Meike Emidio Kendal

Scribe Meike Emidio Kendal is a man shaped by parchment and ink more than sunlight and labor. His frame is frail, narrow-shouldered, and ghost-pale—an academic’s body preserved through quiet obsession rather than strength. He moves carefully, as though his bones might rattle apart if jostled too hard, yet there’s a flicker of life in his eyes that betrays the intensity of his mind. Those eyes, deep and fever-bright, seem always to be measuring the world, searching for the thread of understanding that others overlook.

Meike’s life has been devoted to knowledge—not just the gathering of it, but the guarding of it. To him, the written word is sacred, the true legacy of humanity. In a world frayed by ruin and half-remembered science, he works tirelessly to preserve what remains of the old texts, even if his body often betrays his ambitions. The other Scribes know him as the kind of scholar who forgets to eat when reading, who falls asleep among stacks of crumbling paper with ink smudged across his fingers like soot.

He was not born for the fields or the watchtower. His hands are steady with quill and soft with disuse, and though he favors humanity over all others, he seems more loyal to the idea of human intellect than to the flesh-and-blood people around him. The Awakened and the Others make him uneasy; he sees them as distortions of human potential—proof of what happens when evolution skips the line and forgets the discipline of learning. To Meike, knowledge must be earned, not inherited or instinctual.

Every book is a survivor. Every page is proof that someone once cared enough to remember.

— Scribe Meike Emidio Kendal

Still, for all his biases and brittle arrogance, there is patience in him. Meike speaks gently, often explaining things to others with an indulgent smile and the air of a teacher who never tires of his own voice. “Let me show you,” he says often, quill hovering above a diagram or formula. He delights in the act of revelation, of watching confusion turn into comprehension. It feeds something in him, something close to pride but not quite as cruel.

Despite his intellect, Meike is not immune to distraction. The promise of new information—a forgotten text, a rumor of pre-Fall records, a scrap of old engineering blueprints—can pull him away from his duties for days. The pursuit of knowledge is both his virtue and his vice, driving him to brilliance and blindness in equal measure.

For all his scholarly aloofness, Meike’s gentle heart reveals itself in strange ways. He has a remarkable way with animals—creatures trust him instinctively. Birds perch on his desk while he writes; stray cats follow him to the scriptorium. He feeds them scraps from his own meager meals, muttering lessons to them as if they were students who might one day read. It is perhaps his one unguarded kindness, this affection for wordless company.

Meike’s life is one of service—to the Scribes, to the written memory of humanity, and to the fragile hope that knowledge might still be enough to save what remains. He rarely ventures beyond the walls of the library, but his influence reaches through every copied page, every meticulously restored book. In a world of fading truths, Meike Kendal remains a quiet sentinel of the mind, weary in body but unbroken in purpose.

Ignorance is the true contagion of our age—one the old world never cured.

— Scribe Meike Emidio Kendal