This thread is here to encourage all beginners, all veterans, and all mavericks to share their finely sculpted character personas and motley histories and their creativity otherwise with the community. The recommended format is that of a short piece of fiction, but is by no means the necessary mode of presentation. I will try to keep an accurate list of backgrounds posted.
Comments are welcome. Feedback is welcome. Please be respectful of others and their posts.
Let's see what works of art and flights of fancy a worldful of gamers has dreamt up.
P.S. To avoid posting a "wall of script", please use sblock. Also, if you want me to include the character's race and class as part of the link, please drop me some clues. ~~~
I will start us off with a character of my own. I designed him for a friend's campaign set in his friend's campaign world. In it, the fey have secluded themselves away from the rest of civilization, hoarding treasures and magic. ~~
I choose to be Cephissus Loire, the eladrin warlord, excommunicated for treason of the highest order. A fate worse than death, Cephissus Loire has been cast out of the fey empires, forced to live a life of squalor among the other vermin (i.e. non-fey races). To return to a fey realm would be to welcome prosecution, incarceration, torture, and eventually death.
I'm fine with rolling 3d6 for stats. The pity points are a bonus.
Fate being unkind enough to bestow me with low ability scores fits in with my character idea of a disenfranchised noble fallen into poverty, among races he was taught to despise from birth. He is determined to prove his innocence and wrongful conviction. Cephissus is pompous, egotistical, and demanding despite his now meager lifestyle. Cephissus will always take the lead and tell others what to do. Cephissus will only follow another's lead after much argument and concessions of his superiority.
Cephissus accepts the help of the rest of the party begrudgingly faced with the limited options presented him. Cephissus is a lot of bark, and probably not much bite, especially if outnumbered.
Cephissus was framed for the murder of someone very important with a governmental, monarchial, or religious affiliation. The Elder Council, which presides over the sentencing of the convicted, all found Cephissus guilty except one. The one dissenting Elder and his noble status earned him excommunication in lieu of execution. Accepting to help him redeem himself makes Cephissus dislike each member of the party a little less. If enough of Cephissus's favor is earned, he may regard the party humbly or even kindly.
Instead of going off to do his own thing, Cephissus will surround himself by people he can order around.
Cephissus knows of a war the eladrin are facing with some evil creatures which are being supported by at least one nearby kingdom or power.
Cephissus has hayfever. Cephissus gains a +2 to Bluff when gambling.
Cephissus Loire is lawful good within the fey empire; he is chaotic neutral elsewhere.
Cephissus follows the teachings of Leegian; justice, truth, fairness (if you're fey).
If Cephissus's name can be cleared, he will prove an invaluable contact among the wealthy and elite of fey society.
Astreliin, gold mark. Penefau, gold mark. Tuset, gold mark. Traucenet, gold mark. Coprilgh, gold mark. Maunanasse, gold mark. Demin, gold mark. Juist, gold mark. One after another, the Crown Judges of the Elder Council turned their mark from "the accused" to "the guilty". Only one more such vote would, as the law demanded, sentence Cephissus Loire to death without internment. Shackled before them in the pulpit where two spearmen poised nearby at attention, he stood gazing up at the Elders with tearless eyes, without fear, with contempt and malice. His lips curled in disdain. The last to cast their mark would be Gougaughn, Cephissus's great uncle. Such controversy had been generated amid the fey kingdom of Sh'chimar (that's "Seven Spirals" to you and me) over the trial. Heir to the second longest lineage of eladrin, Sous-General of the 108th Fey Coalescence, this epitome of servitude and honorable merit had been accused of treason of the highest order: premeditated murder of the Imperial Medium, Grand Pontiff Amellon. The evidence was overwhelming.
