Nimruil Suulet'jabar, Sun Spider
Nimruil's Theme
What can change the nature of a people?
Is it only divine will? Or is it the slow march of time and a spiralling dance of decay and birth in society? The gradual change of culture over time? Perhaps the only limit to change is the will of the people themselves -- the geist of their accumulated history.
They say one shouldn't limit themselves.
Yet the drow have always lived underground. Always huddled to darkness, scampering away from the glare of the sun, from their elven kin on the surface and from any semblance of understanding with other races.
Why should this be so? When did drow ever let their ambition be curtailed, their curiosity squashed by fear?
To Nimruil, they are but one stage away from claiming their right to the surface. From overcoming any weakness they might have. But perhaps most of all, they are but in the nascent age of developing their culture and their very blood. For five centuries, he has been studying the alchemical properties of the plurality of species to be found in the Underrealm. But none have fascinated him as much as the blood of his own kind. Endlessly mutable, under the right conditions of experimentation, he has used himself as a test subject on multiple occasions.
Ssiks Orbb, his kin calls him. It translates to Sun Spider, an oxymoron at best to the drow. Why would a spider ever desire the sunlight? Yet this particular one seemingly does, yearning for a future where they can propagate the surface unmolested by that detestable Orbb. Nimruil has come to accept this nickname with the same stoic patience as he has weathered far worse insults. Talk is mere talk; gossip amongst fools.
The only thing he fears is that some know of his alchemically-induced reliance on sunlight, now having to scorch his body with artificial sustenance to sustain it. This secret could destroy his reputation -- a name that is thus ironically poignant.
Appearance
A drow of a relatively tall stature, compared to his brethren. It is an admirable feat that he has survived into his fifth century, without yet being killed by poison or a hidden blade, though he hardly sports any wrinkles to attest this achievement of longevity. The only sign of his significant age is the dusty quality to his hair, as if drained and leeched of vibrancy and the brilliant, white glow of so many of his kindred — either a result of the environment of his own laboratory or of years beginning to make their mark. Even his eyes seem to mirror this age, having lost some of their colourful glow, favouring a paler shade of red.
But the ever most telling factor of his age remains his palpable arrogance. Few have honed the look of unimpressed scorn like Nimruil, who has lived long enough to have seen most sorts come and go. However, he wouldn't have survived this long if he hadn't mastered the ability to curb these grimaces in certain company, practising a careful etiquette that allows him to continue his research more or less undisturbed.
He often wears a robe of several layers, interwoven in a curious feat of tailoring, lined with motifs of silver spidersilk. This is in fact a practical implement — as a transmuter and someone who has stretched his body to its absolute limits, the particular design of his clothes allow for swift disrobing and dressing. Too many shredded robes from his various transformations have finally led to this perfected design.
As an alchemist, Nimruil always carries his trusty pouch of components, spare binding agents and emergency elixirs. Even the insides of his layered cloak, often favouring a glamour, might hide secret pockets and spare potions. His spellbook he leaves in the safety of his sanctuary, having by now memorised the spells he needs.
But the ever most telling factor of his age remains his palpable arrogance. Few have honed the look of unimpressed scorn like Nimruil, who has lived long enough to have seen most sorts come and go. However, he wouldn't have survived this long if he hadn't mastered the ability to curb these grimaces in certain company, practising a careful etiquette that allows him to continue his research more or less undisturbed.
He often wears a robe of several layers, interwoven in a curious feat of tailoring, lined with motifs of silver spidersilk. This is in fact a practical implement — as a transmuter and someone who has stretched his body to its absolute limits, the particular design of his clothes allow for swift disrobing and dressing. Too many shredded robes from his various transformations have finally led to this perfected design.
As an alchemist, Nimruil always carries his trusty pouch of components, spare binding agents and emergency elixirs. Even the insides of his layered cloak, often favouring a glamour, might hide secret pockets and spare potions. His spellbook he leaves in the safety of his sanctuary, having by now memorised the spells he needs.
Skills and Abilities
+ General arcana and spellwork, with a particular bent towards transmutation and physical modification of organic matter.
+ Advanced and esoteric alchemy, drawn from the greatest minds and lore available in the Underrealm.
+ Surprising tolerance towards other races and species. He is naturally curious of all species -- not that that is always a good thing.
+ Vast knowledge of bestiology and botany in the Underrealm.
+ Strength and flexibility in the various forms and stages of metamorphosis he can assume.
+ Curious perks derived from self-experimentation. He can tolerate sunlight longer than most drow, has surprisingly acidic blood and a strange constitution against poison and diseases.
- Unhealthy side-effects from his own experiments. These include a near heretical dependency on sunlight (which he has to inject from artificial sources of his own making), occasional involuntary transformations, an addiction to certain foods, spices and drugs only harvestable from the Underrealm and strange fever-spells where he can be bedridden for months.
- Intense arrogance and sense of superiority, which he has to suppress in certain company.
- A dangerous indulgence in assuming certain forms and wreaking carnage as an alter ago, while keeping his nose clean for his primary identity.
- A manic drive to finish his work. But what he considers "finished" would be seen as impossible or foolish by most.
- An artificial support for his spine, which was broken by one of his test subjects. This has been laced with enchantments, giving him some benefits and empowerment of certain spells, though it yields daily pains. It is also used as foci to keep his mental faculties whenever he polymorphs into another form, as well as anchoring him to his original form.
Personality
The mind of a scholar must work hard to find solace in Zar'Ahal. Even harder to achieve that peace of mind and equilibrium necessary for fruitful work, where one can devote themselves to their research fully.
Nimruil despises politics and intrigue. Even more so the ones who indulge in it and play by its games. But he has learned to play its game, reluctantly, to ensure his own survival — and perhaps more importantly, the existence of his work. If he could hole himself up in his sanctuary and work without any interruptions or need to interact with the outside world, he would gladly take it. Indeed, he has been known to spend years, sometimes even decades, wrapped up in his own work, hissingly abjuring any who dare to disturb him.
But sometimes, certain guests appear that he cannot expulge. Matriarchs and priestesses, to name some. He has had to grovel and debase himself (at least in his mind) on a few unfortunate situations to end up in the esteemed position he enjoys today. Even had to engage in more sordid work of his House, to allow him the resources to fulfill his life's work.
Nimruil has patiently endured all this, finding solace in the overstuffed home and sanctuary he has crafted for himself. Dusty tomes and boiling alembics are his welcome neighbors, along with his disturbing menagerie of captured creatures and mutated test subjects, railing against their cells deep in the bowels of his tower.
Nimruil despises politics and intrigue. Even more so the ones who indulge in it and play by its games. But he has learned to play its game, reluctantly, to ensure his own survival — and perhaps more importantly, the existence of his work. If he could hole himself up in his sanctuary and work without any interruptions or need to interact with the outside world, he would gladly take it. Indeed, he has been known to spend years, sometimes even decades, wrapped up in his own work, hissingly abjuring any who dare to disturb him.
But sometimes, certain guests appear that he cannot expulge. Matriarchs and priestesses, to name some. He has had to grovel and debase himself (at least in his mind) on a few unfortunate situations to end up in the esteemed position he enjoys today. Even had to engage in more sordid work of his House, to allow him the resources to fulfill his life's work.
Nimruil has patiently endured all this, finding solace in the overstuffed home and sanctuary he has crafted for himself. Dusty tomes and boiling alembics are his welcome neighbors, along with his disturbing menagerie of captured creatures and mutated test subjects, railing against their cells deep in the bowels of his tower.