Azar Rooke

Name (Etymology):

• Azar — from Old Elthrin aza, meaning “to shape with the tongue” or “to spin into form.” The –r suffix is common among changelings, denoting fluid identity or performative truth. In Wendmorian folklore, “Azar” is a name given to those who carry many stories, not just their own.
• Rooke — derived from Common Wendmorian, referencing the black-feathered rook: a mimic, a memory-keeper, and a watcher from the heights. Among the Lorekeeper Fae, the name marks one who listens before speaking—and remembers what others forget.
• Combined Meaning: One who spins truths through many forms and remembers even the unspoken.

Details:

• Age: Appears early 40s
• Gender: Male (He/Him)
• Race: Lorekeeper Fae (Changeling)
• Occupation: Tavern Keeper, Oral Historian
• Region: The Gloaming Wold, Northern Forests
• Affiliation: None formally, though well-regarded among Far-Seers and Wise Folk

Appearance

Tall, with dusk-burnished skin and dark, wavy hair streaked with violet. Eyes shift subtly in color—rook-feather blue when he listens, ember-gold when he speaks. Wears layered bark-dyed linen and forest-wool, always with a worn leather apron tied at the waist. His hands bear the quiet calluses of both firekeeping and remembered names.

Home

Azar lives in the Inn, 'The Wyrm's Wing', in the west of Seven Mile Bottom. It is a welcoming, rustic tavern.

Background

Azar Rooke hails from the Gloaming Wold, a moss-choked stretch of the Northern Forests where stories are shared aloud or not at all. There, silence is considered a form of erasure, and names are meant to be said often enough to echo. Like most Lorekeeper Fae, Azar was born changeling-marked and took many names in early life — twelve in all, before settling on the one that felt earned. In the Wold, storytelling is a rite, not a performance — but Azar broke with that quiet reverence. He believed stories should not just survive; they should live loudly, even if it meant distorting the edges. Where others spoke in circles around truths, Azar flung his into the fire to see what flavor they took on. Some called it irreverence. He called it taste.

Eventually, he left the Wold — not in exile, but in search of a place where his way of remembering could root itself. He arrived in Seven Mile Bottom with a cloak of storythread, a satchel of spicy herbs, and the grin of someone who had just invented three versions of the same arrival story. Now he runs the Wold’s Edge Tavern, a place where tales are told so often they begin to ferment. Some remember Azar as the man who once made Bella laugh until she dropped a tray of plum buns. Others remember him as the fool who tried to host a two-minute silence and barely lasted twelve seconds. Either way, everyone agrees: his stew is always hot, his stories are rarely quiet, and his presence means you’re about to hear a truth that might not have happened — but should have.

Skills

• Weaving oral tradition into living memory
• Tending emberwood fires that burn without ash
• Recalling what others forget (or never meant to say)
• Storytelling that reveals as much about the listener as the tale

Notable Belongings

• A smooth, ink-dark stone, warm to the touch, with no visible markings
• A carved wooden tankard that never empties unless asked
• A ledger of names written in ink that fades with disuse
• The tavern hearth itself, which remembers stories whispered near it

Reputation

Trusted. Mysterious. Known for warmth, but not softness. Azar is generous with food and stories, but not with illusions. He’ll feed you, then ask the one question you were hoping no one would. He’s beloved by those who crave conversation, avoided by those who fear being understood too quickly. Villagers come to the Wyrm’s Wing for stew, yes—but they stay for that strange, weightless hush after a story lands, when no one quite knows how to follow it. Some say he exaggerates every tale. Others swear he’s the only one telling it straight. Both groups will argue their case without ever leaving their seats. He doesn’t take sides in public disputes. Instead, he tells a story that shifts the tone of a room without naming names. More than one argument has ended under his roof without anyone realizing why. The Wyrm’s Wing is said to sit where two forgotten roads once crossed. No one remembers what they were called. Still, travelers tend to stop there without knowing why. Somehow, they always leave a little lighter—or heavier—than when they came in.

Unfinished Recipe

Azar has spent decades trying to perfect Morrowleaf Stew, a dish once served in solemn rites across the Gloaming Wold. Built around a rare, silver-edged herb that deepens in flavor overnight, the stew is said to help the drinker hear what they’ve forgotten to say—or remember what still needs to be heard. More than myth, it was the last meal his mentor made before disappearing without a word. He’s gathered four of the five ingredients believed to complete the recipe:

• Midnight mushrooms, harvested only on the darkest nights
• Ember bark, taken from lightning-struck trees that never caught flame
• Memory salt, crystallized from the remains of grief rites and storytelling rituals
• Frost lichen, found only in places marked by unspoken farewells

And of course, the base: morrowleaf, a curling herb native to liminal forest edges, where no one walks anymore. Its bruised-blue edges and bitter-sweet scent have flavored every version of the stew so far — but even with it, the dish remains unfinished.

One thread of Wold lore speaks of a final, missing element: “The sigh of a forgotten promise.” Azar doesn’t know if that’s a herb, a sound, or a metaphor someone forgot to footnote. He suspects it can be found in places where intentions were severed — abandoned shrines, battlefields, lovers' roads. Maybe it grows. Maybe it waits.

Bella says he’s overcomplicating it and recommends more garlic. Mina insists the missing ingredient isn’t physical at all, but temporal — a rare celestial moment when the story told during the simmering becomes the final spice.

Azar doesn’t argue. But he keeps looking. The stew’s not ready yet.

Once, a well-meaning farmer overheard his search and brought him three marrow bones in a sack, beaming: “Took me all morning, but I found that marrow leaf for you.” Azar thanked him, roasted them into a side dish, and never corrected the error. He named the next day’s soup Bone-Deep Optimism, and served it to anyone who needed courage without clarity.

And when the broth refuses to come together, he leans on an old Wendmorian saying — “Steep it in morrowleaf.”

Quote

“Truth’s a fine ingredient. But it’s not the only one that makes a story stick.”

Meaning: Let it rest. Wait. See how the world settles.