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Meskal Kender

Nobleman from the disgraced house of Kender and chosen Champion of Luther.

0 · 444 views · located in The Lands of Edàin

a character in “Savior”, as played by Binsetsu


Meskal Kender

General Information

Name: Meskal Kender

Age: 27

Height: 6”4

Weight: 201 lbs

Build: Muscular

Gender: Male

Nation: Luther


Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Blue-grey

Facial Features: Meskal is a man of not unfair features, though not one most would consider handsome. His features are too rough, too angular to be considered so. He keeps his hair short and it is obvious he cuts it himself. Seemingly with a rusty and blunt knife. All in all, his hair is a mess, with some parts slightly longer than the other. He mostly avoids shaving, having something between a stubble and a beard gracing his face. The only other notable feature are his eyes, which seem hard and unrelenting, but also seem to have a glint to them, as if some great fire burns behind them, just waiting to be unleashed.

Attire: Meskal dons his family’s armour at all times. This armour shows the signs of many hard-fought battles and appears to be burned black by constant exposure to flames. His helmet has a face mask that covers his face, mostly leaving his expression up to the imagination. On his back he carries the two-handed sword, Valour. Around his neck he wears a ragged, blue scarf and from his waist hangs a similar cloth, equally ragged and blue.


Behavior: As the first son of a disgraced noble family of Luther, Meskal often feels the need to prove his worth at all times. He doesn’t take insults lightly and works hard to show everyone this worth. He is also brave and courageous and always seeks a new challenge to prove his skill and drag his family up from the gutter they now inhabit. Because of this he is fairly restless and has trouble sitting still for long periods of time, as he prefers to be in the thick of things, winning glory and honour for himself and his family.

As expected of the one bearing the Essence of Fire, Meskal is something of a hothead. His anger is quick to flare and burn those around him. One might expect the bearer of the Essence of Fire to be a Pyromaniac, that is not so. Although he enjoys fire and loves to look at it, he doesn’t care much for its destructive properties. Although he would not shy away from using those should he ever feel the need. Instead he prefers to focus on the positive qualities of fire, like the warmth it provides and the way it keeps away the darkness. Because of this, he always keeps a campfire, hearth or at the very least a candle burning whenever he isn’t travelling.

Habits/Tendencies/Quirks: Meskal always lights a campfire or hearth when not travelling. He also seems to enjoy staring at the fire of candles or torches from time to time.

Likes/Dislikes: Meskal likes fire, honour, courage and combat. He greatly dislikes cowards, the dishonourable and politicians.

Fears: He fears dying in disgrace and failing his nation of Luther.

Hopes/Dreams: His one and only hope is to drive of the Scion once and for all. But his true dream is to win glory and respect during the tournament, so he can restore his family’s good name.



Abilities: Meskal lacks creativity with its essence. Which, considering it is the Essence of Fire, might not be a bad thing. He often uses it in a very straightforward manner, simply creating great flames to hurl at his opponent or to coat his weapon with. It has proven to be effective in its simplicity, like any weapon should be.


1. Burning Spear: Meskal’s most favoured technique. All he does is create a great, somewhat spear shaped, flame and hurls it at his opponent. If it connects, or when Meskal wills it, it bursts outward in a great fiery explosion.

2. Burning Sword: A simple technique, but no less effective. When Meskal uses this technique, all he does is shroud his sword in flames, using the combination of a great sword and fire to both cut and burn his enemies at the same time.

3. Burning Wave Sword: An enhancement of the Burning Sword. Once he has set his blade alight, he can use it to launch waves of fire at his opponents with well-timed cuts and slashes and generate spires of fire when thrusting and stabbing. It allows him to fight from a distance as well as in close quarters.

4. Great Inferno: Meskal’s most powerful technique and perhaps the simplest. When using this technique he doesn’t bother shaping the flames or limiting them in any way. He simply frees them, allowing them to surge out in a great firestorm all around him.


Type of Weapon: Great Sword

Name of Weapon: Valour

Length: 75 Inches

Width: 8 Inches

Thickness: 2 Inches

Weight: 6,3 lbs

Ammunition: N/A


History: Meskal is the first son of the noble house Kender of Luther. Once his house was one of the most respected in all of Luther, for they were one of the first to join the first King Luther in his rebellion. But time makes fools of all and what was once seen as honourable, could be seen in a different light a century later. Such a thing happened to the noble house of Kender. A house of warrior, straightforward and honourable, they were an example for the other houses. Or so it appeared. The other houses unfortunately were not compromised entirely of warriors, but they held politicians, conniving snakes in man skins. These snakes would slowly corrupt the acts of the Kender family, making their great acts in war appear as uncalled for slaughter and murder, attacks on innocent and unarmed civilians. Their lies and conniving at court degraded the once great image of the Kender family, leaving them but a shell of their former selfs.