It was the 24th of Greening, the sun, two hands from the setting horizon. A cry pierced the crisp silence of the cool summer day. It is said 11 guards rushed to the side of the screaming waiting maid. A grizzly scene of torture and murder assaulted the senses of the onlookers. At the center of the Imperial Focus Chamber a crystal orb still shone brightly, light peeled away from it in arcs of yellow energy licking into the air then dissipating. Resting atop the orb, as if clinging of its own sheer will was the severed hand of Grand Pontiff Amellon. A wash of blood soaked and dripped from random furniture; it seemed as though the Grand Pontiff had been furiously slashed and hacked apart, spattering blood in every which direction. And her body corroborated the tale. Multiple stab and slash wounds covered her nearly bare body. The customary ceremonial robes now in shreds stuck to her bloodied corpse. Bits of viscera and bones were seen scattered about the chamber. But above all else it was first noticed by all, an erect broadsword stood thrust into her chest. Just inside the door the waiting maid stood with her hands to her face, frozen if not for the labored screaming. At her feet a metal incense pot with its coals spilled onto the ornate rug. A vision ran through the orb for all to see, looping and repeating. An eladrin, garbed in the social robes of a fey general, ascended the tower stairs toward the chamber. The visage was clear; Cephissus Loire. The vision continued. The point of view hovered behind the robes of the fey general as his hand pressed on the chamber door, swinging it open. Through the doorway could be seen Amellon standing in the center of the chamber just behind the dull and inactive crystal orb. A look of surprise graced Amellon's features, quickly usurped by an expression of anger and contempt. "What are you doing here? Get out!" Amellon demanded, pointing at the unexpected guest. There was no reply. Amellon took a small step backward as the sound of a drawing blade grated against her ears. The same blade which currently stood in her a few feet away now appeared in the vision, grasped by the assailant. Moving forward into the chamber, the fey general closed the door. As it swung shut, Amellon was seen darting to the nearby credenza with her hand outstretched. The sharp sound of a sword strike colliding with wood was heard, followed by the sound of a gasp and whimpering. At this point, the vision blurred and looped the images over and over. Moments after the guards regained their senses, Cephissus appeared at the doorway alongside the General Prime of the 108th Fey Coalescence, Opalla Arroux. After a few minutes of investigation, looking up from the echoing reliquary and the blade, Opalla ordered the arrest of Cephissus on the account of high treason. The broadsword was later identified as the Sous-General's ceremonial blade bestowed upon him by the Emperor himself in commemoration of his appointment to Sous-General. Cephissus emphatically denied the murder of the Imperial Medium, but when questioned as to his location during the time of the incident, Cephissus remained silent. It is not clear what the Sous-General hoped to achieve by declining to elaborate on his whereabouts, but it is clear this refusal made for the strongest mark toward his conviction.
Gougaughn, red mark. Murmurs erupted from the courtroom. The populace at large expected a unanimous vote, as did those present. Gougaughn's mark had spared the life of his great nephew, but did nothing for his innocence. Crown Judge Prime Traucenet cleared his throat and began, "As of today, the 27th of Greening, 77268 ER, in His 19th Imperial Court of the Divine, Cephissus Loire, son of Garonne Loire, you, the accused, on charges of High Treason for the murder of Grand Pontiff Amellon, Imperial Medium, are found guilty." Cephissus remained still, a bitter animosity burning in his eyes. The two guards now lowered the points of their spears toward his chest. "You are hereby punished to the maximum extent of the law: exile." Again the members of the audience exploded in whispers and murmurs. The dull roar this time quenched by the silencing magic of the court sage. "Effective immediately you are relieved of your position in the Fey Coalescence. Your assets are hereby ceased by the Empire. All rights and freedoms granted to you by the Empire are revoked, including citizenship. Henceforth, you are banished from all lands owned and in propriety to the Empire. Trespassing on imperial soil will infringe upon this edict of exile and is therefore punishable by death." The court chamber then erupted with shouts and protests. Guards burst in from adjoining rooms to contain the crowd. Above the din, Traucenet was heard to have shouted, "Take the traitor away!"
Six days later, Crown Judge Gougaughn was found guilty of nepotism and dishonorably discharged from his position. Opalla Arroux was appointed the new 9th-Seat Crown Judge of the Elder Council.
Many weeks later...
