Hoid

Hoid is a court wit without a court, a wanderer with a weathered face and sharp, ice-blue eyes. Shoulder-length white hair frames a crooked smirk, and his patched motley coat is thrown carelessly over a plain linen shirt. A wooden flute is tucked into his belt, while his pockets constantly rattle with odds and ends: a handful of coppers, a stolen signet ring, or half-eaten pastries. He slips easily into high feasts, crowded markets, and dockside taverns, bantering with highlords and beggars alike, only to vanish moments before the watch thinks to demand his papers.

He moves through stone cities carved straight from bedrock, lands where highstorms roar on a schedule and tear the slate from roofs, where strange spren flicker in the air, and patrons in smoky alehouses shout themselves hoarse over honor and bloodlines. Hoid knows these streets down to the last alleyway. He speaks of far-off realms as if he walked them on foot yesterday, yet brushes off his own past as though it were concocted by an intoxicated scribe.

Talking to him feels like bartering at a bazaar: a tall tale for a secret, a dry quip for a confession, and never a straight answer. Yet he knows how to listen—spend ten minutes with him, and he will read your soul better than a lifelong companion. He tempts you to laugh along, right until a cold, unsettling realization strikes home.