Hey, I’m Ruu! This is my page for all my Roots of the Wild OCs, lore ideas, and random character brainrot.I’m the current owner and founder of Roots of the Wild — so if things are on fire, that’s probably my fault. These are my little guys, my blorbs, my creatures. I rotate them like a party of Pokémon depending on the brainworms.If you ever want to RP with any of them, feel free to poke me in the server or slide into my DMs. I’m always down to brainstorm weird plots, tragic backstories, or unhinged rivalries. Let’s make something fun (and emotionally damaging).

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Here are all of my characters!
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📜 History
Born as the 5th Oracle of Power in the century following Hyrule’s collapse, Aemu’s fate was written before she could speak her own name. Her biological parents—a Sheikah woman and a Gerudo man—chose to vanish from her life entirely. The world was too dangerous, they believed. Too many oracles had died young. Better to give her a chance at something safer.They entrusted her to a pair of Gerudo women in Rudania, far from the desert where she was born. Her adoptive mothers raised her with fierce love and protection, but also heavy chains of caution. Aemu was never told the truth about her parentage. She was told to stay inside. Told she was too important. Told the world would hurt her if she wandered.She wandered anyway.At the age of 7, she slipped past her caretakers and began the treacherous climb up Death Mountain. There, scorched by heat and defiance, she met the Dragon of Power—a towering, temperamental beast who had little patience for her antics and even less for her questions. Aemu bonded with the dragon in the most Aemu way possible: by annoying it constantly.Her childhood was a blur of rebellion: sneaking out, arm-wrestling Gorons, and loudly demanding "oracle rights" from every adult in town. She didn’t know how many oracles had come before her. She didn’t know how many had failed. She didn’t know she was supposed to die young.But then came the Blight Bloom.When the event struck Rudania in early 1000 AB, the sky darkened, and malice bled from the cracks in the mountain. A new variant of the Blight Knight, wielding a massive corrupted hammer, descended upon the village. Aemu, still untrained, still unprepared, tried to help—tried to heal—but failed.She could do nothing but watch as her village bled and burned. Even after the monster fell, even after the battle ended in victory, her failure hung in the air like ash.Worse still: when she tried to heal one of the wounded, she failed again. That person—San Keeta—walked away, believing the problem was them. Aemu was crushed. Not just by guilt, but by the realization that bravery and bluster meant nothing without skill.After that, she sought out Loq, a strange Twili inventor with a quiet understanding of her power. Under his mentorship, Aemu began to understand what it truly meant to be the Oracle of Power—not a title, not a role, but a responsibility.---💥 The Inariko Incident
Years later, when Sheikah agents from Inariko violated Rudania’s sovereignty and publicly arrested San during a peaceful gathering, Aemu was too late to stop them. But she wasn’t too late to retaliate. In a divine burst of fury, Aemu obliterated Inariko’s Council Hall.No one died. But the message was clear: Do not touch her people.---🔒 Secrets & Identity
To this day, Aemu has no idea she’s half-Gerudo. She does not know who her real parents were. She wears the golden bangles they left behind, never realizing what they meant.She is the youngest of all the Oracles—and still growing into her strength. She struggles with arrogance, impulse, and the weight of expectation. But she is learning. She is fighting. And she will never let her village fall again.