The cobblestone streets were surprisingly filthy. Bits of trash and Leegian knows what basked in the grime of each corner and crevice. A tall cloaked figure made its way down the street. On either side of the piazza dealers trafficked their wares. Loops and bolts of the seediest textiles, fruits and meats not fit for plaguerats, and gaudy trinkets hailed as priceless treasures and rare artifacts each held their place. The smudged face of the figure peered half-hidden from the hood of the cloak. It seemed transfixed on the quickly spoiling food. It stood, for a moment, at the corner of two streets, then it approached the kiosk where the fruit sat. An unshaven, brusque peddler hawked his lines as the figure drew nearer. "Fresh fruit! Come see my fresh fruit! You'll love it. Please, buy some. They say that Rom himself eats this very..." And the peddler droned on. Hungrily, the figure transfixed its gaze upon the dour-looking produce. A fine, manicured hand lifted from under the cloak, though smudged and smeared with filth it was. The fruit began to disappear beneath the long and concealing robes. "... in all the land! Why, even in the Barony of.. Hey! Hey!" The peddler broke off his pitch notcing his merchandise steadily disappearing. His voice filled with alarm and reproach. "I see you! I see you! You'd better be paying for all of those. How many do you have there? How many? How many?" The peddler now briskly tottered around the corner of his kiosk to beside the cloaked figure. His impatient hand reached out toward it and grasped at the hem. But then it was gone! Cloak, fruits, and all, it vanished! "Stop! Thief! Thief!" The peddler began shouting after a moment of shock. "Help! Guards! Come quick! Thief!" A commotion began building attention at the fruit kiosk. Pacing back and forth quickly on the cobblestones, the peddler threw his arms into the air and called to the town's sentry. Onlookers appeared from seemingly nowhere, a steady stream of eyes and gawkers poured toward the indignant cries of alarm. Swimming upstream, a tall, cloaked figure pressed its way through the ever-thickening crowd of curious minds. Bashing and shoving their way through the crowd into the small opening before the kiosk, the militiamen questioned the fruit peddler. Ferverent, yet muddled, descriptions were related through the din of murmurs now surrounding the site of the incident. "...and he was tall and gangly..." and "...knew he was trouble when I first..." could be heard above the dull roar. Then, suddenly, "There he is! That's the guy! It's him! It's him!" Every head in the crowd turned the direction of the peddler's pointing paw; it singled out the tall and conspicuous cloaked figure. It stiffened for a moment, then turned its head toward the peddler. Hastily it turned and shoved its way through the remaining edge of the crowd; a few fruits toppled from the cloak's recesses and bounced and rolled along the stone street. A few hands of the mob reached and caught onto the threads, pulling back the hood. The entire crowd gasped and after a moment a voice cried out, "It's an elf!" Beneath the dirty, grey, coarse cloth, the fine and fair complexion of an elf shone brightly despite the cake of mud awash his face. Unkempt, pale golden hair cascaded from his head. A scar ran from his brow through his left eye to his cheek. He glared spitefully at the onlookers, his face twisting with both contempt and shame. Panic broke out. There were some who ran away, there were some who closed in, a great struggle of bodies ebbed in the heart of the town. Throwing the hood over his head, the fey tore away with great speed down the artery. "Stop him!" cried the peddler. "One side! Out of the way!" barked the soldiers as they elbowed their way through the thick of the pit of people. The cloaked figure disappeared around the corner of a building, down the only avenue to the pier. As the guards broke free of the mesh of flesh and shouts, one stoutly commanded, "Hurry! We can trap him at the docks!" A labor of boots and swaying sheaths barreled down the terrace toward the wharf. And so a fevered search swept the pilings. Each ship inspected, each mooring investigated, but never a trace of the elf was found save a few half eaten, rat-covered fruits and a soiled, grey cloak.
Life will knock you down. It is up to you whether to get back up.
This is a short blurb I wrote for an eladrin psion I was planning to play in a friend's game. There's more to it, and if there's significant interest, I'll post more, but I'm trying to avoid posting a wall of text. Anyway, hope everyone enjoys.
"Your little mind tricks are very cute, Varic, but now isn't the time. Your brother and I are in the middle of a lesson and you know focus is important with real magic..." I still find myself drifting back to those memories. It's incredible how a parent's words stick with us, even after years apart. It's been a lifetime since I sat in my mother's laboratory, desperate for her approval, and always just short of attaining it. "Real magic," she called it. Arcane magic, that is. My mother was an extremely talented wizard. So talented, in fact, that she was invited to study in Astrazalian, the City of Starlight. She dedicated her life to the art, and she lived a very long life. You can imagine her disappointment when her first son was born with no talent at all for her precious magic. No, instead he, I, was born with another power altogether. From a young age, I had a talent for understanding people, and I don't mean that I heard the words they were speaking. I mean that I truly understood them. I could sense their motivations, when they were lying, how they felt. I could meet someone for the first time and tell exactly the kind of person they are. I tried to explain it to my brother, Emeron, once when we were teenagers. He came to me one afternoon after mother had released him from his studies. He wanted to know about another of her students, a young noble's daughter from one of the great houses. I asked him what he wanted to know, and his reply was simple: "Everything! I need to know everything about her! What does she like to do for fun? What type of music does she enjoy? I nee-" "Yes, yes, I understand brother," I said, chuckling. "You want to know how to best go about romancing her." It wasn't a question. I knew that was his desire almost as soon as he realized it himself. That had more to do with being his older brother than it did with being psionic, however. He smiled, a wide affectionate smile, the kind only a brother can give. "Yes, exactly. You know me too well, Varic." I smiled back, finding in my brother the warmth that my mother seemed incapable of extending to anyone who couldn't conjure a ball of fire from midair. "So will you do it?" Emeron asked me. "Could you get in her head for me?" My smile faltered. "Yes, I could..." I turned away from him then. "But I won't do it." "But, I-" "Em, it takes constant concentration to stop myself from 'getting into her head.' Or yours for that matter. Or mom's." I paused and took a deep breath. "My power, it shouldn't be used that way. Imagine knowing, intimately, every dark thought of the people around you..." "Var, I didn't mean to..." I smiled again. "I know you didn't, my concentration isn't always so great." I winked, and he laughed, and that was the end of it.
