Foxen is partially non-speaking or "mute." It isn't that he doesn't talk; only that he rarely speaks, though selectively capable. This originally traumatic, progressive condition has as much psychological attribution as physical, as in a predominantly non-aquatic Galaxy, neither the tonal portion of his species' communication nor their pheromone-reading ability are accessible. The signing language he uses is also relatively little known. In essence, Foxen exists with half or more of his language gone at any given time, leaving him primarily shoehorned into text-based communication to be widely understood.

What Foxen does have to say is always considered beforehand; even words that might seem thoughtless for their severity are deliberate choice. He says what he thinks, plainly or creatively, and does not make threats, only states intention. If he says he will do something, he will do it unless prevented. His word, rarely heard, is his bond.

Son and brother. Slave and freeman. Mercenary and Mandalorian. These are all things Foxen has been, lost, and taken back by the teeth. In the endless void of the Galaxy, his world is small, consisting only of those he loves unashamedly and fiercely. Foxen has little to no care for ideals of honor, creed, justice or mercy. He is relentless and enduring, a beast chasing prey to the very end from which he draws his name sign. He gives all to provide for his brother and sister of bond and blood, and most recently, swore himself utterly to his partner in crime, Flyndt, with whom he escaped captivity. They are the suns he orbits. Even his Mandalorian Clan, the Erinos, is only so valuable to him; the Brotherhood Clan of Arcona they serve even less so. Beyond that gravitational pull, most else ceases to exist to him.

No personal space Foxen inhabits is ever unordered, no action not meticulously planned. He arrives ludicrously early to any event, prepares his own quality meals, exercises religiously, and wears expensive clothes keen to Galactic fashion. Despite this snobbishness, he cares little for extravagance. What Foxen prizes is control.

He arrives early in order to assess, secure, and settle while accounting for tactical flexibility at a moment's notice. He trains to exorcize his physical aggression while staying combat ready. Cooking is a methodical activity with dedicated results, and his clothes are his armor to him. Foxen won't drink to excess, won't sit without his back to a wall, checks exits constantly; approaching or touching him abruptly is liable to trigger a reaction. And if something does bother him beyond his control, he either goes numb to it or burns it out of himself, cigarra to skin instead of lips.

Whatever empathy switch once lived in Foxen's head broke long ago, and his internal world since then is a dark, desaturated numb seething, sporadically lit by flashes of bright colors. He genuinely doesn't care about most sentients, classified more as meat in his mind. There's what he cares about and that's it; everything else is just nothing to him. He is opinionated, abrasive, antisocial, and rude towards others. He isn't nice.

Despite that, however, Foxen isn't unkind. If motivated, he will stop to help someone in need, even if insulting them all the while. He pays strict attention to the things that those he loves love, devoting time and resources to showering them in material affection and learning of their interests. With them, he can joke and dote. "Pack is pack," and he is diehard loyal to his own; no questions, nothing is too far, and their lives come first.

Most of Foxen's life and work has involved explicit violence: assassination, combat, warfare, intimidation, torture, assault, security, and reconnaissance. If it "needed to be done" or he was paid to do it, he would do it, unblinking. He is a brutal, ruthless fighter and killer, efficient or harsh as suits him.

Foxen will assert he has no morals, and this is almost literal truth. His brother, Jax, is his conscience, the lines he doesn't actively cross ones Jax helped him establish long ago — not that he hasn't or won't cross them at times. Whether combatants, civilians, or children, he asks himself if Jax would be disappointed if this thing, this "person," died, weighing against the practicality of a situation before continuing. To himself, Foxen isn't a person either; he's a man-eating ghoul, stolen from the water and belonging in the bloodied dirt, and death is all he's good for.

Specializing in multiple martial arts and any weapon that finds its way into his hands, Foxen is an expert in all forms of brute force. He's neither liar nor saboteur, neither diplomat nor leader. He is a proud warrior and hunter, with a strong body, sharp mind, and primal reflexes and instincts drilled for combat. A Galaxy of eclectic experience — from contract killings to gladiator pits to constant war with and against Force-Users — compliments his Mandalorian training to compose a storied soldier.

Foxen tends towards lethality, using long-range weaponry to take out targets or brutally subduing up close with blade or brawn. His preference for combat is methodical, and he typically works alone or rarely in a pair, unfit for military marching orders. When he must improvise, the risk of his rigidly controlled temper snapping suddenly rises sharply, as does the likelihood of a lot more mess and injury.