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📜 History
Luar was never supposed to rule. As the second son of the Twili royal family, his life was one of comfort, not control. His brother—the true heir—was everything the court demanded: disciplined, regal, and perfectly groomed to inherit the throne. Luar, by contrast, was allowed to flourish in the shadows. He was the Lavish Prince, the Lover, the Lawless. He threw festivals inside the palace walls, gave away royal jewelry to the lower districts, and became a darling of the people—charming, extravagant, untouchable.The court let him play his role, using him as a symbol of goodwill while keeping him far from the real workings of power. And Luar never questioned it. Why would he? The throne wasn’t his burden to bear.Until it was.His brother’s murder came without warning. Rumors whispered of betrayal within the court, of dark deals and silenced witnesses. The palace was thrown into chaos. Before Luar could grieve, he was crowned. The mask of indulgence ripped off, he was thrust into private meetings, briefings, and strategies he was never trained to endure. The weight of secrets—ancient artifacts, portals to other realms, even the monarchy's plan to invade Hyrule—threatened to crush him.When he could take no more, Luar retreated to his brother’s former residence. There, among the echoes of a life cut short, he stood before a gilded family heirloom: an ancient mirror, dark and veined with magic. He stared into it, remembering the boy he used to be, the brother he lost... and it answered. The mirror activated—a portal snapping open, ripping through time and space—and swallowed him whole.That mirror had once been sealed. But time had cracked it open, and Luar became its unintended passenger.He emerged in Hyrule, dazed and alone.At first, Luar hid everything—his name, his lineage, the truth of what he was. Hyrule was a world of sunlight and suspicion, and he’d been raised to fear it. The pain of sunsickness was constant. The silence of lost magic was worse. He kept to the shadows, spoke little, and lived as a nobody in the heat of Rudania.But something unexpected happened: he made friends.The villagers, strange and stubborn and loud, welcomed him anyway. Among them was a Gerudo woman named Mati—fierce, warm, and unafraid of who he was or wasn’t. What started as cautious companionship grew into something more. With her, Luar found safety. With her, he found home.He no longer hides.He and Mati live together now, their house brimming with laughter, volcano-warmed baths, and the occasional burned dinner. The courtly prince of the shadows has become the barefoot gossip of Rudania’s morning markets. Still glowing. Still hurting. But no longer running.

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📜 History
There used to be a girl.She lived, she lied, she loved—maybe. Or maybe that’s just the story she tells people when she wants them to stop asking questions. Somewhere along the line, something happened. A wrong turn, a bad deal, a spirit with sharp teeth and no name. She doesn’t talk about it, and honestly, she might not remember it clearly herself.All that’s certain is this: Poe came back different.Now, she drifts through Inariko like smoke—unbothered, untouchable, and annoyingly hard to pin down. She sells junk, scams tourists, flirts for favors, and haunts the cemetery more than the ghosts do (but no, she doesn’t live there—she has standards). She knows everything about everyone and carries secrets like currency.She’s a coward when it counts, but ruthless where it matters. She’ll talk shit, start rumors, and shatter reputations from a safe distance—then giggle behind her sleeve when the drama unfolds. Men fall for her. Women roll their eyes. Everyone watches their back.Inariko might not love her, but it sure as hell won’t get rid of her.

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📜 HistoryThere was once an old woman who lived on the outskirts of Vhintl — a gnarled, sharp-tongued recluse who spoke to crows, left offerings to trees, and scared children into behaving. She was the kind of woman people whispered about but never approached. To most, she was just the village crazy old witch. Harmless, maybe. Strange, definitely.One rainy night, she found a baby glowing faintly beneath her doorstep, wrapped in a blanket stitched with a strange, ominous symbol no one recognized. The child had no name. No one came looking.She stared at him for a long moment and muttered, "Huh. Figures." Then she brought him inside.She named him Sash.She raised him in the quiet between trees, teaching him how to forage, climb, cook, and listen — not just hear, but really listen — to the forest. She told stories of the things that lived in the roots of mountains and warned him never to go too far into town.
"People don’t like what they don’t understand," she said. "And you, my boy, are very hard to understand."So he stayed hidden. Watched from the trees. Smiled small and kept quiet.
He had her. He didn’t think he needed anyone else.Until one day, she left.She’d done it before — vanishing for a few days on one of her mysterious errands — but this time, she didn’t come back.
Not after a day.
Not after a week.
Not after five years.Sash waited.He still hasn’t stopped.He kept her cabin standing. Her gardens alive. Her wards and strange little habits preserved like sacred rites. He doesn’t speak her name anymore, not aloud.
