Vaelthar was born into a fallen, fabled house in a dark, underground city where betrayal was survival. Power there was taken, not given. When his family was quietly wiped out in a coup, he escaped, never trusting anyone, and fleeing into the deeper shadows. Alone and in secret, he became a swift and deadly assassin for hire (and sometimes personal). He traded and lived in secrets and silent kills until the name carried a looming presence in his land. Now he's moved on, with a change in his mind, hoping for a fresher and better start in this new land he's found. Whether he'll start a new life, or if he'll return back for vengeance and power, none can tell...
Vaelthar does not sit immediately. His amethyst eyes linger on the floating candles, then the old woman, as if trying to measure the truth in her old bones. Slowly, but deliberately, he pulls the chair back and lowers himself into it - never breaking eye contact. Soon, a faint, humorless smile touches his lips. "I come from places that I like to believe no longer exist," he says quietly. "Buried cities. Broken names. Ash where blood once meant something." He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "As for what I intend to make of myself..." A pause - just long enough to raise tensions and feel like a warning. "Something no one forgets twice."
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