Draelen Kas'asar, Shadar-Kai Fighter Character BackgroundShow
The Shadowfell is bleak, baby. Real bleak. Everyone’s sitting around being all goth and emo with dark cow eyes and perpetual sticks shoved up their collective arses. It’s grey, it’s cold and it’s bloody friggin’ depressing. Watching departed souls marching through day after bleedin’ day on their way to their final fate gets boring. The eight hundredth day in a row that the forecast called for doom, gloom and fog as thick as bat drek, I was done. I mean, for belgium’s sake, c’mon… I hit a portal to Sigil within the day and have never looked back. Unholy Vecna’s Lost Right Testicle, that city was all I could have dreamed. I met Hadley there, and oh… Well, that’s really none of your business. Among other things, he taught me to fight and clothed me like a real man, and not some greyscale simpering joke. Armored and equipped with a staff (heh, shut up), we ran the planes for a while. One day, we got hired by the Mage Council of the Five Winds to recover some old primordial junk from a cache discovered by farmers in a little podunk called Five-Hands-Running. All went well, we even recovered the stash. Unfortunately, we also ran into Sathrec. That lizard bitch is a cleric of some dark little god of piddling in tea or something. She has an evil friggin’ six foot tall dire kobold paladin champion. Ingasor was armed with a meat cleaver on a friggin’ stick and carved Hadley up like Hogswatch ham. I thought I was dead, too. Among other wounds, I got my face slashed open, but I got away. I went back the next day for Hadley’s body, but those scaly bits of trogblek had eaten him.
I left the joyously vibrant Outlands and headed out to the prime. It isn’t my nature to entertain dark moods, so I left my mourning at the gate. I got to this city a couple weeks ago and have done an odd-job or three, y’know? But, the really important part is, what are you drinking, and I’m pretty sure you said you’re buying.
Draelen loves color and life, adorning his clothing with brightly colored, if not downright gaudy, baubles and trimmings that are nothing more than loud decoration. His basic clothing is black, blending against dark grey skin and blue-black hair, but it is layered with red, gold, purple and white. His solid black eyes glisten with anticipation of the next moment and a sly smile or toothy grin is never far from his face.
Tavi has lived on the sprawling golden plains for most of her young life. Born to the Witira (Nightbreeze) tribe, she is an aruaii (dawnchaser, tracker). The young halfling spends most of her days moving ahead of a hunting party with one or two other aruaii, flushing out their quarry and running it back toward the awaiting warriors. The aruaii are also used as a kind of bounty hunter, tracking down sentient beings and bringing them back to the tribe.
To other eyes, Tavi appears as a well-muscled, if somewhat feral, child with thick dreadlocks of deep red and large amber eyes. She wears the traditional garb of her station, flowing brown pants and sleeveless top under a wide red and yellow belt embroidered with the black star and white moon symbols of the Mother. Her tanned body is covered in a myriad of dark red tattoos, including the symbols of the revered Mother, lady of the night sky and patron of the Nightbreeze tribe, and a growing network of flowers, symbolizing the Father, lord of rebirth. Each flower represents a successful mission in her secondary aruaii function.
Tavi is a fairly quiet halfling. She takes her position of aruaii very seriously and keeps the traditions of silent coordination in most of her daily activities. She frowns on drinking and loud merry-making. As such, many find her a great bore and amazing party-pooper.
