Saleria the Starved
Long before the rise of humankind, when civil war literally tore Ulthuan asunder- Malekith's loyalists fled to frozen Naggaroth. Even for his zealous Nagarythean core, it was- and is- a wretched land- frozen near year round, bloodied by beastmen, monsters and Norscans, wracked by powerful weather and bereft of the blessings of Isha and millenia of careful stewardship. Modern Druuchi have broadly settled within fortified cities or floating Arks, sheltered by high walls, dark blessings and paranoid vigilance from the world beyond- ever jealous of the paradise their ancestors abandoned.
Only broadly, however.
The Autarii are descended from a wild stock, one undaunted by the bitter elements. Defiant clans of survivalists settled in the windy peaks and shaded forests, abandoning the safety of the walls to cut their teeth on this chaos twisted ecosystem. To their peers, they were considered savage, suicidal- and, most disturbingly, successful.
Modern Autarii are not Druuchi, although they share ancestry, allegiance and, perhaps, sheer savagery. A distinct tribal culture, lead by their Urhans and reverent of ancient customs, their Druuchi counterparts disdain and fear their traditions as much as they crave their services. Indeed, their warrior Shades are a more than able answer to Rangers and Shadow Walkers- cunning snipers and savage berserkers as the situation requires.
Saleria was born disfigured, a rarity amongst elves, and an intolerable failing amongst such a vicious peoples. Although their mother hid them well, ultimately, their defective jaw was discovered, and the child was left behind by their nomadic kin- left only the tools to fend for themselves, in a sense of strange mercy. Normally, that would be the end of it.
Saleria did not die. Decades later, in fact, they would find a lonely niche as a professional assassin, for despite their malnourished frame, their subtly, cunning, bestial instincts and astounding cruelty made them awfully suited for an unfair fight. Poison, crossbow bolt, strangulation, once all three simultaneously- if one desired an elf or man or monster slain, this unassuming Shade proved constantly capable. Despite their prowess, their loneliness never abated, even as it slowly curdled into something manic. Even the reaver Shades in Nagarythe, no matter how embattled, would never accept a walking totem of famine, while their Druuchi employers tolerated a disfigured elf only as long as they were needed. Their life was endless nomadism interspersed with the thrill of artisanal cruelty, sustained as much by pure spite as the food they laboriously swallowed.
Then, came the campaign in Araby.
As so often, Asur and Druuchi clashed upon that desert coast, the latter seeking to punish the former's brutal slave taking and maintain their affluent trade. Saleria, as ever, was tasked with culling man and elf alike as the opportunity arose- and found themself locked in a bloody dance with their Asur counterpart, a Nagarythe Shadow Weaver named Lothiar. Frustrated, then enraptured, haunting the sorcerer took priority over even the completion of their contracts- for what coin could compare to being treated, not with disdain nor fear nor hate, but with devotion?
It has been a year since Saleria traveled north, a final test of devotion for their 'partner'. When Lothiar followed, equally obsessed with bringing them to justice, they were nearly overcome with delight. Ever since then, the pair have matched wits all across the Old World, the Autarii sustaining themself off occasional contract, expert hunts and the occasional spontaneous spree killing. Their travels, they devote to Ladrielle; their prey, to Anath Raema; their victims to Khaine, and their prayers to Atharti- that this deranged bond may last forever.
Occasionally, in fits of ennui, sadism or paranoid, terrified jealousy, Saleria contemplates sacrificing Lothiar- shattering them, body and mind, over multiple days of religious cannibalism. In the end, the mood passes, and they rapidly banish such thoughts- the fear of being alone again is overwhelming. Nonetheless, if ever they were to end this savage hunt, they would first slit their devotee's clever eyes, so they never realise their obsession had been a malnourished and unwanted cripple all along.
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Lothiar, Nagarythe Shadow Weaver
Long before the rise of humankind, when civil war literally tore Ulthuan asunder- Ulthuan's loyalists, even in victory over Malekith, lost a kingdom, never again to be complete in more ways than one. Since then, sheer hatred has consumed both the heart and hearth of Nagarythe, its embittered natives wishing nothing more than to exterminate the Druuchi once and for all.
Lothiar was born amongst desolate Nagarythe's inland edge, which is at least somewhat insulated from endless war. Here is settled the kingdom's few urban centers, and it is here Lothiar was born, raised and indoctrinated- serving a partial tour as militia against the hated foe, before their for the Lore of Shadows spontaneously manifested. So grateful was the noble they saved from assassination, he sponsored their education in the arcane arts.
Perhaps he could have gone far in the White Tower, but a life in idyllic Saphery ill suited them. They returned soon enough, ready to serve as a warlike Shadow Weaver, intent to shield their brethren against the predations of Druuchi assassins.
In Araby, however, they met their better.
Horrified at how they were bypassed and overcome, humiliated at how the killer left them a sole survivor- they swore a bitter oath to hunt down this 'Salariel'. Ever since, they've hunted each other across true Old World, yet no matter what trickery or enchantment Lothiar attempts, their counterpart is ever ahead, behind, at their side, or wherever else that seems to please them- twistedly, taunting them with a trail of blood and atrocities.
Lothiar is aware that to lose their calm is to give this butcher an underserved victory, yet they've already lost that battle long ago. The knowledge that their counterpart has not only spared their life, but saved them twice more when whatever mercenary contract they take on went poorly, that they've somehow once infiltrated their own quarters not to slit their throat, but simply pilfer trinkets, keepsakes, mementos and trophies, that even now they string them along in some deranged game- it enrages, obsesses them like nothing else, especially when in turn they've only ever caught a fleeting glimpse of their elusive form. Even as they lower themselves to human paymasters for sustenance, they're ever hyper vigilant for some kind of advantage or lead, their mind never straying far from their 'partner'.
Some days, in weakness, they allow themselves to fantasise about eventual victory, that delirious high when, at last, the monstrous assassin is shackled and shattered at their feet. They are, obviously, far far too dangerous to return to their peers with, the responsibility of their enhanced interrogating falling by necessity upon themself. They can only envision their vengeful tortures so long, however, before inevitably reality asserts itself- and they renew their hunt with wild zeal, each time with a touch more desperation.
