Name: Thirodaen ‘FeyWild’
Race: Fey Elf
Age: 85
Class: Blade Dancer
Alignment: Neutral Good

Description: His face is almost inhumanly elongated, though still possesses a kind of ethereal beauty common to his race. His red hair has been cut short and remains messy and spiky, maybe with the odd twig here and there. He has piercing blue eyes and an arrogant smirk always playing on his thin lips. Tall and willowy, he can seem quite effeminate from a distance.

When not in armour, he has adopted more human clothes, much to his disdain. He typically wears a loose white shirt with leather trousers.  He keeps it as simple as possible, refusing to adorn himself with further ‘human baubles’. He does, however, wear a tiny silver wolf on a thin chain around his neck, from his native wildwood. 

Weapons: Wildwood longbow
        Elven Double-glaive
        [hider=Double Glaive]
Like this, but with straighter blades.
[img]http://s376565721.onlinehome.us/darkside/image/data/The%20Hobbit/Mirkwood%20Double-Bladed%20Polearm%20UC3043%20/UC3043.JPG[/img]
[/hider]

        Curved dagger ‘Hiketash’ (he refuses to translate)

Armour: When going into battle, he adopts dulled human mail, having found that it offers significantly more protection than his native leathers. He does, however, still wear said leathers when traveling, as they’re far more comfortable.

Experience: Thirodaen has been hunting in the wildwoods since he was ten, and upon leaving aged 43, has been fighting for various mercenary companies for about 42 years.

Fighting Style: Thirodaen is a dead shot with his bow, and is quite happy to stand in plain sight, calmly picking off the enemy from a distance, absent mindedly avoiding any arrows that might have found their mark in him. Should the foe decide to close, then the killing really starts. His double glaive starts spinning, slowly at first, but getting faster and faster, forming intricate patterns around his body until it is nothing but a blur, marked by the blood of those who get too close.
Like any self respecting Fey elf, he can sneak and skulk with the best of them, striking unseen from the shadows. But that’s really not fair on the poor humans.

Personality: Thirodaen is cold and remorseless. He has a superior and arrogant attitude regarding humans and most other species, considering them to be lesser than himself. He does not deign speak to them, if he can help it. He trusts no-one implicitly, but he will still work with most people, convinced that they couldn't do him much harm anyway, regardless, he always has one or two knives of his person, even if you can't see them. He can also be judgmental of his faults, and defensive of his own. However, he holds himself to the high standards upon which he bases his disrespect for all others, and you will never find an elf quite so loyal, determined, or ferocious as Thirodaen. In defence of his allies, he would give his life. Albeit grudgingly, with promises of much haunting.

[hider=BackStory]
Backstory: Quite young for an elf, like many, he does not remember a time before humans. He was born into a quiet, secluded world, forever warned of the dangers of stepping outside the forest. For years that forest was his home, he was happy. Back then, he was a good person, perhaps slightly naive, but a more friendly person you would struggle to find. He married a girl named Miste, who had hair of gold and a voice like silk. He loved her. He gave her a child. But it was a lie.
He was woken by the cries of a screaming child, and went through to see what was wrong. He found his wife cradling their baby, dressed for a long journey. “Miste? What are you doing?”
She had sighed, seemingly annoyed, “I had hoped to avoid this.” She carefully placed down the baby, dusted him off, and smashed Thirodaen through the wall, pinning him to the wall behind. Telekinesis had always been her speciality. She slowly walked up to him, keeping him held a foot of the ground. Thirodaen was lost, “I...Why…”
Miste sighed again and shook her head. She looked almost pitying. “Thirodaen, poor, poor Thirodaen. Why did you ever think I loved you?”
“Because...I loved you.”
That made her laugh, “Stupid youngling. I married your blood, your line. You have no idea the powers this child possesses. I never loved you, you were just too naive to see it.” She stepped  back, as if contemplating what to do with him. “I shall have to kill you.” She concluded, drawing a long dagger, “Such a shame, you were a very nice person. Maybe try harder next time?” She giggled, placing the cold steel on her husband's throat. “Goodbye.”
She forgot that he was never unarmed. She stumbled back, a curved knife protruding from her stomach. Her eyes went wide in surprise, her magic failed and her breathing became shallower, and shallower. He held her, as she died. As she breathed her final breath. And with that breath went any compassion Thirodaen had left.
The child was gone when he turned back. Whoever she’d been, Miste had not been working alone. He left the wildwood that night, seeking to make his way in the human world. He kept the knife, and named it Hiketash. Widower. Wife killer.
[/hider]