I was not born, not as you were. I was dreamt of in the eternal darkness of the abyss, a vague nightmare spun from the webs of fear and pain. The woeful idea that sparked my malignant soul was the thought of demons, yet somewhere along the way as my soul began to coalesce, a single innocent prayer floated into this never-ending hell. It struck my misformed essence and the half-formed thought of my being was struck awry. Screaming in pain, my unborn shell fled this holy touch, wailing away from the abyss and crossing into the prime.
It was here that my half-self discovered flesh and clothed my soul in the guise of a mortal. It was here that I began a twenty-year journey of misery that has resulted in this jaded, torn man that you see today, a hellspawn struck down by the angelic thoughts of a dying man calling out to his god. Neither demon nor mortal, I exist in tormented eternal half-life. I am chaos incarnate, yet flittering like a softly winged butterfly is that damnedly holy prayer, trapped in the dark cage of my soul. It has reached golden tendrils into my essence, bringing me consciousness, bringing me choice. Bringing me joyful agony that sends me from this protective dream into the horridly bright day and makes me yearn for mortal touch and makes me wish for something more...
I wandered the world for a time and came to a lonely place, forgotten and scorched by the sun's life-giving touch, so much as I had been. I settled in this land of burning sands and freezing nights, finding a strange kinship with this tortured land. At first I only sought a meager existence, only living for the next day. In time, I found I cared for this little scratch in the earth and built around me a paradise. Animals came to my Eden and at first I threw stones and drove them away. Then I found my sickeningly weak mortal heart desired their presence and I allowed the beasts to drink from my spring and bed down in the small grasses that I had coaxed to grow in this godsforsaken place. We grew together, that scant handful of animals and shriveled plants and I, and for a time I foolishly believed my dueling soul to be at peace.
Joy was not a word inscribed in the book that is my life. My heaven on earth, as it were, came to a crashing halt all too soon. Was it a day ago, or perhaps five years? Maybe a lifetime ago, an army of mortals passed through the desert bringing their filth and garbage, upsetting that delicate ecosystem I had so painstakingly sought to balance in this hellish place. Waters were poisoned, the land desecrated and then they were gone, gone to the cities east of here. My dreams passed in the blink of an eye and all I remember is the expressionless helm of their leader, fashioned in the guise of a mad red dragon. When I close my eyes, I see it. For years, my focus was a little place in the desert on the edge of life. That has been crushed under reptilian claw and now a new focus has risen in me, once again giving me purpose. I quickly gather what little is left in my humble grove, spirits of the creatures killed in the destruction of our home flying around me, and turntoward the dust cloud of the passing army even as it fades on the horizon.
Not a very large man, Riva prefers to dress in various shades of brown, which make an interesting contrast to his chalky white skin and teal-green hair. Even as a creature of the desert, his skin never darkens nor reddens from the sun.
Riva has had very little contact with mortals, living almost his entire incarnation deep inside a desert far to the west. As such, he's a little reserved in his speech, but a fluid of emotional body language.
Sir Raldis Laerion, an elven paladin who was defeated twenty years ago. It was his final prayer to his god that struck Riva's partially formed abyssal self and a shard of Raldis' soul helped create Riva's mortal form. Riva bears a strange, muted resemblance to the elf, which is why he doesn't appear as a true tiefling.
Vania Mardis, a human seeker that Riva traveled with a short time after leaving the desert.
Hessur Ambach, leader of the armies that stormed through his camp, unwittingly destroying all that Riva had created.
Rranyu was born into the Elder House of the GreenMountain tribe twenty-six years ago. A single birth among a people that routinely have twins, Rranyu’s coming was seen as a foreboding omen. Though considered a privileged youth, he was still shunned by his peers and scowled at by others. When the tribe found a Milao toddler wandering alone on the plains, his mother immediately adopted her. As a xenophobic race, this was heavily frowned upon, adding more trouble to the young liontaur’s life. However, Rranyu came to love the Milao girl, whom they called Vrrhanah.
When the time was coming that Rranyu would ascend to rule the Elder House, their encampment was destroyed by marauding dragonmen. Only Vrrhanah’s skill with the bow saved the two of them; nearly all of their people were slaughtered, the survivors scattered. They struck out across the great plains to seek the home of their goddess, a being known only as She, who lived in a lake far to the north.
An average Renhran male, Rranyu has a thick, coarse mane of deep golden brown hair circling his leonine face and intelligent liquid brown eyes. He is robustly built, with wide shoulders and four large, claw-tipped paws. He wears little, a strap of hide across one shoulder, a wide belt holding his weapon sheathes and a bag of food.
