Apples and Ivy
A Drow of not insignificant rage.
“Take your life, wretch. I would have you laid across the fire of my blade. I would hear you screaming. Yet my morally plagued companions do not wish it. Cross me again, however, and I’ll boil your blood ’till red mist blinds you. They will not stop me.”
Unusual height for a drow is masked by a low, stalking gait. His ashen skin occasionally smokes and crackles as though holding back hellfire… which it quite often is. Scars like shattered glass trace every inch of exposed flesh. White hair hangs long across his face. Strivian does not move with authority, he moves with murderous intent. His head is ever low, his gaze a never ending leer. His voice is equally pleasant. It rolls and cracks like the breaking of mountains.
In times of great need, great fury, or simply great annoyance the drow’s back has been known to sprout immense, black wings of demonic leather. A crown of fire rings his brow. His skin turns onyx and hardens into scale. Given the right moment, he seems more accustomed to the depths of Hell than the world above it.