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Race: High Elf
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 180 lbs.
Appearance: Gray-blue eyes; short, piecy black hair; pale skin; skinny build; pointed ears; Carries a rapier and pistol; has an uncharacteristically deep voice; is a skilled fighter and marksman, but prefers his sword because it is more noble and takes greater skill to wield; Usually wears a long, white jacket and black underneath
Bio: Rasfaren was born into a noble family of High Elves in Durem. When he was still very young, Rasfaren's father was murdered by the Kuro Gang because he owed money for something the young elf never found out. After covering the living room with the father's blood, the dark elves continued through the house, killing Rasfaren's sister and mother as well. He hid in the closet in his mother's room and watched them die. The memory of his family's dead bodies littering the floors of their mansion followed him through courts, orphanages, and eventually into the streets of Durem. It hardened him, taught him to tolerate pain and channel it. At 12 years old, he sought out the Kuro gang. He gained intelligence on a low-level boss, planned his attack, and killed the drow. The boss's cronies took him as a prisoner and presented him to the Don of the time. He was taken on as the Don's personal apprentice. He was taught fencing, literature, languages, economics, and philosophy. By 16, Rasfaren had become an elf of superior intelligence and fighting skills in the Kuro gang, but all the while, he kept plans of revenge deep within him.

The ill-lit hallway echoed with the sound of heavy boots briskly clunking across the floor. At the end of the dark, cement corridor was a set of heavy, dark oak doors with brass knobs. Beyond that was a huge hall full of people. The Kuro Gang. Rasfaren blinked at the doors as he strode down the long passage, thinking of the hall beyond. His rapier bounced lightly against his thigh, clinking. He breathed in and out heavily, growing more and more apprehensive as the door grew nearer.

He finally stopped. He gazed down at the shiny brass knobs reflecting his long white coat and the black pants and shirt beneath it. He breathed again, stood for a moment, and pushed through the oaken doors. The room was a drastic contrast to the hall that lead to it. The floor and walls were all bright and golden, opulent chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which itself bore a vastly detailed painting of angels and demons at war. Many people stood around in the room, talking and drinking, all with gray-blue skin and pointy ears.

Then, a pale-skinned figure began to weave through them, everything from his hair to his coat standing out in the crowd like the bright eye of a tiger in the dead of night. The figure was moving towards the other end of the great hall where a dark elf sat on a high-backed chair with a guard on either side.

Don Tharede sat on his throne watching the crowd and rubbing his chin. His icey blue eyes were slightly narrowed. He shifted his weight to his left elbow, causing his long, white leather jacket to creak as he moved. A pale face appeared amidst the sea of dark blue. Tharede sat up and smiled at his approaching ward.
"Ras," he spoke loudly, welcoming the elf. "How good to see you. Your mission went well, I assume?" He held out his hand as his apprentice knelt before his throne.
The high elf kissed it and answered, "Well, indeed, Sir." He paused, still prostrate before the Don. He rose with a smile across his pale countenance. "And how is your birthday going?"
Don Tharede rolled his eyes. "Not so well as I had hoped," he said in a droll tone. "People are always asking for favors in the spirit of cellebration. It's always 'Can you call of this hit?' or 'Take this guy out?' Never a moment's peace." The younger elf had come to stand at his right hand as he spoke. Tharede grinned up at him.
"Well, I wish you the best all the same," said Rasfaren, acutely aware of the irony in his well-bidding. He stared at the Don's hand for a long time, arming himself, contemplating and planning. Finally, he turned and stepped away from his mentor.

"Alas, my old friend," he said softly, "I've brought you a rather poor gift." He drew his sword and whirled around, placing it firmly across Don Tharede's throat.
"What is the meaning of this?" whispered the Don. All eyes were on them, confused and suspicious. Rasfaren circled the throne, keeping the point of his rapier trained on the drow's neck.
"I never told you how I came to assassinate a Kuro boss," he said, cracking his knuckles behind his back. He turned to face the Don. "When I was very young, I lived in a very rich family. My father was the owner of the Durem Mining Company. Unfortunately, there were troubles with orcs in the caves. So he hired you people-" He said this last with great disdain, staring around at all the blue faces. "-to take care of it." He began circling in the other direction and continued. "But, you decided that you wanted more money for your fighters. A ridiculous, astronomical amount of money that would have put the Company out of business and my family on the streets. So my father refused." He turned to face Tharede once more. A wry smile had crept across his light pink lips. "And for that he was murdered along with my mother and sister. So I spent years training myself for the day when I would seek vengeance on you drow. Of course, I was young and stupid and did something that had no real affect on the gang as a whole. But when you took me under your wing, I saw my opportunity to destroy you forever." Rasfaren paused. Behind him, guns were being drawn all over the room and were being aimed at the back of his head.

"So, here I have you," said the high elf, lightening his tone, "with my sword trained at your neck. I could kill you with a flick of my wrist. But as soon as I did, my skull would be full of lead." He stopped pacing and squared himself with the throne. "I hereby declare war on you and your kind. And it starts with you!" He rose his sword and made to bring it down on the Don's neck. All over the room, guns erupted and bullets flew towards the throne. Don Tharede was pelted with lead and lay bleeding at the foot of his chair. Rasfaren was sprinting through the crowd, back toward the doors and hallway. He was cutting down as many drow as he could while maintaining his pace. And they were all shooting at him.

Moments later, the ceiling was being covered by a thick layer of gun smoke, the floor of the great hall was stained red with drowish blood, and Rasfaren had escaped into the night.The war had begun.