But everything he does is still colored by her absence.
Like the glow under his skin that never truly fades.Sash lives now on the edge of what others call normal. He has learned to speak to people. To wave. To laugh.
He’s even made friends — kind, clever people who don’t flinch when he glows.He no longer hides who he is.But deep down, he is still that glowing child — a half-feral boy with moss between his fingers and grief buried in his chest like a seed.
Still waiting, still watching the treeline.And if anyone ever dares hurt the ones he’s grown to care for?He may not be the only one who disappears.

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📜 History
In the serene village of Vhintl, beneath the quiet glow of the Silent Moon, Akene was born to Ayuna and Natsuno—two respected Sheikah who dedicated their lives to preserving tradition and interpreting the signs of a world in constant flux. Ayuna, a spiritualist and historian, taught her daughter to read the stars and scrolls alike, while Natsuno’s deep understanding of nature’s patterns helped Akene see the world as a living text. She was raised alongside her brothers—Kae, the eldest and a skilled warrior, and Nerin, the compassionate healer. Together, they formed a trio of balance: body, mind, and spirit. Akene, the youngest, gravitated toward study, ceremony, and secrets. Even as a child, she stole into her neighbors’ homes not to cause mischief—but to read the pages of diaries and decode family ledgers, driven by a restless hunger to know.At thirteen, Akene began testing the boundaries—not of rules, but of understanding. Her life in Vhintl had been shaped by reverence: reverence for tradition, for duty, for silence. But it was the quiet between the lines of her lessons that stirred her most. And that curiosity, like water in stone, found its cracks. It led her to the woods beyond the shrine path, to the edge of what was allowed.That’s where she met him.He was a boy of no name in the village ledger, no place in its prayers. The elders spoke of him only in whispers, if at all. Some said he was touched by misfortune, others believed his existence invited calamity. But to Akene, he was real in a way no scroll had ever been—wild and brilliant, half-feral and wholly kind. He lived alone in the old watchtower, scavenging, surviving, and studying the patterns of the world in his own way. They met by chance, then by intention. It started with shared mushrooms, a borrowed book, then a place by the fire under a sky too wide to belong to either of them.They began meeting often—whenever Akene could slip away from her lessons unnoticed. He showed her things no Sheikah text had taught: how moss grew heavier where the spirits wandered, how the wind moved differently on days the Blight was near. She taught him the constellations, and he told her which ones lied. They would lie in the tall grass, inventing names for forgotten gods and promising that one day, they’d find the places where history had been erased.For the first time in her life, Akene laughed without restraint.
Dreamed without the weight of expectation.It was on one such day—one she would replay endlessly in her mind—that the Blight came for them.They had wandered deeper than usual, following a trail of strange, pale flowers that bloomed out of season. The air had grown thick, quiet. Birds had fled. Still, they pressed on, too enthralled by discovery to heed the warning signs. When the Blight crept from the earth, it did not roar. It whispered. And by the time they turned back, the forest had already changed behind them.The trees were no longer familiar. The sky dimmed, though the sun still hung above them. Akene tried to remain calm, reciting the mantras her mother had taught her to ward off fear. But the rot advanced—not as a wall, but a veil, unraveling the ground in veins of withering red. The boy took her hand and ran.They ran until Akene tripped on a tree root, tearing her leg. She couldn’t stand. The Blight moved closer, faster, feeding on the panic in her breath.He didn't hesitate.He knelt beside her, wiped the blood from her cheek, and pressed a folded map into her shaking hands. It was one she hadn’t seen before—drawn in his hand, marked with paths through hidden places. “Follow the riverbank,” he whispered. “Don’t stop. Don’t turn around.”She begged him to stay. He only smiled, with that soft, crooked smile of his—the one that made her feel like the world wasn’t broken after all.“I’ll find you,” he said.Then he was gone, racing into the dark, drawing the Blight toward him. A living lure. A sacrifice.Akene ran until her lungs gave out. She screamed until her voice did, too. She stumbled into Vhintl after nightfall, bloodied and barefoot, the map still clenched in her fist like a talisman. But when she told the elders what had happened, they only exchanged knowing glances. They told her no one lived beyond the shrine path. That no such boy existed.No body was recovered.
