Arcan is truly cracked. 16 years on a cocktail of different drugs has damaged his mental faculties, the blood leaving him with a permanent sense of grandeur and voices that whisper in his mind. He has warped way of looking at things laughing at things that aren't funny yet the unique thinking has a tendency to allow him to stay one step ahead of the curve.

His sense of grandeur began as a small shrine of youthful resentment built and strengthened into a great cathedral by the drug use. He truly believes he is superior to other men and deserves respect and seniority blissfully unaware that he has done little to nothing to earn it. Though stringent and detailed in his plans to usurp power he has never thought beyond the acquisition to the implementation. His visions of power are almost childlike in their innocence, his vision of a pedestal putting you high above other men yet also giving you responsibility to them and a duty to your subjects to rule fairly and honestly, to see your subject cared for an looked after yet he fails to recognise that it needs more than one man alone to rule a city perhaps because he has never truly been more than one man.

As a person he is friendly and open to companionship and camaraderie yet his race is often enough to make people wary let alone unnerving habits and freakish laughter. If you can get past his superiority complex and unnerving habits you will find a fierce friend.

Arcan has not always been in Santa Somabra but has always been of the backstreets. Born of an orc and a goblin breeding whore he was bred in to the Caracus gang (a primarily orc gang) in Santa Corfica. Unusually taking more of his mother he was considered small and runty, yet what he lacked in strength he made up for in speed and cunning.

The Caracus gang was run by birth right with son bred and groomed to replace father in the advent of their death. Though this feudalistic system meant each heir was guaranteed a loyal and competent workforce it also left them stagnant, never moving forward each son repeating the work of their fathers as they had been taught. At age 12 his father's (a low level enforcer) demise to a knife in the back meant Caracus took his place. Enforcer work seemed simple to him and he found his shrewd mind unused and unsatisfied by the grim repetition of his task his attempts to move up to become more were rebuffed with a beating and a lecture between kicks of "that's not how we do this round here kid".

Arcan found himself increasingly frustrated, trapped in an unsatisfying life from which there was no escape. He turned quietly to drugs a desperate attempt to escape from his daily life, fairy dust to begin with finally graduating to demons blood at age 15. For years he took the drug in secret heightening and helping him to justify his sense of grandeur, even as it gradually turned to rage then to madness. As an enforcer he became more brutal more feared and thus more known feeding the ego the drug was building. He felt entitled too and so began to take perks, his own little side cuts which all went into feeding the growing maw of his own self importance.

Though this change was never noticed from within his own walls where brutality and ruthlessness were praised not shunned, it was noticed from outside. His habit was a well known if little talked about secret and a group of ambitious elves looking to usurp the Caracus gangs control of the dust trade took advantage. Bit by bit they took sole responsibility for dealing to him, giving him freebies, cuts, cocktails, all done in the name of fear of the great goblin Arcan. Flattery and free drugs were too much to resist and he gobbled up their cocktails in delighted greed.

The last was the killer concoction a mix of demons blood and runez laced with tainted fairy dust. Arcan remembers very little of the night that followed only fragments, huge twisted forms leaping at him from the darkness. His knife flashing.... Shrill screams tore at him like fingers trying to drown out the beautiful melody of his own heartbeat rising higher and higher building and building til his knife silenced them.

He awoke to find himself caked in blood his own blade buried in his side spooning the headless corpse of a human prostitute.

"Morning killer" whispered the severed head on the floor behind him.
For years he fled the voices thinking if he got clean he could stop them, if he repented he could stop them, if he lived in the middle of know where they would leave him in peace. 12 clean years running across states it took him to accept the voices were part of him now. With acceptance fear was banished but a need remained... a necessity for a place in society to become who he was born to be. He deserved power.

There was only one place a creature like him could have true power... Santa Sombara.

4 years ago Arcon integrated himself into the city as Razor appearing in Santa Sombara in a careful fashion and has yet to make much of an impact. He has worked in different shops and bars moving district by district as a street tough providing protection for room and board and more importantly information instead of the standard tokens of money. His business is currently clean enough that he has barely impacted upon the higher families with his activities causing the most trouble to The Rats.

Gradually over four years he has placed hints of himself out there and gathered information on how the city operates. Soon he will be ready to make his push for the big time yet he only has eyes on the one prize.