Zalmyr sat in his quarters, staring at the wall. He was stressed, he always was. Just running this place was hard for him. He knew how to breed great warriors, how to train, to fight. The drow bested all the others in the military by al least a hundred years, and none could come close to his battle experience. While his men all sat up here, in peace, he lived in the vile underdark, where every day was a struggle for survival. In other words, he was headmaster because he was the only one in the god forsaken place with the skill to be headmaster. His students respected him, and those that had heard his name, but not his background or heritage. The other higher-ups in society dispised him. Whispers of his past floated around, of his history in Vharzyym, where he had held not too small of a rank. But only whispers. None knew for certain. He would never speak of it.
It was true, he looked at the wall, but he was truly looking at, or more, into himself. His past haunted him endlessly. The brutal, unforgiving life of Vharzyym. A life he could not live. Every time he had to discipline a student, yell at them, or even demonstrate, it hurt him. It reminded him of those days, when he was a remorseless killer, like the rest.
Slowly, he stood up and walked towards the door. It was time for the daily sparring.
His father was wrong. He had to believe that.
