A first look at this drow male would not make it clear he is of high blood. He lacks both the tall stature that most of the Houses' leaders boast, and the clear, accentuated physical strength that the race admires so. The slightly hunched, stooped way in which he walks doesn't really help, either. His face is permanently covered with the black dust, caked together into a crust over his features, that covers the corridors of the Underdark, like that of a slave who toils in it. This crust only accentuates the fact the lower part of his face appears pockmarked. Like cruel mockery of a beard, the area below his nose and to the middle of his neck is rough and bumpy, covered in small pin-point scars. These are far from his only scars, but the torn scars on his back, typical signs of a scourge's work, are quite common in a drow male, and barely worth mentioning, and most of the others are also trivial and unremarkable in an area dangerous as the Underdark.
Despite these many imperfections, the Drow's body and face are those of a superior race, of pure-blooded, elite drow. While he does not appear strong, he has a great amount of grace in his fluid, confident motions, and both the confidence and the grace of his movements increases as the evironment gets wilder. He tends to conceal most of his body in a cloak, however, and tries to keep to the corners of people's fields of vision.
The drow's green eyes, of an unpleasant, venomous shade, are always slightly squinting, as if they can see something far off, but can't quite make out what it is. This is especially pronounced when talking to those lesser than himself. He always seems to be either looking through a person if they merit enough his attention, or simply past them if they do not. Those above him rarely get to notice this effect. Even though it is still present when he looks at the floor, as if he can see far-away caverns deep below it, they are turned down. And most drow are just too tall to see his face when his head is lowered like that.
The man has white hair, as most of his kind. It's not the stark white typical for the species, but it, too, seems continually covered with a thin layer of black dust, making its colour far less striking. The tight braid it is gathered into is held together by a series of at least a dozen V-shaped pieces of metal at regular intervals, like black arrows pointing down, along his back.
Beneath the cloak, he usually wears thick, padded clothing, which smooths away most of the details of his body, concealing them in its soft shapes. From a distance, this armor may appear to simply have a large cross over it, but closer examination shows that two chains cross on his chest and on his back, locked to each other and to the armor. The weapons at their ends, two heavy-looking oblate ovals of metal, the vague dents and brown stains of varying freshness on which were surely not caused in times of peace, sit on his shoulders like two slightly disturbing epaulets.
Although he keeps his crossbows out of sight, he is always well-stocked in ammunition: two bracers on his wrists hold them, ready to be slid into a weapon he is carrying quickly. Each of the bracers holds two layers of bolts, with the lower one becoming accessible once the upper one is entirely depleted. Subtle, red threads sewn into every fifth bolt slot allow him to more easily keep track of the amount of ammunition fired. Additional ammunition is two cases, one on each hip, attached to his belt, which clatter with each step when they are not entirely full.
Though Ned is a private person, as any smart Drow, a careful analysis of what he has said and done, as well as what he simply is, can reveal quite a bit. Let's start with the obvious, his fear of being poisoned, and the undoubtedly related scars on his face: an experience poisoner, or one who knows the vermin of the caverns well, will know these latter to be bites of small spiders, the effect of the Calling. Not only did someone, at some point, want to kill him, which is not uncommon enough to be notable, but they came close enough to succeeding for him to openly show his weakness, his fear of falling back into the situation.
Furthermore, he's evidently of noble stock, although not of the Camcarneyar nobles, but does not mention this normallyproud origin. The simplest explanation, which his words have, indirectly confirmed on occasion, is that those nobles whose blood runs in him are people to be ashamed of. People who have suffered a defeat. And, considering his lack of allies among other houses, it's not a large leap to assume this defeat wiped away most if not all of those who share his noble blood.
Delving a little deeper, the manner in which he joined the house can shed some light on his history: a new face in the city, he simply emerged from the Dark Dominion, looking as scarred as he did now, wearing clothing which, despite is former splendor, had partially decayed, become ragged, and left fashion long ago. And like that, with all the confidence of someone at home in this city, he went to find a place, as a commoner, in one of the Houses. And for the rest, a man who knows the Underdark and rides a cube of ooze is generally a handy guy to have around, or so someone at the House decided.
Ned's title is a double one, Deep Ranger and Monster Handler, but mostly it signifies one meaning: he is the house's link to the natural (or nearly-natural, considering its nature) world of the Underdark. His responsibilities include keeping less-than-sentient monsters trained and in decent shape, as well as ordering them about when necessary. He is also the one to supervise and plan expeditions into the Underdark, at least from the perspective of getting there in one piece, and without any serious cases of malnourishment. The purposes and goals of such expeditions are really more his superiors' call.
In his interactions with people, he has traits commonly reserved for stray animals: he is curious but fearful. He wishes to know about the people, even the non-Drow, about him, although not to the point of nosiness, and is far from a hermit. On the other hand, his distrust means that he easily shies away from people, even without any provocation or threat from their part. Ned'Cirannis is openly distrustful to Drow, and to anything that's not a Drow but smart enough to have its own agenda. This latter group, however, he treats with more than a healthy dose of paranoia: he shows them utter contempt. In almost any interaction with non-Drow, he will show that those whose form is a gift from Lolth is innately superior to any other species. Because of this, any time a member of some other race shows any superiority to a Drow, he treats it as an insult. From the same logic, he disapproves quite a bit of any shape-changing inflicted upon a Drow, except in well-deserved punishment. Killing or torturing a Drow is one thing, but mocking Lolth's creation is an entirely different one.
When speaking with a superior, Ned'Cirannis grovels. When dealing with someone of lower rank, he is authoritarian and expects groveling in return.
As mentioned before, Ned is paranoid about being poisoned: he drinks water and only water unless given no alternative, and always has Clearwater Tablets handy to put into his drink. His claims that it is simply a good habit to keep trained, because water in the Underdark is frequently filthy, are clearly a lie, and usually spoken halfheartedly, not even attempting to convince whoever he's speaking to.
In the loose, Drow sense, of course. Tools which he likes to use.
Mostly, Ned associates with the wild creatures of the Underdark, the things that do not thick, but instead prefer to pounce and devour. Notably, some of his favourite friends tend to be rather slimy things, first and foremost Gul. The creature looks most like what would happen if one were to take a huge salt crystal, complete with smaller crystals jutting out from its sides and corners, animate it, giving it a measure of flexibility, and have it constantly secrete a rather foul-smelling, acidic goo. Ned'Cirannis uses this monstrous thing, despite its large size, limited speed and limited mobility, as a mode of transportation. Whenever he touches or enters it, the creature's flesh seems to move away from him, without touching his skin, and when he rides it, he does so in a bubble floating at the heart of the creature.
Another memorable ally, one of the few intelligent enough to actually speak, but, perhaps for this reason, little-known, is Mashiss, an unusually large Banelar. The fact that he not only keeps her apart from all others, and meets with her only in private, as well as her decidedly feminine feature and the husky quality of her hissing voice has given rise to some implications among the lower commoners, which he definitely dislikes.