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A sharp wit and a tactful tongue can carry a young man far in this world, given the right encouragement and resources. Atreyan was blessed to find both from birth. While not of the finest blood, his parents had means and desire to see themselves elevated in time. His father was an able-bodied man of the Iron Guard, and his mother put hand to gem, selling fine jewelry to nobility. Through their professions, they saw the privileges of the nobility in all things, and wished for their son to be better positioned to move within greater circles. To that end, they put their resources to education and betterment of the boy. He took to words, etiquette, and new knowledge with vigor- taking great joy in every sentence he constructed. Words yielded to him in a way that nothing else ever would, and before long he was surpassing his tutors. From there, it was a matter of what paths would offer him the greatest opportunities- and to further his abilities he was sent forth to the City-States of the Lyceum in the midst of his adolescence. Where a more militant boy might squire and aide to a warring man, he worked briskly in the trades of courtly stewardship, learning the proper way to guide a book and to assist lowly Lords with their correspondences. Many a letter was written in his hand, and by his mind, with another name attached. The intrigues of the Lyceum also bred in him a healthy paranoia for unsigned gifts, and a respect for the viciousness of the nobility. He was ever the respectful servant, and worked as honorably as anyone within the Lyceum may. By the time of his return to Arx, his sharply-educated mind had been honed by the practical rigors of his vocation. Within Arx, Atreyan found his greatest challenges being the de jure colliding with the de facto. Outside of the Compact, the laws of the realm are as varied as its people, and exceptions grow like weeds to every writ. Over the last few years, he's worked as a steward for a variety of well-off merchant families- ensuring that their trades adhered to the laws of the land, and doing what he could to give them an edge over their competition.

Atreylan has no great stature, no height or width of note. He is of a decidedly average frame, the sort of man who remains thin purely due to the occasional missed meal rather than any labor. His features are sharp, and narrow, with dark-hued green eyes and pale lips. Brown hair is neatly shorn atop his head, long enough to run his fingers through, but little more. His nose, while short, could take an eye. Ink has stained his fingertips, likely to the bone, and his nails are permanently marred by too many long days with a quill. Little in the way of a hard life has marked him, smooth fingers noting that he's lead a life of at least some privilege.

Bold words can be more dangerous than anything for a man without a castle to hide behind, a fact that Atreyan has known since youth. For that reason, he has always worked hard to moderate his temperament and is able to weather a storm of insults like a armored knight beneath swings of a sword. While more than equipped to offer verbal ripostes of his own, he strives to maintain his decorum. That is not to say he has never drawn blood with a phrase, but when he did, it was with the utmost understanding of the consequences. And a sureness that he could withstand the reply.