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Aláundril de'Veldrin
Drow
Isn't he just dreamy?

Race:

Drow - Pureblooded

Age:

C. 250

Height:

5'4"ft.

Weight:

C. 120lbs.

Birthplace:

Skullport

Affiliations:

Jaezred Chaulssin, Dragon's Hoard

Deity:

Vhaeraun

Profession:

Scout/Assassin

Classes:

Ranger 26 / Rogue 13 / Shadowdancer 1

Aláundril de'Veldrin - A SummaryEdit

To most, he was simply a typical member of his well-known race - he was endowed with the good looks most of his kind were lucky enough to have, along with a cunning intellect honed by a racial struggle for survival within the cruel depths of the Underdark, where only the strongest survived. He, however, had lived out his formative years the place known only as Skullport, a mixing pot of not only the various races of the Underdark, but from just about every corner of Abeir-Toril. Growing up in such a strange place, he was not one to be shocked whenever some new freak to inhabit Styss was encountered- almost curious, conversely.

Nonetheless, his cold professionalism was not down to his upbringing alone- unbeknownst to most, he was in fact a trained assassin, also versed in the ways of a scout. While he was deadly with his twin icy kukris - named Wit and Irony, rather appropriately - he had a knack for survivalism, and there was nary a dark forest he could not navigate, nor a maze he could not swiftly find his way out of, but most telling of his traits was the way in which he could blend in in just about any scenario, whether it be shadows or among a thronging crowd, he could become all but invisible at a moment's notice. Even then, he kept a watchful eye of his surroundings, ever alert of the possibility of being spotted. Not that this happened all too often at all.


History / BackgroundEdit

Having spent his youth in as degenerative a place as Skullport has ensured not so much as an inkling of naivity remained within him; on a near-daily basis, he was acquainted and reacquainted with the professions chosen by its many citizens- piracy was commonplace, as was the slave trade.

Aláundril, of course, did not have an easy life, even at home: his father a drunkard, his mother a prostitute, Aláundril left the shack which was "home" to his disfunctional heritage at the early age of forty-five -- for a drow, that is -- to carve out a name for himself. The fact that he was so young proved itself to be an advantage, as very few suspected the keen eyes and deft hands which the adolescent drow possessed. By the age of seventy, his hands had pilfered the pockets of most anybody worth mentioning in that cesspool of a city, ensuring he lead a relatively comfortable life up until then. That is to say, only up until he was caught by one of Zstu
Drow1

Aláundril in the employ of Ssarmn

lkk Ssarmn's guards when he ventured to close to the Snake Pit, the home of Ssarmn and the headquarters of his slave dealings, and gathering of Ssethite-worshipping yuan-ti.

His potential was recognised by the illustrious slaver lord, however, and he set him to work; thus began Aláundril's dealings with the darker side of the criminal underworld that reigned supreme in Skullport, although very few ever suspected or knew of his involvement in any of the deeds he performed, so tactful was he. Successful mission after successful mission ensured that inevitably the young drow had enough wealth amassed to buy himself an early retirement after earning Ssarmn's respect to the degree of being considered one of his most reliable assosciates.

His retirement - during which he immersed in a world of indulgence, partaking in no less than five orgies a week and sampling the newest narcotics and spirits to be imported from far-away Kara Tur and even further afield, not to mention pleasures of the flesh in the company of the sun elven (he always had a particular desire to degrade them after one he was forced to partner with almost botched a mission) harem he had accumulated for himself - was unfortunately short-lived when an elven adventuring party of the do-gooder persuasion stumbled upon his abode just outside of Waterdeep and saw fit to appease their moral compasses by rescuing his "servants" and razing the small manor to the ground. Aláundril, however, escaped with one of his many consorts, named Vertae.

Elf2edit

Aláundril's amour, Vertae Arabidlues

Since that time, he has taken it upon himself to make a far more earnest attempt at earning a living in the company of his consort-turned-lover Vertae- while he was still as much an assassin as he ever had been, over the last hundred years he has gone in search of purpose, and now finds it in slaying those who have wronged others yet cannot be touched by the arms of the judiciary system, blaming his own misdeeds for his death, although he could still be considered a hedonist by most, and just as remorseless as ever - if living by a code of honour this time around. In their time spent together, Aláundril and Vertae have performed all manner of missions other teams or lone assassins may have cited as being entirely impossible; between the two, all criteria to fulfill any mission were meant: her expertise in ranged combat and his with melee ensured no target was too close or too far away, and his dark, appealing, sinful appearance in conrast to hers of outright beauty and purity gave them the keys to the proximity of any mark, male or female. They have travelled the breadth of each and every one of Abeir-Toril's continents, from Faerún to Kara-Tur, leaving naught but whispered rumours, infamy and notoriety in their wake, avoiding detection consistently.

He had also allied himself staunchly with the clergy of Vhaeraun, having invested heavily in the Dragon's Hoard - a merchant troupe turned mercenary - after they near-decimation at the hands of followers of Eilistraee, and has occasionally ventured into the Underdark where he deals with the Jaezred Chaulssin during their unceasing attempts to turn drow culture patriarchal.

