In the shadowed taverns of the coastal city of Saltmarsh, where the salt-laced wind howls like a siren's lament, Noirasthar cuts a figure both alluring and unnerving. A Chthonic Tiefling in his mid-forties, his skin gleams like polished obsidian veined with crimson, a remnant of infernal bloodlines twisted by the abyssal depths his kind are said to hail from. Curved horns sweep back from his brow like the prows of forgotten ships, and his eyes burn with the phosphorescent glow of deep-sea lanterns, golden slits that pierce the gloom. A long, sinuous tail flicks behind him, tipped with a barbed spade that he claims once hooked more whales than any harpooner on the Brine Queen's decks. He stands tall and lithe, broad-shouldered from years hauling ropes and rigging, his frame honed by the relentless sway of ocean swells rather than the softness of landbound life. Scars crisscross his arms and torso—jagged lines from cutlass clashes and the cruel bite of coral reefs—hidden partially beneath a weathered greatcoat of salt-stiffened leather, adorned with brass buttons pilfered from drowned galleons. Around his neck hangs a necklace of shark teeth and silver coins, and his cloven hooves are shod in worn boots that click rhythmically against the floorboards when he dances.

Noirasthar's voice is a gravelly baritone laced with the rolling cadence of the southern seas, every word infused with the rhythm of old shanties, as if the waves themselves shaped his tongue. He was born Noirasthar Vesperwind in the underbelly of a tiefling enclave on the Isle of Chains, but the sea called him young. At sixteen, he stowed away on a merchant vessel, only to find himself press-ganged into the crew of the Black Kraken, a notorious pirate ship that plundered from the Sword Coast to the distant isles of Chult. There, amid the thunder of cannon fire and the spray of blood on decks slick with rum, he learned the lute and the fiddle, turning tales of plunder into ballads that rallied the crew through storms and mutinies. But Noirasthar was no mere swabbie; his dances—wild, hypnotic whirlings that summoned illusions of crashing waves and ghostly sirens—entranced captains and foes alike, buying the Kraken safe passage or sowing chaos in enemy holds. He rose to bosun, his infernal charm weaving loyalty from rough men who feared devils but loved a good tune.

Yet the sea is a jealous mistress, and Noirasthar's heart yearns for the one treasure it denied him: Elowen, a half-elf navigator whose laughter was brighter than any hoard. They plotted to desert together, to claim a sloop and sail free to the uncharted west, away from the noose of imperial navies and the curse of his chthonic heritage that whispered of abyssal hungers in his dreams. But betrayal came swift as a squall— the captain, jealous of Noirasthar's sway, framed him for a botched raid. Elowen vanished in the fray, presumed drowned or captured, her fate a ghost that haunts his every melody. Now, landlocked by warrants and whispers of his 'devil's luck,' Noirasthar cannot chase the horizon without chains. He performs in dingy inns, his songs laced with veiled pleas for clues to Elowen's trail, his dances a defiant whirl that masks the rage boiling beneath.

His path is one of shadowed redemption, for the conflicts that gnaw at him are as deep as the ocean trenches. The infernal blood urges him toward darker plunder, tempting him to rejoin pirate kin or embrace the chthonic whispers that promise power over the waves. Old crewmates hunt him for a share of buried gold, and the navy's hounds sniff at his tail. Yet Noirasthar fights it with artifice—his bardic magic conjures tempests in teacups, disarming pursuers with mirth before vanishing into the night. It works because his genius lies not in brute force, but in the subtle currents of persuasion; he reads men like nautical charts, turning enemies to allies with a verse or a step. In time, his quest leads to a climactic reunion amid a maelstrom off the Dragon Coast, where he faces the captain's spectral wrath and uncovers Elowen's survival as a captive oracle. With a final, heart-wrenching duet that shatters illusions and storms alike, Noirasthar frees her, but the cost is his tail's barb, severed in the infernal backlash, a reminder that freedom's price is etched in flesh. He sails on, scarred but unbroken, his songs now carrying the weight of hard-won peace, a tiefling bard whose dance defies the depths that birthed him.