Hair: Black, graying at temples.
Eyes: Slate blue.
Age: Forties.

?Concern yourself not with present nor past but the present. So full is the world with the vagrant pollution of others, that you must strengthen your soul to prepare for the darkness you shall encounter.?
As stillness falls onto the room, Martellus heard the words of his mentor repeating in his mind even past the ringing of his ears. The familiar taste of his own blood ran over his tongue like warm metal, while his armor became stained by the Black Ichor of a mage. Heavy breaths rose and fell rhythmically as the fledgling preserver looked over his first encounter with blood magic.
The eviscerated entrails of a woman lay on a stone altar arranged in ritualistic pattern. Her head, long separated from her body, kept vigil over the scene with glazed eyes. Slumped against the side of the altar with sword jutting through his chest was the perpetrator of the dark ceremony. Every detail of the stone dungeon etched itself into Martellus? memory as to never let him forget.
All the training and wise words his mentor provided did not prepare Martellus for the display of sin confronting his eyes. In that very moment, the man made a solemn promise to himself to steel his reserve and never be swayed by the temptations of such wickedness.