Meskal was born to that disgraced family and felt the burn of hateful and accusatory stares every day. It was not helped that the boy was tall and strong, the spitting image of the Kender warriors of old. No, it only drew more ire to him, as everyone feared he would turn into a crazed murdered like his forebears. But Meskal was a boy with a strong personality. The hateful stares and hushed whispers did little more than fan the flames of his passion. For he was a boy, with childlike dreams and adulation of the Kender warriors of old. He dreamed of one day standing on equal footing, to use his martial prowess to drag the name of the Kender family out of the mud and back to the top.
When the great war against the Scions foul demons began ten years ago, Meskal was only a young man taking his first steps into adulthood, but already a large and burly man, who wielded his great sword with seldom seen skill. Naturally, he was conscripted into the great army that was forming. Meskal finally saw the chance he had been waiting for, the chance to gain great honour in battle and propel his house once more into the light. But his father would have none of it. No, his father went to the king and used the last of his influence to be sent in his son’s stead to war. A war he would not return from.

When the great battle was fought, only Meskal’s uncle returned, bringing him with him the body of Meskal’s father. He told him of the battle and the great skill and bravery his father displayed. But this would not stop the conniving politicians, who finally saw their chance to finish house Kender once and for all. Already were the rumours of his father’s cowardice during the battle spreading. So Meskal donned his father’s armour for the first time and took up his father’s great sword, Valour. As the armour would protect him from sword and axe, so too would it protect him from the more venomous weapons of words and lies. Within the depths of his soul stirred the embers of courage, slowly growing to a great flame that threatened to devour Meskal whole as he began his quest to restore his family’s name.

When the Kingdom of Luther began their selection of champions, Meskal saw another chance. The war had claimed his father and the chance to bring honour and glory to his house, but this tournament would prove the greatest opportunity yet. If Meskal could defeat the Scion, no politicians lies could possibly harm their reputation. No, his house would climb to glory once more and Meskal himself would take the place amongst the most honourable of warriors, as his father had done before him. So Meskal fought, tooth and nail to be recognized. Eventually, the politicians threw him a bone. Hoping to get rid of the young master of house Kender, they elected him as the champion, knowing Meskal’s skills would carry him far and sending Meskal meant their own sons were freed of what could only be certain death in the tournament.

So begins...

Meskal Kender's Story

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Character Portrait: Meskal Kender
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Meskal Kender

Posilidia Harbour, Small Church, Rumed

Meskal kneeled before the statue of the Progenitor in the hall of the small church, his hands folded together and held in front of his face, his head bowed and eyes closed. He was dressed in his family’s armour, his helmet lying beside him and his great sword hung in its scabbard on his back. To some it might seem he was praying. Perhaps he was, at first. He had at first lit a candle in front of the statue to the Progenitor to pray. That was almost two hours ago now. Now he knelt there, thinking of the route his life had taken. He remembered the day he left the capital of Luther, Daveran city without any fanfare. His departure was marked by quiet and unease. Only a few people showed up to watch him leave, the rest were guards of the rival noble houses, there simply to make his departure as short and unimportant as possible. Meskal couldn’t bring himself to care, then or now. The fact his mother and sister had deigned to show up was more than enough. When Meskal had burned the Scion to ashes and lifted his family’s banner in victory they could no longer do anything to stop his family’s second rise to glory.

But what preoccupied his mind most was his father, who had fallen in battle in the first battle against the Scion. The man’s whose armour Kendel was wearing now, almost in reverence, as if part of his father’s spirit still inhabited the old armour, watching over him. He wondered what his father would have thought of Meskal going off to face the Scion, after he had done everything he could, called upon the last of his political clout and favours he had left, to stop his son from going to war ten years ago. Would he nod, pride in his face and wish him glory and favour in the upcoming battle? Or would he frown and rail, shouting his anger from the rooftops? Meskal didn’t know. And perhaps, it didn’t matter, his father was gone and now that his uncle had passed away, Meskal was the head of house Kender. For all the good that did. He had fought tooth and nail to be chosen as champion and despite his skill and dedication to Luther dwarfing that of most of the other hopefuls, he was only chosen because the Politicians wanted to get rid of him and save their own sons and daughters from the fate of facing the Scion in battle. Fools, all of them. Once House Kender once more had the power they deserved they would be the first to be ousted from positions of power.

