//Shadowed/~/Temptations//|Onyx's Log

[Onyxaeon]

And I shall weave you a tale of shadowed temptations that lures the very blood in the your veins to still and turn, finding your heart so that you will know every thriving beat is mine.






Name: Onyx or Aeon, which ever works. Or Sara. Whever.
Age: 19
Gender: Female

Likes: DRoP, RP, writing, reading, soccer, hiking, animals (any kind), mountains, and the ocean.

Dislikes: People who underestimate me because of my age, general and obvious idiocy, being spooked o.O, the cold, chemistry, math in general, and rap music.


Current RPs:
Vanity Does Not Pay w/ Pan
Ga[m]es in the Dark w/ Lyric

[Onyxaeon]

"Because he's the hero that Pern deserves,
But not the one it needs right now.
So we'll hunt him.
Because he can take it.
Because he's not a hero: he's a silent guardian,
A watchful protector.
The Dark Knight."
~The Dark Knight (Altered slightly)

.:|D'ron||Varanth||::.[/center][/color][/size][/i][/b]

Weyr: Talune Weyr

Name: D'ron

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Rank: Weyrleader/Wingleader-Fatal Abyss/Wingleader-Blinded Vision

Age: 25 turns

Appearence: D'ron is a tall man, about 6'4'', and has the body of a runner, lean and agile. Lithe would be the perfect term to describe the practiced dragonrider, for the absent sinews he possess were born into his flesh, though his time as a rider has greatly helped to keep them so in tune. His dark, rich brown hair and deep-set, almost black, brown eyes are etched into a generally serene front, though make no mistake he is perfectly capable of laying down any law that so need be. The pupils of his eyes, so dark a brown that they are black when passion so stirs him, hold one's gaze in an authoritive lock, as if he is always silently judging you.

Personality: Bold emotions for a bold man...
D'ron carries with him a strict sense of order. If things don't go as planned, he finds where they went wrong and 'eliminates' the problem. He wont tolerate insubordination and, if you refuse to abide by his rules, he wont hesitate to send you packing for a transfe.

In other words, it would be in your best interest for you to never challenge D'ron. Nor should you insult him. He wont easily offend, in fact, he shrugs off most comments as nothing, but when angered, he is a force to reckon with. Too often fellow riders have made the mistake of calling him foolish fo his compassion or his judgements and, too often, those who spoke out of turn have suffered under the heat of the golden sun with wounds too numerous to count. But, that past is behind him now. Isn't it?

A rare understanding...A blinding truthfulness...And even a certain wisdom.
These are all traits D'ron carries. He understands what few others do. Failure does not necessarily deserve a punishment in his eyes. Instead, it is a sign that the Weyr must work harder to survive in these harsh times. Truth, it's a word that means more to D'ron than certain riders' lives. He speaks only the truth, and expects it to be given to him in return. Wisdom is heavily expressed in this rider. All the thread fighting strategies and tactics are thought out by him and most of his plans always bring about a fierce sense of that onyxrider pride. He can turn your own words against you by merely twisting them around in an effortless debate that will send you to you knees in befuddlement. His wisdom is but one of the many things that form together to make this rider an anomaly among others.

A chink in the armor...
D'ron has the weakness of being a softy for the women of the Weyr. Though he doesn't mistreat the men no give the woman any special treatment. As far as he's concerned, females should be cherished and males should do their part to ensure that policy. D'ron may respect the women of the Weyr and love each differently, but he has found none to understand him as of yet.

Dare me to?
The Weyrleader is one to take a challenge and, usually, win or prove his point right, though, rarely does he participate in brawls or arguements unless they are for an issue he believes firmly in. Conflicting with his past, eh? But, he is hoping to leave that behind. He displays the common sense to not strangle any yappy Hold Lords he comes across hounding him about tithes and thread protection though, sometimes, the thought does linger in the back of his mind as an amusing idea. Violence is a rare thing in his life, now at least, but he does have a philosophy he lives by in regards to it: Voilence is never the answer, but it is always an option.