Emotional extremes are a foreign concept to him and Rranyu is often mistaken as being cold by outsiders. Usually easy-going and gentle, he turns into a ruthless killing machine in combat. The only person that can seem to draw deep emotions out of him is Vrrhanah, and even that takes some work.
Vrrhanah was found as a young orphaned kit lost on the plains. Wandering the flatlands, she was taken in by a tribe of Renhra nomads. She grew up on the outskirts of the tribe, never quite fully accepted by the normally xenophobic liontaurs. The toddler was adopted by the head woman of the Elder House of the GreenMountain and became fast friends with their only son, Rranyu. Considered an oddity himself for being of a singleton birth in a people who normally had twins, Rranyu found the antics of the strange bipedal Vrrhanah great fun. In time, he came to respect her great hunter prowess even while puzzling over her angry passion. That respect grew into love and the star-crossed pair entered into a hidden relationship.
As the days grew nearer that Rranyu would ascend to his place in the Elder House, their tribe was attacked by dragonmen and nearly every Renhra perished that bloody night or was driven out into the plains. The two decided to strike out to the north, where their goddess, known only as She, was believed to dwell in a lake formed from flows out of the mountains.
Bigger than the average Milao, Vrrhanah is a sight to behold by those who have only seen the pampered pets own by the Sindrethne dragonmen. Far from the perfumed and styled, soft bodied beings that lounge about on jewel-studded golden chains, polishing well-manicured claws and lazing around eating choice bits of meat, Vrrhanah is a tall, muscular woman with short, wheat-colored fur and thick golden hair that falls around a slightly muzzled face with deep amber eyes. She usually wears armor made of blood red hide and has a belt of multicolored scales dangling from her trim waist. Her weapon-of-choice is a stoutly built longbow that screams out her vengeance against her chosen foe.
Lael is the result of a drow nobleman’s lust for an enslaved dusk elf house servant. Eluë hid her pregnancy from the House and with the help of the other slaves was able to keep Lael moving among other women enough that no one else knew who his true mother was. The pressures of her servitude and the wanton advances of the nobleman began to weigh heavily on the young elven woman, however, and as Lael approached adolescence, his mother fell into true insanity. Many nights he spent by her bedside, nursing her through a nightmarish fit. The day came that Eluë no longer cared about secrecy and discretion and approached the nobleman’s wife, spitting her words like venom. She spoke of Dranthil’s infidelity and how often he came to her bed rather than his wife’s. Zilithras was less than pleased with this news and ordered Eluë’s lying heart carved from her chest on the spot.
Lael tried to run to his mother’s side but was held back by the surrounding maids. He watched in anguish and horror as his beautiful mother was slaughtered even as she called out to her master, who only stood to the side, denying any knowledge of the vicious lies the crazed woman was spouting. Finally, he broke free and, slipping in the blood that poured from her gapping chest, he fell to his knees and held her cold hand to his face. Zilithras saw the child, and instantly realizing what he represented, demanded his death as well. The boy, clutching his dead mother to him, drew upon the insanities they had both lived with for years, calling the cursed energies to him and unleashing them in a violent, mind-rending blast. While the room reeled in a waking nightmare, blood and tears blinded his mad dash from the house and into the twisted caverns beyond.
It was here that the Fate Weaver first spoke to him, showing him how the threads of fate are wound and how easily those threads can be severed. It taught him how to weave his own threads, drawing on his mind’s darkest secrets and allowing his own nightmares to become real.
He wandered the tunnels for a time, with only the dry voice of the Fate Weaver whispering in his ear. The threads of Fate brought him to a hidden dusk elf enclave. They did not trust the boy, believing him to be a drow spy. It took some time, and pain, before they were comfortable letting the youth move without escort through their realm. Once he demonstrated his prowess in arcane arts, Lael, now a young man of seventeen, joined the Gloaming Guard and began to work as a deadly sentinel guarding his new homeland.
Lael possesses an ethereal beauty, with white hair and intense blue eyes with an inner ring of hazel violet set in a pale face tinged blue. With an average height and slim build, he does not cut a foreboding figure, but his presence still seems to fill a room. He usually wears clothing of various greys and differing textures, enjoying more the feel of the cloth than its appearance.
Shy and soft-voiced, he is rarely openly vocal, but does enjoy conversing on various topics once the ice is breached. In battle, he casts out his own nightmares and dementia upon his foes, showing a sadistic streak of cruelty in his enjoyment of bringing mental anguish to all that stand before him.