However, as all things eventually end, so did their seemingly-unending spree of justifiable assassinations; during one particular mission which saw them tackling a ship named 'The Cold Maiden', the galley-flagship of a Mulhornadi slave trader who abducted tribals from remote villages in Chult, then ferried them across the Trackless Sea and smuggled them onto the mainland through the corrupt port-capital of Calimshan, Calimport. After they had killed or incapaciated what they thought were all of the crew members, they freed the slaves and sent them back on their way home atop a number of row boats. Little did they know, however, that the helmsman had greatly exaggerated his own death and hid among the now-freed slaves, thus avoiding the razing of the 'The Cold Maiden', rendering an exact description of his would-be assassins. Using his ties to Zstulkk Ssarmn, Aláundril managed to delay the inevitably manhunt that would ensue by convincing him to spread chaos among the Iron Ring consortium, a powerful slave-trading outfit to which both he and their earlier victim belonged, giving them enough time to escape to another plane, where they would escape its long reach.

Having stumbled into the lands of Styss by the mechanisms of his unrelenting wanderlust and a certain botched mission mentioned above requiring him and his lover to seek asylum, he now serves Anamchara as a scout in their military, along with Vertae, whom has in their near-one-hundred years of interconnection become not only become his lover, but his partner- throughout his own endeavours as an assassin, more than a few times have her legendary skills with the bow ensured success and guaranteed his own safety - the latter always being her priority. Whether or not this has a connection to his tendency to flirt with any female marks before killing them or not is as of yet unknown.


Physical Description / PersonalityEdit

This being was certainly not one to stand out in a crowd, common as his kind had become among the droves of Styss, but alas, there must have been something about this particular individual which may draw someone's gaze long enough for a closer inspection.

It may well have been his face, were one used not used to his race's comely features; an angular jawline and pronounced cheekbones accentuated the the near-velvetty appearance of his luxuriously rich, dark flesh which was stretched taut over it. His kissable lips hid a tongue pierced with a silver stud and were darker still, apt to be conformed into a smug smirk, charming smile or playful grin, those kissable, ever ready to portray the image he wished them to- however insincere it may be at times. Of course, these contortions only served to draw one's eye to his nose, the feature - two small, thin silver hoops piercing the left nostril - running smoothly into a pencil-thin brow, trimmed silvery eyebrows ever furrowed only so slightly as the eyes beneath ever scanned his surroundings with the alertness of a hawk seeking out its prey among the unassuming masses. But those eyes may well be quite the distinguishing feature in and of themselves- the irises were typically an apathetic, lustreless icy-blue, able to level a disapproving, contemptuous glare at a moment's notice - or sparkle with mirth, depending on present company. As with most all members of his particular race, this drow male's handsome face was framed by a lustrous mane of silver hair, well-kempt and obviously a personal point of pride for him, ever tucked behind pointed ears - both of which had a myriad of studs and hoops dangling from their extended, acutely-pointed lengths - and restrained toward the back with a simple braid, a small portion often tied back to hang along with the rest as a simple ponytail, cut slightly shorter than the rest of his hair, which landed just atop his shoulders.

His body itself was another example of the vanity which the scrutinous gaze had come to expect from him- not a single sleek muscle was out of place, entire form kept remarkably fit, even for an athlete- his muscles did bulge ever so slightly around the biceps, displaying some measure of outright strength which most people with his grace lacked, and adorned with simple runic tattoos twisting around their girth in what one would assume to be designs of his fancy, simply of aesthetic value to him and nothing more, although the small image of a rose with pronounced thorns did seem to have some measure of importance to him, located on his forearm. His chest itself was made no less attractive by the piercings which adorned it; each nipple had a small, triangular ornament fitted through it, and his pectorals themselves played host to an inked decoration; his upper right chest bore a depiction of the ourobouros, a dark serpent devouring its own tail. His legs were just as toned as the rest of his form, endowed with the sleek musculature of a stallion's as testament to the vast distances he has has travelled.

Furthermore, this engimatic being was not on to attempt to draw attention to himself unless he wished otherwise, footsteps barely audible even atop tiled floors and head always slightly bowed, and in addition to his outwardly-slight build this ensured he could become nigh-on invisible in the throngs of a crowd or even during the chaos which raged upon a battlefield. Of course, it would be wrong of someone to assume simply because his head was bowed he was of a meek disposition; he bore some great purpose like an attire which made him impervious to all the petty distractions and temptations, chest ever swelled with silent pride as he went about his business as if it were many times as important as anyone else's - and maybe it was, too, and almost certainly as far as he was concerned. However, he was no amateur when it came to the more interactive side of things, either; he carried an insurmountable confidence with every word he spoke, not one to become nervous or bashful regardless of the situation. His voice provided no small amount of aid to his dealings with others- like silk, words were weaved with the utmost precision to deliver the full impact of whatever he said, particularly suited to a seductive tone. Those sinful lips could craft the most sinful innuendoes and transform a simple statement into a dark secret, apt to leave someone a-tingle with the sensation alone.

Indeed, this individual had a goal in mind at most all times, and he was armed with the rudimentary tools with which to accomplish it. That, it seems, is all he needs.

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