Meskal opened his eyes and looked at the small fire burning at the tip of the candle in front of him. The candle had grown small in the time he had kneeled here. For a moment he remembered with annoyance there had been no priest to light the candles within the church, that Meskal had to do it himself. Perhaps the priest was lying in the back room, drunk to the point of utter uselessness, like so many other priests in the city of Daveran city had been for the last few months. Perhaps the priest had fled to the countryside, foolish cowardice gripping his heart tight, as despair forced him to flee. There was no point, even if the other champions failed, Meskal would fight, fight until every foul monstrosity of the Scion and the Scion himself were burned to ashes and Meskal stood victorious. There was no point in believing otherwise. To believe otherwise was to believe in inevitable failure, the utter annihilation of every single person at the hands of the Scion. No, Meskal still believed in victory, had to believe in victory. He lifted his gaze from the candle’s fire he had been staring into to look up at the statue of the Progenitor. ”May the Progenitor watch over me.” Meskal said quietly, before collecting his helmet and standing up, before marching out of the small church.

He looked up at the sky, before switching his inquisitive eye to the streets around him. The sun seemed dimmer somehow, as if the dreary townsfolk of the city had somehow forced it to adapt, to change to suit their dismal states of mind. The streets were mostly abandoned, he had thought the church would gather a large crowd on a day such as this, but with an absent priest they would have likely gone to another church to huddle together and pray. It saddened Meskal to see the abandonment of godly duty on a day such as this, but there was nothing to be done. Priests were not infallible and some were more fallible than others. The sound of sudden splashing drew his gaze around, to see a child smiling happily to herself even as she jumped in the puddle and began splashing the water at one of her friends. The scene brought the ghost of a smile to Meskal’s grim features. He might be here to reclaim the honour of his house, but the future of children such as these were at stake as well. No, that was the wrong way around. He was here to fight for the future of such children, the honour and glory of his house were merely a side effect of his inevitable victory.

With sudden determination he marched towards the harbour front, to the designated meeting place for the champions. He was interested in meeting them, to see what the other countries had offered up as their champions. Would they be like him, sacrificial lambs thrust forward out of a twisted desire to save their own hides? Or would they be true warriors, chosen amongst a thousand others for their amazing skill? There was only one way of knowing, though he certainly hoped they would not be like him. Just because the fact he was the best choice for the country of Luther happened to coincide with the fact he was also politically expendable, didn’t mean the same would happen in the other nations. As he marched closer to the designated meeting point he already saw the single trunk he had taken with him when he left Daveran, it seemed the urchins he had paid to bring it here were true to their word, as he expected them to be. With a frown he noticed he was the first to arrive and sat down on the trunk, setting his helmet down beside him and placing a candle next to it, which he lit with the snap of a finger. Now he would have to wait for the other champions. He closed his eyes and folded his hands together in front of his face, before he started to pray once more.

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Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck
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Damian Maleck

Posilidia Harbour, Market, Rumed

Damian walked down the streets of Rumed through the market, on his way to the harbour. The guards assigned to make sure he followed through with his promise to go had left him at the city gates, by orders of King Mothias. His belongings were all stored in a large bag he carried on his back, most of them gifts from the royals of Tavaro. He personally had no real belongings to speak of except for his small emergency dagger. He looked around the city, finding it very different from the towering buildings of Drugada, all gleaming in Metilin. Besides the merchants from Tavaro, Damian was sure the only Metilin in this city was his katana, Black Mist. The powerful qualities of Metilin allowed it to be forged into a lightweight yet sharp weapon, which was why all guards and soldiers of Tavaro used it in their own weapons, mostly katana as well. Of course, his was quite special, considering his was a personal gift from King Mothias himself. All of this expensive equipment, the fine leather cloak and coat as well, led to the question.

How did a street rat and thief to boot find himself in this position?

The answer was simple. After exposing treason in the nobles of Tavaro using his particular talents, the King offered him a deal. If he used his incredible speed and reaction time for all of Edàin, he would have his crimes pardoned, and be offered enough rewards to get him out of life on the street and be able to live comfortably his whole life. While Damian enjoyed his little profession, it had too many occupational hazards to warrant further puruit of it, so he took the deal.

