Argon Dorian Choirmaster

Argon Dorian Choirmaster is a tall albino man who looks rather handsome--in the slightly artificial way that only one who spends a few hours in front of the mirror can have. He just drips aristocracy; even his walk is that special brand learned in an all-boy's private school. Born and raised in a patrician atmosphere, he is prissy and artificial and irritable; he's also weak, with little ability besides raw intellect--except, of course, in his beloved field of music (from which his cognomen Choirmaster comes) and to a certain degree in miscellaneous artifice.

Not human-souled at all, but by origin a Mindflayer from the Underdark, a cruel fluke in a reincarnation spell made him a human--albeit an incredibly gifted human with all his memories intact. Functionally, however, he is completely human--with the same flawed soul, he counts his life as if it began with his humanity.

There's nothing mysterious about his past. As per the usual aristocratic discipline, he was harshly beaten for doing things 'wrong' as a boy, and his frigid attitude towards touch or anything romantic hints at an even darker sort of abuse as well. That's not mystical or veiled. It's a frighteningly accepted facet of society. His albinism is unusual, but it comes with all the real trappings--such as severe myopia (unrelated, he also sees the world in a blurry greyscale). He'd served in the military of the Bound Plains, but not as a brave soldier or powerful officer. He was a lieutenant--suitable for a nobleman, but with little more responsibility than yipping at the heels of the captain. On a search-and-destroy mission, his century mistakenly tore down an innocent village. It's where he learned most of the gritty and horrific aspects of life. It didn't harden him; it nearly ruined him. He's still a nervous wreck.

He's lived now for 187 years. Not long for many of the patrons of the Dagger, but an agonizing length for a human; terrified of death, Argon found himself addicted to youth potions. An old man trapped in a young man's body. Tired and frightened, and most of all sick.

With no sons or daughters of his own, of course, seeing children does strange things to his heart. He's been known to take gamin under his wing, but most of his adoptive children ultimately betray him, steal from him, or run away despite his best efforts. The one exception is Miranda... and he never sees her these days, to his grief. And perhaps that's a good thing for his soul... without witnessing horror, he can't feel it. With one unmagical mishap atop another, it's no wonder an aristocrat like he winds up in a tavern. A strange mix of inadvertant buffoonary and contrived elegance shelacked over clumsiness and tragedy, he remains in the mud of his own remembrances and pains---slowly trying to climb up his tiny threads of hope.