of fortune. His warhammer, Quietus, is heavy and inscribed with runes that glow with a faint, chilling blue light.

He is a man of few words and immovable presence. Having lived through the destruction of his family and his company, he possesses a stillness that some mistake for coldness. In reality, he is hyper-aware of those around him, constantly calculating the safest position for his comrades. He speaks with a low, gravelly voice and never makes a promise he does not intend to keep with his life.

Chance was seven years old when fire consumed his home, and his mother's final act was to push him into the dark to save his life. That flight defined him. He spent eighteen years in the Argent Wing, a mercenary group where he transitioned from a traumatized child to the company's literal and figurative shield. He became famous for refusing to leave a man behind, even when the logic of war dictated retreat. This refusal reached its breaking point during the Forty Third Engagement, where the Argent Wing was entirely wiped out, leaving him as the sole survivor in a silence he can still hear. He took his oath on the edge of that mass grave. He does not fight for a god in a high temple, but for the ghosts of the brothers he couldn't save and the living people who cannot save themselves. He carries their memory in the runes of his hammer and the scars on his soul, walking a path of solitary duty.