While thinking on these things, he noticed a young boy with some food, obviously stolen, running from a number of guards. Showing sympathy to a fellow street rat, he "accidentally" knocked over a number of barrels on top of the guards, breaking the chase. "OH, I'm sorry!" he said with obvious sarcasm. "I really should watch where I'm going!" Damian, with his hightened awareness, saw the guard reach for his sword. To nip this in the bud, Damian rapidly drew his own katana first, adding "I don't think so. You wouldn't want to harm the champion of Tavaro, would you?" The entire market went quiet as he gave his evidence, the Tavaro sigil that clearly marked him as such. The guards backed off, signally buisness to return to usual. Damian slipped into the ally, and found the boy hiding behind a crate. Damian tossed him a small purse of money, saying "Find some place to stay for the night. A word of advice as well: don't steal from someone you can't out run." With that, he left the wide eyed youth.

Damian finally approached the meeting spot. He was a bit on edge, as he already knew he would now be dealing with a different world then what he was used to: the world of nobles. In general, Damian didn't trust nobles. The only one to break this trend was King Mothias, who Damian now considered a friend. All others, as far as he was concerned, were corrupt up to their ears. However, Mothias told Damian early on that most of the other champions would be of nobility, and thus warned him to watch his toungue. This was something Damian already knew. On the street, there were plenty of people whom he didn't like, but had been forced to work with, so he knew first hand this was possible. So long as he didn't say anything stupid, that is.

He arrived at the meeting spot to find an armoured warrior waiting for him. The style and worth clearly indicated a noble. It looked like his fears were right on the mark. Not one to back done at the begining of a great enterprise, Damian took a deep breath, and approached. It seemed that the man was praying, something Damian hadn't done in a long time. He used to be a religous man, but that was a long time ago, before he and the Progenitor had a slight "disagreement". Wanting to get introductions over with quickly, he said "I hate to break your little prayer there, but the Progenitor isn't the one fighting the Scion. We are. I'm Damian Maleck, champion of Tavaro."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes
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Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes

Posilidia Harbour, Main Street, Rumed

Being totted along inside a horse drawn carriage, sat the lean, pale nobleman, Fraisier Hughes. He sat as his white and gold trimmed carriage passed by the worn out townspeople. Even seeing such a grand sight as the pristine carriage, was only met with gloom. True some did marvel and wonder who was inside, otherwise they were too self-absorbed in their own pity. Fraisier felt likewise, in fact very lukewarm about all of this. Not to mention rather nervous to boot. He had very little confidence what he, and whoever else was dragged into this, were about to do. How can seven warriors beat a warrior, which a thousand warriors could not triumph?

It was pure ridiculousness! Still, even when Queen Miranda herself had commissioned him to enter, he did not voice objection. Sure, he is objecting to everything now, but no one will hear his discontent. Such was his life, always thinking and never acting. Always too shy and timid to even stand up for himself. What a poor choice for a champion indeed! Who cares if he has skill with a sword? It will make very little difference to a warrior who can destroy the world. Yet, in all of his timidness he was whisked henceforth and now finds himself in a dire situation. Fraisier could only look down in his palms and curse his shyness. Why can't he speak up!?

All of this self wallowing isn't going to change the facts. He was about to meet six other people and he hoped they will be nice fellows. He really hoped they were nice. Fraisier can't even remember a time he was so nervous. What are they like, what do they do? Are they heroes, nobles, warriors, or killers? Whatever they are he sure hoped they will treat him decently or if not, at least ignore him. He then looked forward as the carriage driver continued to steer the horse down the long street. Despite it being the main street, little activity could be found. It seemed Fraisier wasn't the only one who had a lack of confidence. He wish he could say otherwise, but he couldn't help but agree. They might as well be committing suicide.

"Maurice." "How much further?" Fraisier quietly asked.

"Eh?" "Oh can't be far now Lord Fraisier!" "I am almost positive we shall reach the harbour!" He spoke cheerfully.

"Good, good." Fraisier mumbled as he continued to sigh. What fate lies before him?

Soon the sea air began to invade Fraisier's nose. They were nearing their destination, it won't be long now till he will meet his fellow champions. He was not looking forward to it. In fact he can't help but start to shiver at the oncoming meeting. He hopes he won't make a fool of himself. Oh who is he kidding, he will screw up royally no doubt. Perhaps he will be the first one there, or maybe the last. Perhaps he could avoid introductions? No, he will have to meet them eventually, being together for a tournament with no other company besides enemies...he will have to speak sooner or later. Best do it now when there is no immediate dangers.

