"Leng is...Leng is hard to describe to someone who has never lived there." A red-skinned hand lifted a flagon of mead to the speaker's lips and drained the liquor. "I can't say it's the hell people seem to think it is. Slavery as you understand it is also not entirely the case."
"So you're free men?"
"No...we aren't held in chains around our ankles or necks. We aren't whipped in fields, but we aren't free. The chains are around our spirits and minds more than anything." A tail twitches from his side, the red-skinned and horned man gestures for another flagon. "It's hard to even get some of my people to understand that they are slaves. Some of us hold positions over many others, while still being 'enslaved'."
"How did you get free?"
"Freedom can be bought or earned. I earned it, mostly through accident." Another flagon arrives and the man downs half in one gulp. "Recnam..Recnum..that country that doesn't exist anymore? That's where it happened. I was part of the forces Nyarlathotep sent to combat the Aboleth. I wasn't a soldier, mind you. I was a smith, repairing broken weapons, armor, keeping mounts shoed. That kind of stuff." The man gestures vaguely, "Anyways, I'm just doing my thing patching up broken gear for some high up muckity muck. He's throwing a fit cause his shield strap doesn't fit or something. When BAM!" The man slaps the counter, "The Abolteh's forces burst into our encampment, one of those tentacle-faced Moonbeasts leading the charge. Now the guy berating me for not fixing his strap fast enough tries to rally a defense he rushes in and gets cut down. His sword goes flying lands near me. Now this sword was odd, it's blade was some glossy black metal I'd never seen before. Almost obsidian, but that stone is too brittle to make a sword." The man downs the rest of his flagon, and gestures for another.
"What does the sword have to do with anything?"
"It has everything to do with it," The man narrows his eyes, his tail curling again. "All around me, people are screaming, dying, fighting. I panic, the only thing I got on me is a hammer so I see that sword laying nearby and I grab it. And...something...spoke to me, something from beyond. It made an offer if I agreed to serve it would grant me the power I needed to survive. Not just that day but everyday, power of my own. I agreed, and I could feel the strength it had given me. The fight itself was a blur, I just remember blood and death and fire, He pauses eyes glossy as if lost in a memory. "When I finally regained my senses, I was standing on top of a dead moonbeast. The ground was slick with blood and I was covered in gore. I was treated like a hero for slaying the beast, for saving so many. I found a god that day, in the ringing of steel and the clash of armies. I kept fighting throughout the war growing stronger. When it was finally done I was granted my freedom.
"So you left?"
"I wasn't the same person anymore," The man sighs, "I'm not free either, that voice from the other side? It has its own agenda. One I have to carry out,"
Underneath the table, the man loads a hand crossbow. "Is that why you're here?"
"....Yes." The red-skinned man snaps his fingers, the candles snuffed out, a woman screams. And the sounds of a short scuffle fill the air. When a torch is lit. The horned man stands over his drinking companion, who lies on the ground in pieces. Blood splattered across the floorboards, "Thanks for the drinks." Valafar dropped a few coins on the bar as he left the building, he could hear his patron speak to him again. Felt it pulling him in a new direction. "Alright, alright...what the hell is a boat?"
Valafar is a fairly typical member of his race. Tall, red-skinned, a pair of large ram-like horns that sweep back from his head. His right eye is the same blue he was born with, piercing out from the red that surrounds it. Since forming his pact, however, his left eye has changed. As a mark of his pact, it has become nearly pitch black outlined in with a golden color, not unlike some birds. He has a handsome enough face despite or perhaps because of his infernal heritage, with a pointed chin and small goatee that seems incapable of being a full beard no matter how long he goes without shaving. Valafar keeps his hair trimmed short so it won't get caught in his armor.
Valafar prefers function over style in his clothes. If it doesn't serve a purpose it's not needed and will just get in the way. His clothes are hard wearing, comfortable and made to last. The only thing that could be considered extravagant that he owns is the mithril plate he wears into combat. It's rather showy due to its nature but that can't really be helped. So long as it keeps him from dying it's doing its job, shiny or no.
Valafar is a rather taciturn fellow, though he posses a dry wit. Unless you give him alcohol, then he starts talking...a lot. Perhaps due to his own upbringing and lack of a cultured education he tries for the simplest solution to a problem and avoids complicated plans and schemes. He's direct in his dealings with others and isn't fond of duplicitous actions. This leads to him being rather forward with people and blunt at times, he says what he thinks if pressed and isn't good a sugar coating or softening his speech for others.
He tends to be accidentally sarcastic, commenting or saying something that seems obvious to him but is taken as sarcasm by others. He chalks this up to his upbringing in Leng. Or that most other races just joke a lot more than his people did.
As far as his relationship with his Patron goes, it's a fairly amicable one so far. He's mostly been directed towards removing certain 'foul' people in the world. Drug dealers, slave traders, etc. His patron mostly lets him do as he pleases, thus far anyway. Valafar is personally uncomfortable with being called a hero for his actions, he doesn't see how just surviving that attack was heroic. But it seemed to give people hope, so who is he to correct them?