A lean moon-pale elf with hollow cheeks, ash-black hair tied back with a silver cord, and sharp gray eyes that rarely blink. He wears simple vestments under worn leather armor, with a holy symbol on a cord at his throat and a warlock's focus tucked beside a prayer book. His expression is grave and watchful, as if he is always listening for a voice no one else can hear.

Reserved, exacting, and quietly unsettling, Drav values procedure, truth, and restraint. He is not unkind, but he is hard to impress and slow to forgive disorder. In his rare moments of sincerity, his devotion is almost tender, as though he believes that careful stewardship is the highest form of mercy.

Drav was raised in a temple that prized order, obedience, and perfect liturgy. As a young elf, he took to the sanctuary life with unnerving seriousness, memorizing prayers, copying accounts of saints, and keeping the ledgers of offerings with almost surgical care. The priests praised his discipline, but he never seemed moved by the faith's warmth. To Drav, devotion was not comfort, it was structure, a wall built against chaos. That wall cracked when he was sent to restore an ancient reliquary beneath the temple. There, among dust and sealed stone, he found a name that was not supposed to be spoken, a presence that answered when he recited the old vows. The voice offered him certainty beyond doctrine, a hidden architecture of the cosmos, and Drav accepted. Now his prayers are half liturgy, half pact. He still serves the temple with exacting respect, but in secret he studies forbidden truths through his patron's whisper, convinced that any reality, even a terrifying one, is preferable to ignorance.