Locan is a wiry teenager with a sharp, angular face and dark, unruly hair. He looks older than his seventeen years due to the hollow circles under his eyes and a small, jagged scar across his chin. He typically wears dark, practical leathers that are scuffed from climbing and brawling.

He is cynical and guarded, rarely trusting anyone who hasn't bled for him. Beneath his rough exterior, he is fiercely protective of his family and has a dry, biting sense of humor used as a defense mechanism.

Growing up in the slums of a decaying city, Locan’s childhood was a series of broken promises and empty bottles. His father was a man who preferred the company of cheap ale over his own family, while his mother withered away from a respiratory ailment they could never afford to treat. Desperation drove Locan to search for a shortcut. He found an old grimoire in the trash and attempted to summon an entity, offering his soul for the power to save his mother. The ritual was a humiliating failure. No demon appeared, no patron answered, and the only thing Locan gained was a lingering chill in his bones and a deep sense of rejection from even the underworld. Left with no magic and no hope, he turned to the only tools he had left. He began lifting purses and brawling in back alleys to put food on the table and medicine in his mother's hand. Now, at seventeen, Locan is a hardened street rat with the reflexes of a cat and a heart calloused by reality. He has learned that gods and monsters do not care for the poor. He fights not for glory or power, but for the next copper coin, knowing that his survival and the survival of his mother depends entirely on how fast his hands move and how quiet his boots fall on the cobblestones.