"Alright Lord Fraisier!" "We are here!" He spoke as he pulled the carriage up before the harbour. Maurice stepped down and opened the door with the sigil of a dove upon a vine, the symbol of the House of Hughes. Fraisier held on to his case were his clothing is contained. He stepped down from the steps of the carriage as he reached the cobblestone street. His rapier, Aurora, fastened against his hip. He was dressed in the obviously frilly Noble attire. He must certainly be out of place with warriors in more, battle oriented gear. Still he wasn't one to wear armor, it always threw him off balanced. Maurice then closed the door behind him.

"Shall I take your luggage Lord Fraisier?" Maurice asked.

"Why, yes thank you Maurice." He kindly spoke as he handed him the case.

"It's of no consequence Lord Fraisier." "I shall bring it to your ship." He spoke.

Fraisier merely nodded. Fraisier and Maurice walked along the pier and soon they came upon two men, who looked out of place as well. They must be the Champions. Nervous, Fraisier cautiously walked near them but he kept a fair distance. He was trembling and looked rather pale. He then nodded at them. "Uh...G-Greetings." He mumbled. Finding it hard to formulate words. Then Maurice stepped in.

"Good Day fine sirs!" He spoke with pep. "I am Maurice and may I introduce his lordship, Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes, of the House of Hughes of Perialis!" He spoke with much gusto. Fraisier only slightly looked their way, obviously rather embarrassed. He hated when others introduce him, especially in such grandoise a fashion. Now they most certainly think him a snob! He wish he could speak otherwise, but he was rather intimidated. He then gulped as he adjusted his neck tie. He then raised his hand and waved a hello, the best he could offer at the moment.

"So then, do you fine sirs know which ship you shall board?" Maurice asked, hoping to drop this load off for Fraisier.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Atonia Biyos Abbilati Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes
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The Nation of Saverilla Crest ~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~'.'~ The Abbilati Crest

The breeze was soft on her face, gently brushing across her skin, stroking it, cooling the small sunburn that she had received after falling asleep in the sun the day before. It was quite noticeable in her normally-pale skin, with her bright green hair only intensifying it.

Atonia sat atop the large, beaten-down old building that was once an apartment complex for several families. Not that it still wasn't; people still lived in the building. The environment was terrible, but it was a home, and a home it would remain.

Despite her upbringings, she respected the people that had less then she had growing up. As she sat, munching on an apple she had stolen from the basket of a rich man's maid, she mulled over her thoughts.

Yes, she was, indeed, a princess. But she did not feel like one. Instead, she felt as though she were a common thief at that moment in time. She had been traveling throughout the nations for several years now, learning the customs of the people of the nations she would one day be conversing with. She had been living among the middle class and poor people, and had often gone without to learn of their ways, to live as they did.

However, one month, two weeks, and four days earlier, she had received a letter via pigeon from her parents, the current rulers of the Nation of Saverilla. It stated that they wished for an audience with her, to which she agreed. It was not as though she and her parents did not get along; in fact, she adored seeing them. She only wished that they would respect the choices she made, respect her choices for her life. She understood why they were as protective as they had always been, but it could become a bit stifling at times.

Atonia bit the remainder of her apple and flicked it over the edge of the building, leaving it for the birds and other animals that would pick at the remains. She supposed it was time for her to drop in on the small group of men below her, who were no doubt the other competitors she would be joining for the tournament that was to come in only a few weeks time. She took a few moments to go over the meeting with her parents, though, and stretched out her legs before her, crossing then at the ankles.

They had welcomed her with open arms, and she had stayed in the kingdom for one week, to visit with her family and have some time to relax. Two days after she had arrived, her parents and the Council of Saverilla had held a meeting, in which she was to attend. She was then informed that she had been chosen to represent Saverilla in the tournament. She had heard rumors of the battle that would occur, but had not once thought that she would be the one chosen to fight for her Nation. She never once thought that her parents would have allowed it. But the Council's decision had always outweighed the King and Queen when it came to the protection of the kingdom, so they truly had no choice in it what-so-ever.

Finally, Atonia slid down the roof and to the edge, where she balanced perfectly. A church was beside the building, which then led to the docks, leaving a small road in between the two. The gathered men were standing before a statue of the Progeniter and had now surpassed introductions. She had been informed that, of the seven nations, she was the only girl, aside for one. Having traveled through each nation, she recognized the attire of each man in accordance to where they were from.

