First Name: Quaid
This drow soldier stands right and proud. He is probably part of a noble lineage.
He wears a longbow in the back. His gait is martial but his movements are fast, precise and imbued with elven grace.
His arms and his back are particularly musculated, undoubtedly by an intensive practice of the archery.
His eyes are deep blue which is rare among dark elves. But they are cruel and domineering, and their pupils are thin as pinheads.
He tends to always support the look of a drow that crosses his, no matter who it is.
Quaid is a wall-age drow. He knows who he is, and he is a soldier at heart. He likes war. He likes to talk about it and he likes to do it. He is not very interested in the unrelenting internal conflicts of the drows.
He is also a psychopathic killer. A quality absolutely encouraged by the drow civilisation. Killing gives him intense pleasure, and relieves him of an internal tension. "Drow brings problems" "No more drow, no more problem" as he says.
He is a fanatic of Lolth, but he sees the spider godess in his own way. He sees her as the soul and destiny of his people. A predatory and domineering creature, wanting to reign on the Underdark and the Surface. Her somewhat personal and flat design of the goddess misleads her on the deeply egotistical and even harmful nature of Lolth, for the entire drow race.
Quaid is very proud of his deadly fighting skills. This is why he behaves arrogantly, and dares acts that few men would dare to do.
He is also very hostile to non-drow, and hates the Conclave's current co status with duergars, svirfnebelins and others parasites.
His health is very good. Elves with pure blood are most of the time in exceptional health, and are protected from time and disease.
The intensive practice of archery tends to create sometimes intense cramps, which make him scream in pain.
Likes to smoke a drug, a rare mixture of hallucinogenic drow drug poison.
Love everything about weapons, training, warfare.
Repugnant to dealing with everyday things, stewardship or money. Slaves and servants are there for that.
Quaid was born 200 years ago in Ched Nazzad, the drow great city, a Power in the North.
He was the eldest son of Alglynt'tar, a rising house whose fortune came from metal trading with duergars.
As the eldest son, Quaid's primogeniture gave him great symbolic importance.
As a result, he was very invested. Like many young drow, he was subjected to intense military training, but he had a personal trainer, and his apartments.
He also received a diversified apprenticeship on the world, and the great history of the drow people. A common apprenticeship in the drow nobility, to which he belonged.
His personality was therefore developed in two sometimes contradictory directions: his status as a noble and eldest son, pampered (if one can say) and valued, and his status as a soldier monk subject to intense discipline and endless training.
When he was ready, he was sent into a real combat situation. Although his talents were great, Quaid was not immortal. During a skirmish a band of rebellious vhaerunites drow, he was seriously wounded. The bolt that had pierced his chest was poisoned. It took all the will of his mother, the matron mother, to save him.
From that day, the military detachment where he was incorporated received the clear instruction to always place the young Lord Quaid Alglynt'tarin the back, providing a bow.
It was a deep humiliation for him, and for the other fighters of the school of war, who despised him for this special treatment.
But something happened that no one expected: Quaid refused to play the role of a little protégé in the back. To make up for his situation, he started practicing archery. He gradually abandoned training at other weapons.
Although the longbow is obviously used by the drow to kill, it is considered unworthy of a real armed duel.
At first, Quaid agreed with this idea. And he despised himself for being reduced to "fighting" at a distance, like the cowards. But over the months, he learned to ignore the opinion of the others, and focused on one thing: to be one with his bow.
He got used to shooting long-range arrows.
He got used to shooting eyes closed.
Or to draw several arrows at the same time.
Still located at recessed positions, he was beginning to be effective. Useful. His arrows and his concentration became more and more deadly. His disability was starting to become a force. And the soldiers, his old comrades, had stopped despising him.
When his training at the school of war was over, Quaid had abandoned all these harmful ideas about the art of hand-to-hand combat, and his so-called nobility.
To the chagrin of his "family" (so tempted that the drow really understand the meaning of this word), he strongly announces his choice to continue to perfect his art of killing. He would be neither a magician nor a warrior, but a killer. A choice, to say the least, strange and disconcerting for the first born of a noble family.
Nevertheless, his decision was finally accepted.
He spent many years with Veldrin Cheldran, the master assassin of Ched Nazzad. The life of a drow is long, as long as it does not die violently. And over the years, his distant mortal talents combined very well with the art of killing quietly.
Busy and obsessed with his quest for perfection, Quaid completely neglected to take care of the internal affairs of his House.
Hazardous decisions were made, and precipitous events occured.
The officer in charge of protecting the domains was one day found dead, a blade between the shoulder blades.
Then, two priestesses fell suddenly sick, of an disease which proved incurable.
These events were of course not the result of chance: an inferior house, not noble, set up the moral and tactical conditions of the execution of the house Alglynt'tar. Not even to take her place, but because she was more and more shading her own mining business.
And unfortunately for Quaid, what was to happen happened: an heteroclyte group of drow and duergar mercenaries massively attacked the house Alglynt'tar during a meeting at the family estate. The duergars used several magic fires to create destructive landslides preventing foot fleeing. Quaid resisted as best he could, but in less than half an hour the majority of the defenders were already dead. The situation was desperate.
So he took the necessary decision: to escape, to escape into this mousetrap, as long as there was still time. The flight into shame and jaw clenched, but the escape anyway.
His wiles and skills allowed him to flee. Knowing that he was probably the last living noble of the Alglynt'tar house, he knew he would be quickly hunted down when they would realize that his body was not lying in the rubble of the family estate.
He resolves to leave the city precipitately, abandoning all good, all wealth, and all titles. He stamped the trade routes south of Ched Nasad alone, and had to rub shoulders with some of the disgusting races that were walking by his side.
Quaid was a strong warrior, but he was alone and hunted. So he continued for months to move as far as he could, from the Ched Nassad area. Now living in paria drow, cautiously frequenting some drow front positions positioned at the detours of caves and large tunnels of passage.
He once heard talk of a city far south. A city like no other, singular and young. Open to people like him, to the noble penniless and downgraded he had become. The city of Sshamath.
And so Quaid made the decision to go there to start a new life.