Most often seen in billowing robes that concealed his size beneath heavy layers this drow's stalwart stance belied an elegance and power that was reassured when one saw his sunset orange gaze flashing out from beneath his stark and snowy eyebrows that were slow to rouse, much like the man himself.

As one drew nearer the clear aura of alchemical ingredients wafted up around him, shifting with the breeze and the pockets it passed over; sandalwood, charcoal, musty mushrooms and any number of other magical spices for his trade. But beneath those shadowy clothes was a chiseled and worn frame, primarily crossing over his back were raised mounds of mutilated flesh, the marks wrapping around his body at times from an imprecise stroke settled in against his dark skin, each tilled mark a bundle of scar tissue lighter than the tone that held his fallen elven elegance. Though despite this sordid tale's clear inclination towards servitude the man now stands on the surface, unbent, proud, strong.

This resonant power of his person was never more clear than when he took up a practiced military stance and judged the world with his sweeping gaze, bright as the sun that he was shunned from, and oft protected from by no shortage of enchantments and wide-brimmed hats.