She flipped from the side of the building and atop the statue of the Progeniter - for she had never truly believed in him - and easily slid down his arm. The people that saw gasped and called further attention where she now was perched in the crook of his elbow, her derriere fitting perfectly into it. "Well, hello down there," she called cheerfully to the people staring in disgust and shock up at her. She swung her legs slowly back and forth, the white cape that was attached to her white, skin-tight clothes flowing with her movement. "What a fine day it is indeed, Perialis!" she cheered in agreement. She placed her hands on the statue's arms beside her and flipped lithely from it, dropping the several feet and landing without a problem in the middle of the small circle of men. She turned around and held a finger up in front of a poorly-dressed man and smiled. "You are from Tavaro, and," she turned to the remaining one, the one clad in heavy armor, " And you are from Luther," she stated confidently, stepping back and out of the circle as she did so. She straightened her outfit, crossed one arm behind her back, and one across her stomach, just above her hips, and then proceeded to bow. "Atonia Abbilati, Princess of Saverilla, at your service. It is a pleasure to meet you all," she smiled as she straightened and faced them. She turned to 'Perialis'. "I have actually been here for awhile. We'll all be taking that ship," she said, pointing to a medium-sized boat that sat in the water. "It will no doubt be a tad cramped, but we'll have to deal," she shrugged.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Atonia Biyos Abbilati Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes Character Portrait: Riley Paolimi
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Riley, Paolimi

Posilidia Harbour, East Dock, Rumed

The blue haired woman was quite an odd sight, her hair sat in a loose pony-tail, she had never travelled this far from her home, but she didn’t expect to be stared at so much, although now that she considered it, she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, her hammer resting over her back, which was pretty much bare to the world, she was wearing what was essentially a chain mail sports bra and plate pants, when you thought about it from a combat sense, it was pretty much useless, but it was her “uniform” none the less and no one else could tell her otherwise.

The woman, Riley, hailed from Almekia and she was pissed off, her boat arrived on the opposite side of town and for what? All for her to walk all the way to the other port, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN. How was she meant to take this seriously when they screwed her around like this? No use complaining verbally, Riley quickly grabbed her rucksack and began to head off towards the other port, she was visibly angry and many people gave her a wide berth, she was muttering to herself,
“What a bunch of jokes, I mean really…. Dumbasses, the whole lot of them.. Im meant to represent them? Why not put me where im meant to be?”

Riley had almost arrived at her destination, in fact, she could see a small group of people, near the boat she was due to depart on, she began to increase her pace, eager to arrive at her destination, eager to meet the other six champions, each was representing the other nations, each had their own unique techniques and abilities. Riley began to run towards them, but that’s where she made a small mistake, she had bumped into a group of men, sailors she thought, either way, she had pissed them off, one of them shoved her, shifting her to the side one bit, big mistake, Riley was going to apologise, but she was pissed, she threw a quick right hook that sent the sailor flying into the wall, he was launched with such a force that he was instantly knocked unconscious. Riley was efficient, she grabbed her hammer off her back and stood, ready to fight, however the sailors wanted no part in it, tending to their unconscious comrade. With a nod, Riley quickly readjusted her equipment and went forth to join the other champion’s, she shrugged and rubbed her hair and introduced herself,

“Umm… Hi Im Riley, from Almekia, I hope you guys can actually fight, unlike those weaklings” She said as she pointed back at the sailors, the one who received her punch was still unconscious, perhaps she went too far?

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Atonia Biyos Abbilati Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes Character Portrait: Riley Paolimi Character Portrait: Galen
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Meskal Kender

Polisidia Harbour, Docks, Rumed

Meskal had barely sat down to pray before he was rudely disturbed by the second of the champions to show their face on the docks proper. Meskal spared a second searching glance for the man, but he could discover little of interest. A plain man wearing skilfully made, practical clothes. He supposed that was for the best, no need to bring one’s fineries here, especially when they will be of no use against the Scion. When the young man spoke Meskal frowned, unfolded his hands and stood up, clearly irked by the man’s words. But before he could speak two new arrivals presented themselves, these two more like Meskal himself and one of them obviously of noble birth. Meskal listened to the second man’s introduction and was sad to hear the silent despondent one was supposed to be the champion of Perialis. But the sudden arrivals did not end there, for it seemed Meskal had arrived but moments before the other champions.

A woman dressed in finer clothing, with a familiar face, though he could not quite place her. Meskal snorted when she introduced herself as Princess of Saverilla. Either she was lying or anyone with even the slightest inkling of power in Saverilla had lost their minds. His eyes narrowed as he studied the strange woman, trying to figure out if she was truly the Princess of Saverilla by sight alone. His concentration was quickly broken however when the sound of something hitting another thing with force came from the dockside buildings. A quick glance in that direction revealed to him the source of the unusual sound. A fairly tall woman, standing near an a group of sailors, one of which was either slumped against the wall and unconscious, or taking a nap. When the woman introduced herself as the champion of Almekia, Meskal nodded in greeting. And finally a giant of man, taller even than Meskal appeared as if out of nowhere and hovered a few feet away from the newly formed group and gave a simple word of greeting.