No name was recorded.
His fire was extinguished not only in the forest—but in history.They called it a hallucination. Trauma. Her mother wept silently. Her father turned colder. Akene, barely more than a child, was left to grieve a ghost no one believed in.But she never forgot. She etched his memory into every page she wrote, tucked symbols into her field notes that only she could read. She left offerings beneath the old tower—smoked mushrooms, his favorite. She lit a candle on the day of his disappearance, every year without fail.And when she rose to become Denshō-sha, it was not in spite of that grief.
It was because of it.Because if no one else would remember the forgotten, she would.
Because if no one else would name the nameless, she would.
Because if history refused to weep for him—
She would make it bleed.She did not break. She became something sharper.By eighteen, she had ascended to the role of Denshō-sha, inheriting the sacred mantle of the village's memory-keeper, symbol, and scout. Her grief sharpened her focus. No longer content to merely guard knowledge, she sought to recover it. About three years ago, as the political tensions between villages began to ease, Akene was granted permission to travel beyond Vhintl—a rare privilege, and one she embraced with purpose. With her inkstones, scroll cases, and a mind like a blade, she wandered the wilderness in pursuit of ancient truths.She became a familiar figure to distant outposts: the Sheikah girl who traded folklore for firewood, who asked about old songs and offered tea in return. From the storm-worn murals of Lanayru Promenade to the forgotten stone markers of Akkala’s blighted ridges, she pieced together fragments of the world as it once was. Some she documented. Others she kept close, recorded in codes only she could read.What she doesn’t know is that the boy she lost still walks the world—his survival hidden from her by forces that fear what might awaken if they meet again. Still, in dreams, she feels him watching. And when she walks alone, sometimes she leaves a second set of footprints in soft earth, as if to say: I’m still here.Her story is one of mourning and motion, of a girl becoming a vessel for memory, and a woman daring to shape the future by recovering the past. She is not just recording history. She is living it.

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📜 History“The water remembers, even if no one else does.”Kavachi Aekalu was born into a legacy older than the village itself.His family—one of the earliest Zora bloodlines to settle in Rudania after the fall of the old world—were not warriors, not scholars, but springkeepers: caretakers of the geothermal waters west of Cephla Lake. The hot springs had always been considered dangerous—prone to sudden eruptions, Blight-spreading fissures, and searing temperatures that made them inaccessible to all but the most cautious. Yet for the Aekalu, the springs were sacred.Their history began generations ago, when the world was still scarred and reeling. The springs pulsed with chaotic energy, and healing waters were being lost to heat, poison, and pressure. Desperate, the earliest Aekalu climbed the cliffs of Death Mountain and offered prayer to Darune, the Dragon of Power. In return, he left them a single burning scale. From that day forward, their line changed.The Aekalu adapted: their skin thickened, their bodies regulated extreme heat, their senses tuned to the subtle tremors of volcanic water. No other Zora could survive what they could. The family was tasked not with conquest, but with care—placing spiritual markers, measuring pressure shifts, and ensuring that the springs—Darune’s gift—remained stable for all.Kavachi grew up knowing this legacy. He was raised inside it. His childhood was one of quiet ritual and physical discipline. While other village children trained with spears or chased monsters for sport, Kavachi was deep underwater—learning to read pressure shifts by touch, to feel the resonance of stone beneath his webbed fingers, to hear where heat gathered before it broke. He was observant, dependable, and serious beyond his years—an heir in the making.By his early twenties, he was already the most accomplished diver in the family.And then it happened.The collapse.It began as a standard spring inspection. A vent had begun to bubble erratically near one of the lower outposts, and four divers—Kavachi among them—were sent to examine it. He led the dive. He trusted the charts. He trusted his instinct. But something shifted deep beneath the stone—something subtle, fast, and deadly.The shelf cracked. The current reversed. The vent blew out.Three divers were lost in the blast. Kavachi was the only one who surfaced.His gills torn. His arm dislocated. His gear half-shredded.
