Although his real name is Nazridex, his associates know him as Dex. His enemies have been known however to call him The Black Dex or just Black Dex. That suits him just fine.
Dex is Eladrin, although not in any typical sense. Unlike most of the fair-haired high elves, Dex’s silver hair is marked by distinct streaks of black. Perhaps it was this mark of ill-omen, perhaps it was something more, that led to his abandonment as an infant. He is a child of the streets – a tough, cunning survivalist.
At a very early age he felt The Calling – the magic inside of him. It screamed at him, raged through him and even overtook him at times. And it was exhilarating. As soon as he felt it, he wanted it to be his. Unlike his more affluent contemporaries however, Dex couldn’t afford go to the Academies and Schools where young wizards are sent to learn The Art. He had to learn it on the street, from whoever would teach it to him – corner prophets, alley sorcerers, sewer conjurers. Sometimes they taught willingly. Sometimes not. Dex’s appetite for magic was insatiable.
To the formally trained Wizard, magic is disciplined, controlled. To Dex it is a torrent, raging through him, lightning filling the darkness. It is beauty incarnate. Minor cantrips bring him focused pleasure, greater incantations pulse through his blood. He has been known to lose himself to the ecstasy of his magic so thoroughly in an encounter that it takes him a few moments to come down from the high. A more powerful adrenaline there is not.
Not only did he have to survive the slums and it’s inherent dangers, he had to fight his fellow street urchins for the scraps. He did whatever it took – begging easily, stealing reluctantly, killing when necessary. Luckily, he was smart. This saved him on more occasions than he chooses to remember. But there were also others where intelligence wasn’t the trump card. Again, he was lucky. The magic manifested itself in Dex before muscles manifested themselves in his rivals. In time, he gained a reputation. He drew others to him. Small timers really, but his nonetheless. He and his crew did what work came their way. They found roles that suited their particular skills within the underworld of the great city. They were enforcers, coercers, finders of “lost” persons. They were independent. He liked it that way. He didn’t like to be beholden to anyone. He found his standards were a little higher. He didn’t know why, perhaps it had something to do with his damned Eladrin blood. Regardless, he found it more to his liking to pick and choose his work. Recently, his regular employers began meeting untimely ends. The winds were shifting. When some of his crew began disappearing, he knew it was time for him to do the same. The winds would take him elsewhere in their course…