When one looks upon one of the accursed dark elves, invariably they look for that spark that defies the cruel nature for which they are famed. Some kind of buried light, some kind of uncommon valour. Such a search immediately proves fruitless in this regard, those shining qualities seem replaced, or obscured, by a fog of uncertainty. Even in regarding simple and common characteristics, this man's nature and intentions are worryingly obscure.

To begin with a cliche, the man's gaze is certainly significant. It is coloured in the striking infravision red that is common to his race, and yet smolders with a deep and menacing font of violent emotion. Prone to lighten and darken with his mood, to the point where it almost seems to blaze, these windows to the drow's soul are as mysterious as they are foreboding. There's brightness and whimsy buried there, and an almost youthful passion is dimmed only by a steely conviction.

The raw and honest savagery of the man's gaze stands in stark contrast with his exterior. Usually possessed of a thoroughly unwelcoming demeanour, the dark elf's air is all stoic discipline and stern judgment. He is an austere, martial character by the look of him. His beautiful, gently slanted blood red gaze can scathe and scold as easily as it can inspire and bewilder.

He is handsome in a way that only elves can be, his face and body all a picture of elegant otherworldly craftsmanship and haunting beauty that easily twists into guises both cruel and enchanting. An aquiline nose sits symettrically between high, defined cheekbones that taper down into flat cheeks and a slender chin. His jawline is strong even if its shape is a delicate vee, the right angles at the ends of his jaw leading up into pointed elven ears. His mouth is fuller than one would expect of the elves - though its lines are beautifully chiseled and hard, framing the pillowy well-shapen black flesh of his lips. A smile in genuine intention is a rare thing, though Solaufein's smile is uncharacteristically dashing -- easily shaping itself as a lopsided roguish smirk or a mirthful grin in a odd expressiveness that doesn't seem to match his martial air.

His hair is a pale, faintly silvery snow white and flows in thick tresses over his shoulders. It is almost always gathered back from his forehead into a top-knot at the back of his head, a single thin braid hangs down behind his left ear, the whiteness marred by a flaky reddish brown substance along its length.

His physique truly sets him apart from others of his race, however. Of larger stature than your run-of-the-mill diminuitive drow male, Solaufein stands of a height with warriors of the larger copper elves, and easily as tall as the females of his race in almost every instance.. While it demonstrates the slender grace and dexterity of all elves, his body is banded with rippling well-honed muscle to give him an uncommon breadth and a palpable power to his physicality. His blessed strength is coated in smooth obsidian, body like black marble in motion in the light.

His skin is not unblemished, however. Several scars of war mark him, spinning tales of many near-mortal encounters. Streaking outwards like flames from his left pectorial muscle are pitch black ritualistic tattoos, textured faintly against the smoothness of his skin. They swirl over his shoulder blade and run down his left arm and side right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. Their purpose or significance is indecipherable to the layman, though against his back the edges of the design have been broken up by lashing wounds that have been left to scar -- and a borne with neither pride nor shame.

When encountered on the surface, he wears a thin strip of black spidersilk over his eyes to filter the harshness of the light, and his clothes are earthy and cover him well. They cover a shimmering shirt of mithril ringmail set directly against his dark skin, and he is never without weapons -- even if they must be concealed.

In the Underdark, Solaufein is seldom found without his finely crafted bladed adamantine armour, something he has worn religiously to the point of being a trademark. Its every edge seems weaponised; cruel-looking curved blades line his bracers and his greaves, and curl outwards in arcs from his shoulders. He is often found with a piwafwi as black as midnight, trimmed in the purple silks of his House.

He seems ever alert and certainly strikes one as a dangerous and foreboding figure, and instinct likely suggests that he should be treated with caution.

Insticts and impressions, however, are often wrong.