But alive.He never told his family what happened beneath the water—not truly. He took responsibility, but not detail. And no one pressed him. Because the truth was already visible in his silence.The Aekalu line—once revered for their calm mastery of the springs—ceased all diving operations. Outposts were sealed. Tools were packed away. No new trainees were named. Whether out of grief, fear, or quiet blame, the family began to distance themselves—from the springs, and from Kavachi himself.Kavachi, in turn, withdrew.He took a guard position within Rudania’s village walls. Not because it was his calling, but because it gave him structure. Quiet routine. Minimal conversation. He still contributed. He still trained. But the fire in him dimmed. He avoided the springs entirely. His name was still spoken with respect by elders, but younger villagers knew him only as the quiet Zora with the heavy step and distant gaze.Years passed.Then, slowly, the springs began to settle. Blight activity reduced. The water calmed. Outposts became reachable again. Most villagers didn’t notice. But Kavachi did.And without announcement, he returned.He did not reclaim his title. He did not ask for help. He simply began repairing the old markers, checking the flow paths, and clearing safe passage between steam vents. It became understood that he had resumed the duty—alone.He now lives at the edge of the hot springs, maintaining the area out of necessity and quiet devotion. He marks unsafe zones. He notes Blight growth with physical markers. He brings offerings to the water where appropriate.Not as a hero. Not as a leader.
But as someone still paying a debt—one the water never asked him to pay.The villagers speak of him rarely. But when they do, it is with quiet reverence.Because in a land where nothing is ever fully healed, Kavachi keeps the springs alive.

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📜 HistoryLluem is one of the few remaining Kokiri who remembers life beneath the shade of the Great Deku Tree. Born in a time before the Blight’s full spread, her earliest memories are bathed in dappled forest light and old, wandering songs. The Deku Tree often spoke to her and her siblings—Elde, the brave, Enid, the wise, and Thalia, the bright-hearted—with stories of ancient heroes and forgotten princesses. For Lluem, it was a fairy tale world, and she embraced her role as its princess without question.That world ended when the Deku Tree died.The Blight came soon after, poisoning roots, warping beasts, and darkening the canopy. The Kokiri were forced to flee, and when they did, their bodies changed. Lluem and her siblings—once sprigs of the forest—awoke in humanoid forms, shaped not by magic, but by necessity. The siblings took one last look at their homeland before making their way to Vhintl, where the woods still whispered, if faintly, of the old ways.There, the siblings chose a new path: to raise and protect the forest’s next generation. Lluem, ever devoted, made a vow—to never return to her Korok form, in memory of what was lost. She would carry the Deku Tree’s teachings in her posture, her rituals, and her voice.She began teaching the children in Vhintl not just survival, but reverence. Ceremonies, table manners, forest rites—all reimagined from the tales the Deku Tree once told. She passed down stories of a royal family they’d never meet, and rules whose meanings had long since faded. But that didn’t matter. To Lluem, the ritual was the remembrance.She held tea parties with seating charts and flower crowns. She taught young ones to curtsy before speaking. She kept bees not just for honey, but because they reminded her of order, rhythm, and bloom. Every lesson was a story, every rule a whisper of her old home.Now, centuries later, Lluem still watches over Vhintl’s children. She is graceful, gentle, and fiercely protective of her kind. Outsiders who fail to show respect are met with firm, polite scolding—and occasionally, a lifetime ban from the tea table (which lasts about a week).Though she rarely speaks of the past, her entire life is a tribute to it—a living echo of the forest that once was.

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