Azrael had been tending to the Shrine his order had built almost three years ago at the far eastern edge of town, in the north-ward, by The Cliffwatch just off of Saerdoon Street. Their Holy Building was little more than a large shack, with a pretty shrine to the Dragon-god, Bahamut sitting just off the walk-path. He had came to Waterdeep following a calling he had received through a vision several years after having become a true Acoltye of his sect. Here was where he had lived the last few years, waiting for his next sign. He was patient. His faith in his patron was absolute and unshakable, and so he waited, dutifully tending the grounds. In turn, he received shelter and a very modest living.

Three Years Later:

Azrael had just finished his priestly duties, the Shrine to Bahamut was kept impeccably clean, though his order had very little luck recruiting more to his cause and faith. A woman approached him, at first he thought she was there to ask of, or perhaps mock his beliefs. Instead, she met him curtly, curtsying stiffly before handing him a simple envelope with his name  written on it.

Esteemed Mr. Azrael

It has been my duty to notice your hall is lacking, and that your order cannot seem to grow beyond the few you already posses.

I have an offer for you, if you will take it, that may help us both achieve our desired ends. 

If you should decide you wish to partake, then I implore you to meet me at the Yawning Portal in Two-Days time, at the time indicated below.

I look forward to our mutually beneficial transaction.

Fat Cat.

Azrael took little time in considering, this was the sign he had been waiting for all these years. He immediately set out for his preparations, stopping by the market to gather a few needed supplies, before heading back to his temple, packing everything meticulously in his bag, every necessity he could think of, he brought with him. He then pulled his holy symbol from his neck, laying it on the table, able to stand on it's own, served as both his Arcane Focus, and his Holy Symbol a portable shrine to Bahamut hanging from his neck. Setting out candles of incense, lighting them, getting to his knee's and he would pray: Thank you Bahamut, for your providence. Long have I patiently awaited this day, and as I knew you would, you have set the hand of my fate in motion. I will not fail you, and I promise I will do my best to emulate your greatness, so that others may see the truth of your justice. I pray only that your will be done in all things. Religious intensity 10

He awoke the next day, once again proselytizing himself, praying once more before heading out, after all, he had a long walk to his favorite Tavern in the city.

Present Time:

Azrael entered the Tavern. ducking slightly to avoid the door's top as he entered, quarterstaff in hand. Several of the regulars that knew him, gasping, throwing their hands up in mock guilt. Azrael raised both his arms, saying Fear not, I assure you all, I am not here to tell you that ale is the sinners path, lo, instead I am here to partake of it myself! This had been a common joke once everyone had gotten used to the massive Dragonborn whenever he would arrive in his Acolytes Attire. Leading to a few feigned relieved sighs, and a few guffaws and chuckles before everyone more or less went back about their business.

Azrael spotted the marked table easily, as he towered over most in the tavern, and made his way there, his sinuous tail dragging behind him below his robes. As he sat down on the much thicker bench that was made to accommodate his size, and weight, though he was not fat in any sense of the word. Those already gathered would see:

Azrael stood, what to most beings, is a hulking seven feet, eight inches, towering over most humanoids, and only dwarfed by some. His appearance is striking for an Acolyte. His body looking physically well-toned in spite of wearing the attire of a caster. His bold Blue-Sapphire scales stand out in a crowd faintly gleaming in the tavern light, and his frosted-sky-blue eyes are piercing and powerful, possessing the black slitted-pupils common among Dragonkin. His tail, dragging listfully behind him whenever he walked, never making a sound. His robes are eloquent and vibrant shades of Royal-Blue, flowing around him. The trim, a brilliant Gold-Thread, of which inlay in a whirlpool of four threads towards the center as if it were the eye of a storm, where they form a circle around what appears to be a Platinum Dragon, suspended in midair. The dragons' head would appear to be looking directly at whomever it was facing. Six leathered Angellic wings spreading out in the cardinal directions. Upon his neck, hanging from a simple, but strong chain, you would see his Holy-Symbol, Marking him as a Follower of Bahamut, encircling a vibrantly swirling Violet-Orb that was his Arcane-focus, ultimately fusing them both into a single entity. Most would feel a mixture of intimidation, and benevolence exuding from the aura of his presence. And there always seemed to be a charge in the air around him. Ultimately, you would sense from him absolute, steadfast conviction in his beliefs, and the raw confidence that comes with it.

After having adjusted himself to be comfortable, he would offer those gathered already a hearty greeting, his hand crossing over his chest as he closed his eyes and bowed to the assembled. Greetings all, we are all here on this auspicious day for what I assume to be a common cause, even if our reasons for being here are not the same! My name is Azrael Zifandiel, Acolyte of the Dragon god Bahamut, if that was not already obvious. He would rise from his bow, placing his hands on the table, and ordering the special from the Barmaid closest, waiting for them to arrive once the order was taken. Regardless, I hope you are all blessed today in the light of Bahamut, and I have prayed that we all find success, regardless of our reasons for being here. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances.