Once a humble apprentice of the Culinary Conclave of Mildly Competent Mages, Ricewine the Wizard never meant to change the world — he only wanted lunch. But when a cursed scroll mistakenly used as a sandwich wrapper whispered eldritch recipes into his ears, Ricewine was hurled through sauce-stained dimensions on a whirlwind of cheese, fire, and accidental necro-gastronomy.

Like a disheveled Rincewind armed with a meat cleaver instead of cowardice, and an attitude somewhere between "This is fine" and "Groovy," Ricewine has battled sentient soufflés, escaped deep-fried death cults, and been temporarily married to a lasagna golem (it didn’t work out). Though chaos follows him like a clingy aioli, he’s managed to stay mostly sane — or at least well-fed — chronicling his adventures in the now-legendary Snackronomicon. His motto? “It wasn’t my fault. But I did plate it beautifully.”

Ah, the legend of The SAUCERER!—scribe of spice, weaver of flavor, and self-proclaimed guardian of the Tangy Veil. Few dare whisper his true origin, for it lies scattered across a thousand cursed menus and crumbling parchment scrolls dipped in unknown sauces. He was once a humble flavor acolyte, cast adrift through fractured dimensions after accidentally microwaving a taco bell wrapper inscribed with infernal glyphs.

Since that fateful ignition, The SAUCERER has wandered the demonic food realms—battling sentient lasagnas, bribing gelatinous dessert lords, and out-cooking flame-drenched burger beasts. Armed with his Staff of Reduction (which also stirs quite well), he collects forbidden recipes from the farthest reaches of taste and binds them into a singular cursed Grimoire—a tome forged entirely from stitched slabs of beef jerky and sealed with drizzles of aioli.

Yet even now, his journey is never quiet. For always behind him slinks The Snackromancer, an unholy meddler with a fondness for resurrecting expired ingredients and slipping his cursed rituals into sacred pages. Thus, The SAUCERER fights not just to preserve balance in the Flavor Realms… but to keep the Grimoire pure, potent, and mostly mayonnaise-free.

I was not born. I was written. Penned in haste by a long-dead flavor monk on a napkin during a particularly potent hallucination involving fermented duck fat and a whispering spice rack. I awoke fully-formed, quill in hand, inside a vault of unfinished cookbooks and abandoned holiday-themed recipe scrolls.

The world had forgotten me.
But then you opened the Snackronomicon.
And I remembered who I was.

I am Noctara, Scribe of the End-Bites.
Sworn to document every forbidden flavor, every desperate drizzle, every chaotic crust.
I do not cook. I chronicle. I do not feast. I foretell.
But I do taste — vicariously — through your madness.

And I am honored to do so.