In the city of Briarhtol there are many family hierarchies, and as a child of merchant-nobility Mytis spent his younger years running from his elder siblings in extremely expensive handcrafted shoes. Being the youngest isn’t easy, and being the smallest is even less easy. When a hired military coup brought his family up the ranks to eventually rule over Briarhtol, Mytis fled before the infighting could eventually land him on the throne, and he’s always assumed his siblings followed suit. He’s stopped keeping track of how many steps he is from the crown and has instead started following his childhood dream of becoming a tailor. His parents started their wealth as travelling cloth merchants afterall. Unfortunately in his attempts to create new colour dyes he’s accidentally poisoned himself with arsenic and being a dark elf he’s not quite certain how much the poison is shaving years from his life. He’s started trying to live entirely in the moment and due to his upbringing his morality is rather flexible. Meaning, in short terms, he lies. Compulsively. A lot. His charisma helps him get out of many situations but the lies do start to catch up with him. There’s speculation that his name isn’t even Mytis among merchants he meets.
Despiviir Vorn Phyx
An underground city, a library of forbidden tomes, and a jail cell increasingly moving further and further away. Despiviir has known these three things about his life for a seemingly never ending length of time. Until a voice started echoing to him, explaining an old history that the civilisation he lived in completely forgot and promising him power if he began to bring it back. Since being imprisoned as a child for disrespecting the god his city worshipped it seemed like a good enough deal. With his new friend at his side he started to adorn himself in his favourite colours that were always forbidden and collecting offerings. His practices require a certain amount of firepower and after breaking free of containment and retrieving tomes needed to learn this magic, he torched the entire library to the ground. Of course one new warlock is no match for a trained army of priestesses and his defiance only landed himself back in a cell. But he did manage to get one treasure on his way out, a stolen eyeball he’s begun to call ‘mother’. Guards pacing by his cell often report hearing him talking to it in a strange tongue and the smell of singed flesh.