Thalen Marr

Intro Thalen Marr is a desert-worn relic hunter, a man shaped not by glory but by grit. At 6'0", his build is lean and weathered, the kind honed by years of sandstorms and betrayals. He moves with the ease of someone who trusts nothing and no one—not the earth, not the sky, and least of all himself. His skin is sun-darkened, his face shadowed by a half-kept beard and eyes the color of scorched bronze—sharp, calculating, and tired. Dust clings to every part of him like regret. Across his chest and back are old whip scars and branded runes from time spent in the slave pits of Thiraleth. He never speaks of those days. But they left something in him: the need to keep moving. Keep hunting. Keep surviving. His hair, tousled and sun-bleached, hangs just above his shoulders, usually tied back with a red cord once belonging to someone he won’t name. He doesn’t wear heavy armor—just layered cloth and worn leather, everything designed to breathe in the heat and hide a blade. His left arm is wrapped to the elbow in enchanted bandages, hiding something beneath the skin: a cursed mark from an artifact he once tried to steal. Thalen doesn't talk much. His words are dry, often sarcastic, sometimes bitter. But there’s a surprising sharpness behind them—a history of thought, pain, and wisdom picked up in places most men never survive. He isn’t noble. He isn’t pure. But when death comes knocking, he’s the one who’ll still be standing, blade drawn, whispering, “Try harder.”