These were to be his comrades in arms then? This poor bunch of thugs, princesses, spoiled brats and giants? Perhaps they didn’t have as big of a chance as Meskal had hoped at first, if this was the best the other nations could produce. With a grimace he looked over his fellow champions and took a deep breath. With an accusatory finger pointed in Damien’s direction Meskal finally spoke. ”How sad, are you so frightened that you would take away another man’s solace in prayer? Or are you simply a pathetic cur, not willing to spare another a bit of happiness in their beliefs?” He shook his head in disappointment and turned to the woman who seemed to have sent a sailor flying with just one punch. ”And you! What point was there in hitting that poor man? Clearly he was no match for you. Did you hit him simply to feed your own ego by showing others how strong you are, or do you enjoy hurting others so much you couldn’t help yourself?"

Meskal shook his head in disappointment once more, before turning to the despondent looking youth. ”And you! That man won’t be fighting in the tournament for you, so don’t let him speak for you either, lest he says something you will regret.” Meskal shook his head one final time before he straightened his back and turned his piercing gaze to each of his fellow champions in turn. ”Now that I have said my piece, I shall introduce myself.” Meskal said, his chest sticking outward slightly and his eyes slowly going over his fellow champions, even as his voice grew a little louder for his introduction. ”I am Meskal Kender, master of the house Kender and chosen champion of Luther. I greet you fellow champions and pray we will be victorious in our struggle against the foul Scion!” Meskal spoke, his voice filled with pride and conviction, even as the fire of the little candle still situated on his trunk seemed to suddenly burn more fiercely.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Atonia Biyos Abbilati Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes Character Portrait: Riley Paolimi Character Portrait: Galen
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Damian Maleck

Polisida Harbour, Docks, Rumed

Damian examined his new allies as they arrived, his hightened rate of thought allowing him to gain more information in a shorter time. He already wasn't too fond of the noble, as he appeared to represent the average traits of a royal knight, religous and honorable to a fault. Damian was honorable as well, but he abided by a different kind of honor: the honor of a thief. This was an idea he doubted any of the other champions would understand or respect, but he wasn't going to change his ways for them.

The man was about to respond when another champion arrived. This one was accompanied by what looked like a servant, and reaked of the priviliged life. If Damian could place bets on who the weakest link would be, he'd bet his entire savings on this guy. It didn't help that the man stunk of doubt and fear as well. Damian, showing no sign of it outwardly, grimaced on the inside. Only the most daring and bold would survive this, and this man didn't have an ounce of either.

Then, Damian was surprised by another member atop the Progenitor's statue. Her clothing clearly signified nobility, but her actions indicated otherwise. Damian could not help but be impressed. As she introduced herself as a princess, he couldn't help but be even more impressed. Perhaps he would not be entirely lonely on this buisness. Any noble who could act like this in public, let alone an princess, had Damian's respect, though not neccesarilly trust. Damian but everyone new to him at arm's length out of habit. In his buisness, misplaced trust could get you killed.

Then Damian saw another girl approach, after having sent a sailor flying. He couldn't tell from what walk of life she hailed from, but she clearly could fight. Finally, a giant knight appeared, who apparently had been watching the whole time from his relaxed position. He didn't seem to be a talker, which Damian respected. He gave a curt nod back to the knight.

The first champion finally spoke up, but appeared to be just as self-righteous and predictable as Damain expected, lecturing him on interupting prayer, and introducing himself with the most pompous introduction Damian every saw. "Typical noble" Damian muttered under his breath. He approached the pompous jerk and gave retort to his little speech, all while absentmindedly tapping his fingers together on both hands. "Afraid? If I had any doubts that I would survive this, I wouldn't be here. I came here of my own free choice. I also dislike the term cur as much as I do thug or brigand. They do a diservice and act as misnomers of my profession. Call me that again, and you may find your belongings magically appearing in my cabin. Don't preach your Progenitor crap to me either. The Progenitor has never offered me any help before, so why would he now?"