History: D'ron was born to a family that did not want him. Furthermore, it was sheer dumb luck in the first place that his father, a transfer rider from up North, had stumbled upon the flying Green Casth that fateful day and that he even existed in the first place. Only that blessed Healer had talked Ani into keeping D'ron to full term and, as soon as he could be dumped off to a foster family, he was. His mother did not care to visit him at all and it was only through the visits he received from his father that he knew about her and his two older half brothers at all. Of course, they were already riders by the time he was beginning to be a candidate, so he would not have known them otherwise. He still rarely spoke to them, and did nothing more than give a curt hello every once and a while.

As a weybrat, he was the most devilish of creatures. Prank after prank after prank. He caused such a stir that he was banned from participating in his first hatching at the age of twelve tuns and then again when he started a brawl with his former friend V'tun who had Impressed a Bronze then. Finally, by the age of fifteen turns, he could stand on the sands. There was little hope for him, though. The clutch was small, the candidate crowd large, and the eggs were...stange. No one knew exactly why they were such odd hues on their shells: crimson, silver, and ebony. They were three new colors of dagons, that was for certain, though what gender they were and what they would Impress was beyond comprehension.

The first to hatch were the standard dragons: bronzes, browns, blues, and greens. Only once that last Green had stumbled off the sands did the silver egg hatch, and Impressed to a female. The crimson male that burst forth soon after went to a male, but none of these decisions could be set in stone. After all, one hatching did not make for a certain persona to abide by. Finally, the last egg-by far the largest of the group with it's flawless shade of ebony-began to rock. Aptly named the Between Egg for the blinding abyss of its shell, one could easily get lost in the swathy depths. As the shell split with a thundering crack, a large onyx beast spilled onto the sands. His head inclined regally as he observed only the remaining three male candidates: it was clear he was a King. His wings flared, stretching to their fullest to see who would flinch at his sudden temper. The one candidate who did stumbled back, and the dragonet hissed angily at him. With two remaining, D'ron stood silently observing the creature that would decide someone's future. He /knew/ this dragon was his, though. He could feel it in the very marrow of his bones.

When the great jaws lunged forward and clamped down on his thigh, he could only grit his teeth, his jaw clamping firmly shut to seal in the tormented scream. It was the only wound the dragon ever inflicted, and it was well worth the silence.

Mine, come. We shall not wait for the night to swallow the sky before you are tended to for your stupidity of not moving out of the way. I knew you were mine. You did not have to prove it.



Father: R'nair [Rider to Brown Hanth] (Deceased-Thread scoring)
Mother: Ani [Rider to Green Casth] (Presumed Deceased-transferred)
Siblings: Aorn [older half brother] & Roanir [older half brother]

Pets: None

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dragon Name: Varanth

Dragon Color: Onyx

Age: 10 Turns

Personality: Varanth has a swelling pride, like most Onyxes, and wont accept help from anyone but his Mine unless the situation calls for it. He is a calm, logical thinker. The ever-present silent observer. If spoken to, he will think through his answers before replying, always choosing his words carefully. He is rational, and will sometimes, if not always, over analyze things. Expect well thought-out and personally taken responces from him. He rarely, if ever, gets upset as he tends to have a patient, relaxed attitude, driving others insane with the desire to test his tolerate mind. So far, none has succeded in breaking his calm barrier. Pray to Faranth none rouse the temper he possessed on the sands.

Appearence: Varanth is easily greater than the size of a large Gold, standing at a full body length of forty-seven meters, two meters beyond the normal body size for his color. Because of this, it isn't hard to see why the Weyrfolk address him as "The Weyr King". His hide is a deep, flawless ebony, and his well muscled, lithe body is perfect for carrying him through an entire Threadfall and lasting long in flights. His advantages are never commented upon, however, because the humble beast prefers to look at things as though he were not truly gifted by nature as he is. Those haunting eyes bare down on you from a marvelously supeiror height, and he gives you the impression that your actions and words will forever be remembered by him. His gaze alone startles the candidates into obediance, and even the wildest of flits shy away from the great brute.

Interesting Fact: Was the first Onyx born on Talune sands.

[/size][/font]

[Onyxaeon]

Just try to ruin her delight:
It's a difficult endeaver.
She doesn't walk, she's always prancing,
Only when she isn't dancing.
Share your woes, she'll make them lighter.
The future's bright but she is brighter.

