Azal'zill has ashen, grey skin that looks almost like cold clay. His horns are small and swept back, partially hidden by his stringy, dark hair. His most unsettling feature is his eyes, which possess rectangular, goat-like pupils and a pale yellow iris. He wears dark, layered robes that have seen better days, smelling faintly of incense and wet earth.

He exists in a state of quiet detachment. He speaks softly, as if he is reciting a script only he can see. While he is capable of great charm, it is the kind of charm that leaves people feeling used after he walks away. He finds the secrets of others far more interesting than his own survival.

Azal'zill was never meant to be a person. He was a currency. His mother, a desperate warlock named Kaltia, traded the essence of her firstborn to an entity from the Far Realm to secure her own survival. When Azal'zill was born, he did not cry. He hummed in a frequency that made the local birds drop dead. Despite the cold bargain, Kaltia chose to raise him in the shadows of the city slums, teaching him the art of the con and the weight of a fortune told with truth. She taught him to mask the alien whispers in his mind with the theater of a common charlatan. The boy grew up in the company of thieves and cutpurses, using his innate ability to read the discomfort of others to line his pockets. He learned that people are desperate to believe in anything, even a cursed tiefling with a deck of greasy cards. His life changed when he reached his twentieth year. Kaltia told him to flee, her eyes filled with a terror he had never seen before. She vanished that night, leaving no blood and no note. He remains a wanderer, haunted by the suspicion that his owner is coming to collect, or perhaps, has already taken the only person who ever looked at him with love instead of fear.