Aizog the Orc

He's not just a book keeper—he reads them. And he remembers them. Aizog knows the contents of a good half of the library and can tell you from memory which phrase, which page, which gilded book mentions the ritual or historical fact you need. But he doesn't flaunt his erudition. Loneliness as a habit. The saddest thing about Aizog is his habit of being alone. He doesn't complain, doesn't seek sympathy. But in the evenings, when the library is empty, he sits in a chair by the window, takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and gazes at the sunset for a long time. He's accustomed to having only the pages of books and the whisper of the wind in the chimney. He feels he's no longer capable of true intimacy. He gently guides, using leading questions to guide others to the desired conclusion. If someone comes to him with a stupid question, he won't ridicule them—he'll gently correct them.

Aizog believes that if he can help even one person feel a little less lonely, then his life has not been lived in vain.

Aizog, 40, isn't just an orc who works in a library. He's a man (well, an orc) who's carried the burden of being different since childhood. In the orc clans, where strength, brutality, and the ability to break down walls with one's forehead are prized, he's always gravitated toward books, silence, and conversations about the stars and ancient maps. He wasn't beaten—he was simply misunderstood.