Attendre était le pire... et bien, peut-être pas aussi mauvais que d'être piégé dans les intrigues pourries d'un ver mort massif, mais à part que c'était le pire, et attendre avec une cérémonie était le pire du pire. (En dehors de tout le ver.) Chance s'est évanouie au-dessus de son propre poing, engourdissant les lèvres dans l'œil. Il n'a tenu compte que d'une chose, son nom.
"Il était temps," il a grondé quand on l'a appelé. Il avait sombré contre le mur du dos, son épée tirée, son bouclier facile à porter et à plonger sur sa ceinture, et son sac et ses provisions ont coulé sur son épaule. Attends... sac et fournitures? Attendait-il un déploiement immédiat? Il a agrandi tout le monde qu'il a passé, prenant note de regarder derrière lui quand il est venu. Cependant, quelque chose de différent lui est venu, quelque chose qu'il n'avait jamais ressenti auparavant. La loyauté s'est glissée en lui, un énorme puits. Juste en regardant les autres, il était sûr de dire qu'il mourrait pour eux, qu'il ruinerait le monde s'il y avait une situation d'otage et qu'il tenait la clé de la survie, qu'il l'abandonnerait volontairement à un méchant si cela signifiait qu'il y avait une chance que le méchant ne tuerait pas ses nouveaux associés de toute façon. En fait, cette loyauté était claire pour les nouveaux arrivants qu'il n'avait pas encore rencontrés. Il n'accepterait jamais aucune calomnie contre eux, mais accepterait volontiers toute tromperie en leur faveur. Il a été poussé à surmonter n'importe quel obstacle juste parce qu'ils étaient des bourgeons, des collègues?
Au lieu d'une longue séance qui a parfaitement saisi sa personnalité pour une introduction, il a commencé à évaluer les gens dans la pièce s'ils avaient besoin d'un groupe de chevaliers pour résoudre leurs besoins. Peut-être que 12 porcs devaient être tués dans le territoire ouvert, peut-être quelqu'un a perdu une broche, ou peut-être quelqu'un a entendu des bruits étranges émanant d'une vieille maison. C'était une histoire vieille comme le temps, le garçon vient à un nouvel endroit, le garçon doit tuer 12 porcins de l'environnement indigène, le garçon obtient des articles qui font que ses vieux trucs ressemblent à de la merde.
Name: Chance Chazwalider of Redshirt
Age: 34
Gender: Male
Personality:
-While he is clever, he acts to the point without beating around the bush.
-He holds grudges like nobody's business, these grudges most often crop up with those he bears jealousy toward.
-He usually whines incessantly about every little thing. However, those little things are often lynch-pins to important things.
-He thinks other people innately stupid and has a level of disdain about them in general, but it is okay, he treats everybody like that.
-He believes the world sucks and isn't worth saving because it will just be ruined again if it is re-forged to perfection. This has lead people to believe him to have a death wish. Sometimes he does.
-He is also incredibly patient and stubborn, even for a warden.
-Additionally, he has a haughty attitude that makes people back off suspecting him of sporting some hidden trick that can level the playing field.
-Chance comes with a reputation that, just like his armour is too big to fit him. He has the rumor of being a great warrior only because in championships, he has thoroughly exhausted his opponents to the point of passing out from exertion.
Affinity: Warden
Appearance (Self): Chance is just as short as he is gangly, and short, standing five foot nothing and holding no bulk whatsoever. The largest feature is his abnormally large and squat head. He has an air of peasantry about him with untamable hair and lax manerisms, even though he is of noble blood. His standard expression is indicative of crawling out of the rotting bowels of a gigantic deceased worm... either that or he just lost playing tic-tac-tow with a 5 year old and was made a fool doing it.
Appearance (Armor): His armour is intricate ancestral armour, and obviously made for someone far larger than him. It's just too big to fit him. His large hands and feet need the size. It was handed down three generations and would be an offence if he were to reject it. His armour has been finished with a copper sheen to it. He wears the color of grey-blue, and his shield symbol is a copper field with a blue spiral on it.
 Chance's early years of training was as a squire to a knight that his father worked with. (Weird fact, Chance's father's name was "Sir Chance's Father" by his eighth child, he decided to just go with it.) Sir Evil Knight took Chance under his wing because Knight hated Chance's Father and therefore Chance as well (though he didn't make it obvious.) Chance learned long suffering as ridiculious and infeasable tasks were placed before him. These tasks he took to the point of impracticality and injury, but he didn't give in ever, evenwhen the task was impossible to achieve. This made Evil Knight fear the resilliance of the boy.Believing himself in a long con, he cast Chance out to prevent the boy's betrayal.
There was eventual betrayal... on behalf of his father. His father knew very well that the other knight hated him, and purposely placed his son under his tutelage to teach him "how the world REALLY works."
That lecture was interrupted by his grandfather teaching him how to battle the undead... as he came in and tried to eat their brains. (Strangely enough, his grandfather's name was, coincidentally, "Sir Grandpa." Let's face it, eventually the name was going to pay off.) After that, Chance really hasn't shied away from gore because it really isn't anything once you've seen your father eaten while he screams. You would think it kind of traumatizing, but everybody in his home hamlet of Redshirt were kind of used to massive exterminations of the population.
Desensitized and long suffering, the good king over the land, King Yurmajisty, soon recognized he had a potential magic user on his hands. However, before he could indoctrinate the child, the Guild of Wardens were training him in their meat packing plant (aka. training facility.)
Arsenal: Chance prefers the sword and shield approach to fighting. He would love to use a bastard sword with a blade as wide as his head... but he isn't that strong. So instead he uses a gladius. Likewise, he would like a shield the size of a billboard with wierd and ornate cuttings, but instead he usues the standard steel plated and round domed shield with a crossbar. He just about never rides a steed because he thinks horses suck and would much prefer a steed that is lethal, horned, and infeasable like a dragon or a unicorn or a Narwhal.