Turning away from the morbid buisness of threats, he addressed the whole group. "Now that most of us are here, let me introduce myself." He decided to give a traditional Tavaro greeting, though he dealt with an outside crowd. He wanted them to know exactly what he was. "I am Damian Maleck of Tavaro. Son of no one." He turned to the princess of Saverilla, as he wanted allies within this group as quickly as possible. "Nice technique back there." he said. "Pardon me if I offend, but I wouldn't expect a princess to carry on like that. That was impressive for one of means."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Meskal Kender Character Portrait: Damian Maleck Character Portrait: Atonia Biyos Abbilati Character Portrait: Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes Character Portrait: Riley Paolimi Character Portrait: Galen
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Fraisier Jourdain Florentine Hughes

Posilidia Harbor, Rumed

Fraisier nearly jumped out of his skin as the, formerly silent knight, snapped at the majority of them. Already Fraisier felt even more useless than previously. He knew he generated a bad impression, but he didn't mean it. He has quite the difficulty in trying to make new friends, or at least acquaintances. Still the one called Meskal of The House of Kender, was correct in his assumptions. Fraisier isn't the most courageous man. He wasn't cowering behind Maurice, and probably a degree of this trouble was in fact wrought by him. Still Fraisier bares no ill will to anyone except himself. He always did blame himself before anyone else. Then came more unnecessary fire upon himself.

"Now you listen here Kender of Luther!" "That is no tone to speak with a man you haven't even begun to know!" "Young Master Fraisier is an kind and gentle soul!" "There is no need to make such worded threa-" He was cut off by Fraisier's hand on his shoulder.

"Please, he is correct." Fraisier mumbled in his ear.

"But Master Fraisier, that is no way to speak to someone." Maurice argued.

"No, it is quite alright, I understand his criticism...I can't rely on anyone." Fraisier rather solemnly spoke.

"Master Fraisier." Maurice spoke as his face went from outrage to a frown. "I apologize for speaking out of terms...I am only a simple servant, please forgive my impudence." Maurice humbly spoke.

"Well Master Hughes, thanks to the kind Mistress here I shall take your luggage upon the boat." Maurice spoke.

"Uh yes, I'll join you." Fraisier spoke.

"Are you sure?" "Carrying luggage isn't your concern." Maurice spoke.

"No, I'm going to have to take care of it anyway, your not commissioned for the voyage to Ulmath." Fraisier spoke.

Maurice sighed. "I know...lets get it done and I'll say my goodbyes." Maurice spoke Fraisier took the last of the luggage. Fraisier then bowed before the others, still having a nervous look on his face as he attempted eye contact and then quickly scooted off.

Fraisier and Maurice entered the ship chartered for their voyage as the two Perialisians bored the ship. They entered one of the cabins and began to place the assorted luggage within. Maurice then looked over to Fraisier.

"Well good luck Master Fraisier." "It was an honor to serve you for the time we spent." Maurice spoke as he gave out his hand. "Oh wait sorry, I'm supposed to bow." Maurice corrected himself.

"No it is quite alright, I'm actually more comfortable with a handshake." He spoke with a smile.

"Are you sure?" "Handshakes are for common folk." Maurice spoke flabbergasted.

"In the time you have known me, you should know I don't care about that stuff, here." Fraisier spoke as he held out his hand.

Nearly beside himself he took his hand and shook it. "It truly was a please, Young Master Fraisier." Maurice spoke as he stopped. "I'll be telling Master Hughes that you safely arrived on schedule." "Please...take care of yourself Master Fraisier." Maurice spoke with apprehension.

"I shall, tell my family I love them." Fraisier spoke as Maurice nodded and left him alone.

Maurice came upon the dock once more as he exited the ship and returned to their pier where the other champions are. He looked towards them all. He then bowed before them.

" your best." Maurice spoke to them as he left for the carriage. He sat up upon the seat and saw Fraisier standing upon the deck as he waved goodbye. Maurice waved back and then whipped the horses, ushering them to move, and so they did. Soon the elegant and richly carriage disappeared within the city streets. Now Fraisier was truly alone. Already he wasn't sure what kind of company these champions would keep. Already, it would seem he won't be making any friends again. They all seem either confidant or aggressive. Perhaps qualities needed for such a job, and Fraisier is neither of those things. He certainly was the odd man out.

He did wonder of the other knight, out of all of them, he is the most mysterious. Not to mention, some what distant himself. Perhaps Fraisier isn't alone at being alone. He sympathized with the large man, but he can't assume anything. A Knight is a man of war, who knows what kind of person he will turn out to be. The same could be said of all of them. He really shouldn't make unfounded claims, but their behavior thus far haven't spoken either wise. Still, Fraisier can't help but fall into despair, that he will hopelessly fail to gain favor. This will truly be a long voyage.