Standing but a few inches over five feet, the drow warrior had long come to expect underestimation due to his physical stature. He had come to expect such, and exploited those ignorant enough to weigh physical size along with one's worth. Lengthy follicles of snow white had been shaved from his lacquered scalp, his bald crown often adorned by a low drawn and widely brimmed hat. His attire while hardly colorful in the accepted definition of the word, was a myriad of black and grays, silvers and varied hues of scarlet.
His mail was an odd obsidian-adamantine alloy, a wide and ornate breast plate underlain with a mesh of silvery chain. Adorning his chest laid a large widow spider, intricate runes of power woven here and there in purposeful patterns; his legs and arms kissed with ancient slips of heavily enchanted scale mail, each individual section of ebony bone engraved with a scene from the ageless drow elf's life. The flowing wave of fashioned darkness that trickled like a passive tributary over his strong shoulders and about his booted feet was a family heirloom of sorts.
Crafted of a single piece of spiders silk, the item was fitted perfectly to his personage; stirring with every subtle movement the ancient made. Whispers abounded at the sight of the item, for beneath its placid veneer loomed a chaotic scene depicting a lost time in the elvish histories. The cloak told the story of the elvish betrayal of their dark-skinned cousins, of how, when a rare illness befell the light-skinned of Corellon Larethian's children they turned upon the drow. They accused the black elves of trickery and deceit and damned them into the lightlessness of Toril's Underdark. The pictorial sewn in subtle threads of silver and gray silks showed just that, silvery silhouettes chasing the darker wisps of gray into the darkness of oblivion.
About his narrow hips rested a wide weapons belt of black leather, clasped in the center by a platinum and onyx widow broach. An assortment of pouches and thin wands hung from their respective loops upon that belt, but the crowning items set upon the cured leather's expanse was by far the ageless relics that slept within macabre scabbards of mercuric scarlet. Havoc and Malice were their whispered names, blades forged in the very dawning of time when the first blood of the elven people was spilt upon the field.
Each blade reached a full thirty six inches in length, and an inch and a half in thickness. The metal of which each ever-sharp blade was forged of was unknown, its glossy surface holding a dour hue of some silvery-black mixture. Crushed amethyst was inlaid within Havoc's deep blood groove, shimmering and glowing a fierce violet light when the weapon was drawn from its protective scabbard. Her hilt was crafted into the likeness of a drow elven priestess clad in fabulous robes of station, a closed eye crowning her perfectly balanced pommel.
Malice was the same length and weight as his sister, yet his blade was adorned with crushed emerald, its ornate hilt sculpted from some odd white metal into the likeness of an elven noblemen. Brother and sister were they, drow and sylvan; it was said that the souls of the two rival siblings were held within the ancient relics, though only the wielder of the sentient weapons knew the secrets behind their obscured past.
