Jastra Qidi was born under the shadowed eaves of the Underdark, a dark elf of the Qidi clan, her skin the deep obsidian hue of cavern walls polished by centuries of dripping water, her eyes glowing like twin embers in the perpetual gloom. At twenty-eight years—young by the reckoning of her long-lived kin—she carries the scars of a life forged in chains: a jagged line across her left cheek from a gladiator's whip, and tattoos of serpents coiling up her arms, marks of ownership she now wears as badges of defiance. Her frame is lithe yet muscled, honed by endless bouts in the slave pits, standing at five-foot-eight with silver hair cropped short and practical, braided with bone beads from foes she's slain. She dresses for survival in the shadowed world above and below: black leather armor reinforced with drow spider-silk, etched with subtle runes of warding, a cloak of midnight wool that blends into night, and at her hip, a curved scimitar named 'Betrayer's Fang,' its blade poisoned with the venom of cavern scorpions. Around her neck hangs a pendant of her mother's, a sliver of obsidian veined with glowing fungi, the last tether to a family slaughtered in betrayal.

Raised in the brutal fighting pens of the rival Vexari clan after her kin's downfall, Jastra learned early that trust was a blade turned inward. The Vexari had poisoned the Qidi matron's mind with lies of insurrection, leading to a raid that left Jastra's world in ruins—her mother flayed alive, her siblings sold to distant houses. Chained and forced to battle beasts and slaves for the amusement of drow nobles, she survived by wit and wrath, her vengeance a slow-burning fire that tempered her into a warrior without mercy. At twenty, she sparked the rebellion: a whispered network of plots in the dark, sabotaged locks, and a midnight slaughter of guards. She led the mass escape through treacherous tunnels, her voice a low, sibilant hiss laced with the Underdark's echoing cadence—a quirk that makes her words slither like shadows, disarming foes before the strike.

Now, she wanders the surface world as a spy and sell-sword, her services bought by those who need eyes in the dark or blades in the night. But her true hunt is the Vexari, their matron's head the prize that haunts her dreams. Vasago, her constant shadow, is a barghest bound in the form of a giant lynx—ebony fur rippling over muscles like coiled ropes, eyes burning hellfire yellow, fangs dripping ethereal mist. Rescued from a demon lord's cage where it was tormented for sport, Vasago's loyalty is fierce, a bond sealed in shared blood and escape. Together, they prowl borderlands, gathering whispers of Vexari movements, striking at outposts to bleed the clan dry.

Yet vengeance eludes her; the Vexari's web spans continents, their spies mirroring her own, and the surface's blinding sun saps her drow strength, forcing reliance on shadowed alleys and moonlit ambushes. Internal tempests rage too—nights when the thrill of the kill wars with fleeting glimpses of camaraderie among mercenaries, tempting her toward a life unyoked from hate. Vasago senses her turmoil, nuzzling her hand with a growl that rumbles like distant thunder, reminding her of the wild freedom they clawed from chains. Her path twists through betrayals anew: allies who sell her out for gold, lovers who fear her darkness. Still, she presses on, each contract a step closer to the heart of her foe, her arc a relentless spiral toward reckoning. In the end, whether she claims her revenge or is consumed by it, Jastra Qidi remains the storm that devours its own thunder, a vengeful specter in a world that fears the dark.