Much of his history is unkwown, even to him. All he knows is that he was picked up at a young age by a drow elf sorceress- so he does know, at least, that Nolilyardu isn't his biological mother. Accordingly, he was found him on the river bank crying; no notes, no letter, no indication of why he was out in the river on his own. At some point, he decided to head out from the stuffy elven city, finding himself a new home in the modest village of Kilmarik.


His first years in the humble town were rocky, at best. For whatever reason, many folks shunned his very presence in their social circles, leading him to become something of a local recluse. Despite this, he manage to inherit a mansion on the outskirts of town.


He spent a good chunk of time at the local tavern, drinking much of his stresses away and getting familiar with the regulars. Somewhere over the years he encountered an artist who had drawn a representation of some supposedly local vampire. The picture had some superficial similarities to he himself, but was much more gaunt and lacked his particular curl; this comforted him and made him realize that he wasn't being looked at as some kind of undead monster necessarily.


After accruing a moderate wealth for himself, he purchased a small, abandoned building across from his inherited mansion, and had the place repurposed for formulating and producing perfume. What seems to be a spur of the moment decision is actually something driven by an obsession to replicate some sickly sweet aroma that has been haunting him since his earlier years. Realizing he couldn't do this solely on his own, he sought the help of any local alchemists. The reception was, as expected, rough, but he did eventually get all the help he could ever need.


Now that he's found a place in society- being the provider of sweet, pleasant scents- he has ventured out of his shell to seek companionship. Ideally, he'd like to find a partner he could settle down with, but he would take anything in those first few months. This desire left him vulnerable for the half-elf, Strimlin, who led the pale Iendross into the woods for a night of fun, only to clock him in the head and leave him unconscious while running off with his clothing.