This aging mercenary and skald — known as Aezrel The Rusted, and Aezrel Deviltongue — achieved what most in his profession dare only dream of: he lived long enough to reach retirement age, with enough funds saved up to open his very own tavern. After building his beloved Smashed Pyre with his very own hands, he was looking forward to a quiet life of serving food, pouring drink, and perhaps regaling patrons with a tale, or offering them a piece or two of unsolicited advice. What he hadn't counted on was the neighbors.

Blackfang, a daring band of ne'er-do-wells that came to settle in the surroudning land would roll in, eyes agleam with remembered excitement, flushed with victory, pockets spilling with coin, and they would point up at the mantle where his greatmaul — once a constant companion and now intended merely as a deterrent, a reminder — hung in pride of place; they would ask him along on their adventures, just once, just one more time, just to the border there and home in time for supper!

Little by little, the pretense of retirement has become so flimsy as to be non-existant. The Pyre continues doing lively business, of course, but its charismatic proprietor spends nearly as much time battling in fetid Zebian strongholds, joining a howling charge in Lyonesse, and fulfilling diplomatic duties as he does serving drinks behind the counter. Truth be told, he's never been happier.

Rumors:
He spent many years living in a monastery, as part of a knightly order.
He once met a devil at a crossroads and bested him in a flyting contest. No one can agree on what the prize was but it gets more fantastical with every telling.
He once helped bring down a mighty alliance with nothing but a well-timed letter.