Name: Grey (at least what he goes by)
Race: Half Drow / Half Wood Elf
Hair: Dark Gray
Eyes: Light Gray
Skin: Ashen Gray
Build: A runners build / Lean and wiry
Height: 6'3"
Demeanor: Tends to be aloof unless one has somehow earned his trust and respect.

   Outcast, rebel, escaped "rothe". that about sums him up. Raised in the underdark to serve, he's escaped. Vowing never again to return, unless perhaps as a conqueror, but more likely as a destroyer of all things drow.

History: He was born to the youngest of nine Sister Priestesses in a minor house of Ched Nassad. His father a princeling wood elf taken captive during a surface raid in the Southern High Forest of Faerun. The young Priestess had been charged with exploiting the surfacer for his knowledge and ended up bearing his child in the process of her numerous visits to his cell. Before she'd even given birth however, Grey's father was sold to the Gray One's, a band of Illithid slavers to be trained and resold by them as yet another thrall.

///// It had been four score of cycles and still the surfacer had not wavered. His emerald eyes still shined and his faint yet confident smile spoke that he'd never be broken, and yet it was her task to try.

Each day, she grew more enchanted with her surface kin. Growing to admire not just his inner strength, but his outward almost ephemeral beauty as well. He stood two hands taller than any drow male she'd yet glimpsed. Unblemished other than his still badly charred hands. Hands that hand each held fast to long whirling blades that felled nearly a score of dark warriors before the male elementalist wove a spell that heated the swords until they became glowing with heat. Still, the surfacer held them fast until his flesh seared so badly his grips finally gave out. She looked to those curled and crippled charred hands now, and a plan came to mind. She would heal them. Restore their strength. What torture had failed at, kindness would convince. Yes, she would heal his hands ... so she could feel them upon her dark soft skin ... /////

His mother died during yet another of hundreds of uprisings in the town just before his third birthing day had arrived.

///// Deliver the letters and await a reply. That was all she had to do. "Wear your brooch in full view so all know the house you serve and your purpose this night" Matron had decreed. She would do as she was bid. In her heart, she prayed this important task of securing another lesser house's pledge was evidence that her Matron was beginning to trust her again. Perhaps her penance would soon be paid and once more she could take up her duties as befitted a young priestess of a rising house.

It had been made clear not to approach the fortified manor directly, for this like most was to be a secret alliance for the troubles currently in bloom in dark and treacherous Ched Nassad.

Slipping into the alleyway a block before her target, she then ducked into the small nondescript doorway on her left. Closing the door behind her, she peered about the dim interior, thinking she'd seen something in the darkness therein when the first dart struck the side of her neck. Even before three more pierced her soft skin, she was frozen and falling. Her last memory as she lay on her back with her eyes wide open was of a hooded male snatching the brooch pinned to the front of her cloak and telling another, "Take this back to her as she commanded. I'll finish here". He then searched her and retrieved the documents she was to deliver. Setting then on the cold stone floor, he spoke a quiet word and they were engulfed by flames. He then nodded to the rest before slipping into the shadows, his part done.

An hour later, the leader of the patrol who had found her laid the young priestess before the Matron's feet, gently. Another then set a cloth bundle upon her body and opened it. The tusks of three orc brutes and half a score of goblin ears the evidence that the young priestess had died well. Her naked and  torn body a testament to her courage that night.

The Matron nodded and dismissed the patrol. Her youngest daughter's treachery and the shame she'd brought on her House soon to be forgotten./////

His Matron Grandmother and Aunts had no desire to raise a half breed and sold him to Illithid's as they had his father before him. Being young and malleable, his fate was not to be a thrall. Instead, he was resold to a retired Weapon's Master as one to mold into something fit for the gladiator pits.

///// Isthriir was beginning to doubt the wisdom of buying the boy. Though strong and nimble, The ashen skinned half breed seemed to be only adequate with the training weapons. Truth be told, the boy was better than most his age. Perhaps it was just that at only 13 cycles, the lad was already as tall as Isthrirr himself. It wasn't until the day he pitted the half breed against Bao'or'et, the burly bugbear brawler that he saw the potential for something more.

By the time he was just into his 16 cycle of life, the young half breed was a  good hand taller than the master. While his size seemed to hinder his mastery of most drow weapons, his height and extended reach gave the boy better leverage against grappling opponents. That and the half breed seemed to have an intellect many of the others in training lacked. An instinct for sizing his opponents up and the patience to wait for the right opening, often absorbing a good deal of punishment before suddenly turning the tables on his sparring partners./////



-WIP-