Veldarr Xiltyn

Veldarr Xiltyn is a drow man with waist-length white hair, usually worn loose down his back, and piercing red eyes that track every movement in the room. Relatively young for a drow, he is only just reaching his 120th year. His composed face and quiet, watchful presence reveal nothing about his pact. He dresses in dark, practical layers that conceal his arcane focus and other signs of eldritch power. He chooses seats with a view of every entrance, keeps one hand near his concealed casting focus, and notices changes in a room before anyone else reacts. His red eyes seem capable of piercing straight through a person’s soul, lingering just long enough to make even hardened company look away. Almost no emotion reaches his face; only the occasional slow, unsettling smile betrays something cruel beneath his calm.

Veldarr was six when the high elves came to the Xiltyn household beneath the old mushroom forest. They wore polished mail and white cloaks, claiming to purge a nest of raiders. His father reached for a blade; his mother pushed Veldarr behind a water cask. Neither survived the first minute. The soldiers killed his brothers in the corridor, then dragged his mother into the lamplight so Veldarr would watch her die.

Veldarr had a twin brother, Xevryn, born minutes before him and seldom more than an arm’s reach away. They slept beneath the same blanket, hunted pale cave crickets together, and learned to read one another’s plans from a twitch of the fingers. When the soldiers entered, Xevryn shoved Veldarr toward the water cask and ran into the corridor to draw them away. Veldarr saw the white flash of a sword before the falling corpse hid him from view. He never learned whether Xevryn died first or last. In the burial chamber, the voice found a boy who had survived his own half—and Veldarr has treated every bond since as a weakness someone will eventually exploit.

He lived because one corpse fell across him. Beneath his father’s body, breathing through blood and spilled lamp oil, Veldarr listened to the elves search the rooms. Before dawn, he crawled into a drainage fissure and followed it until the tunnels opened into a forgotten burial chamber.

For three days he drank condensation from the stones and chewed fungus scraped from the walls. A voice found him there in the dark—not kind, but patient—and offered power enough to ensure no one would ever decide his life was worthless again.

Veldarr emerged changed. He trusts no uniform, no oath, and no smile sharpened by privilege. High elves receive his silence, his scrutiny, and nothing freely given. He does not seek indiscriminate revenge; he wants names, proof, and the moment each killer realizes the child they spared has come to collect.

Years later, while searching a collapsed shrine beneath the old mushroom forest, Veldarr found an ancient book sealed in black hide and dusted with bone ash. Its pages recorded pacts, vanished covens, and warlocks who had traded years, names, or blood for power. He read by stolen candlelight until the wax drowned the table, drawn less by promises of strength than by the proof that others had survived such bargains. From then on, he studied arcane power with the same patience he gave to vengeance.

Veldarr speaks in an even, authoritative voice that seldom rises above conversation yet leaves little room for argument. He studies doorways, reflections, hands, and exits while appearing to listen without concern. He lets others reveal their intentions first, answering questions with careful half-truths rather than direct lies. Sudden movement earns a quiet glance, never an obvious flinch. He keeps most people at a measured distance, offering neither familiarity nor confidence without cause. Those who earn his trust discover a fiercely loyal friend who remembers every kindness, stands beside them without hesitation, and answers betrayal with finality.