.:/Tain/.::.\Mistith\:.[/center][/color][/size][/i][/b]

Weyr: Talune Weyr

Name: Tain (Think taint)

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Rank: Wingrider-Celestial Promise/Wingrider-Whispered Promise

Age: 19

Appearance: Tain is about 5'5'' and has curly, chestnut brown hair that falls mid-back in soft ringlets. Her eyes are a deep, emerald green, that always seem to hold a bold defiance about them with a fiery spirit that cannot possibly be tamed. She is a sight to behold when the day has decided to kiss her face with sunlight, though she doesn't admit to it or even really bother to notice. Her time is spent in trying to keep her boundless, excited aura around the Weyr and maintaining a general happy-go-lucky feeling in everyone.

Personality: Tain is, to be honest, such the little sweetheart. She has the caretaker personality that forces her to more or less disregard her own needs to help the issues of others. It's a habit of hers to look after everyone, to be the shoulder to cry on for anyone who needs it, and this gives her a greater understanding of the human heart than Searchriders and their dragons can even achieve. Tain is defiant about her freedom: she could never survived in a cage, bound by rules and regulations that contain her spirit. She would die of the isolation, because she has to be involved in life and try to spread as much of her boundless optimism as possible to the greatest number of people possible. She never minded sharing her love of all things fun and constantly gave random little bursts of oddness that could turn even the coldest of hearts to melted butter. Endlessly passionate, you will never hear a lie stumble forth from her lips.

History: Tain was brought into the Weyr life when her mother, after nursing was long since finished, stowed her away in a tithe cart heading to Talune Weyr. The young babe made it, surprisingly, into the Weyr without making a sound, though the ride had been bumpy and the air cool for the Southern Continent. It was the herd master who had found the young infant nestled amongst the fruits and brought her into the caring hands of the Headwoman. On that day, the Headwoman named the young orphan Tain, and the little girl was raised in the Weyr. She never knew her parents, of course, but the Headwoman who treated her as her own daughter was well enough for the young girl, and that was that.

As Tain matured, she began to have that same dream that all young children go through: the fantasy of becoming a dragon rider. Lucky for her, though, she did not have to dream on it for long, because she was soon brought onto the sands to be a candidate for Talune's hatching. She only had hopes of Impressing, but she never dreamed that the sweet little Green that stumbled forth, tripping out of her own shell and swatting away a nasty Bronze brother, would be hers. Her Mistith.


Father: UNKNOWN
Mother: UNKNOWN
Siblings: UNKNOWN

Pets: Sable, Green Flit.

Sable is a silly little flit, whose personality has greatly been influenced by Mistith, the flit's dearest companion. She ADORES playing, can't go a day without it, and can almost always be found scuffling at the Watch Post with her flit friends. She's a little softy, with a real short attention span. Tain often has to remind the flit of what bobble or errand the flit is off to at least three times before anything is actually done but, that aside, Sable is really a very well behaved green. She just...can't sit still, has to really concentrate to pay attention, and doesn't really take much seriously.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dragon Name: Mistith

Dragon Color: Green

Age: Two Turns

Personality: Mistith is wily and hot-headed like most Greens, but oddly uninterested in flirting. She can be flirtatious, certainly, but only if this is encouraged, which Tain is currently taking the time to instill in her. She prefers to sit and talk with her Mine rather than go out and try and get the males to chase her, and she seems very devoted to Tain. It only makes sense that this loving dragon will find her perfect mate, her ONE perfect mate, whom she would devote just as much time to him as she does to Hers. She's old fashioned, what more can be said? Mistith is a bit overprotective of Tain at times, always watching out for her Mine in various ways and not allowing any male rider to come near her unless both she and Tain know and get along with them. Almost like a big, lovable shadow. She's an anomaly among Greens because of these behaviors, but Tain loves her all the more because of it. It gives the Green a starting edge against the rest of the Green population because, once you have met her, it is very hard to remain the same.

Appearance: Mistith is rather small for her coloring, with only a thirteen foot body length. Her hide is a deep forest green, with a lighter green on her under belly and wing membranes that, when it catches the light just right, is a sure sight to behold. The first time you see her, you get the feeling that she is judging you, a protective shadow that looms over Tain, though only in a motherly way. She couldn't be intimidating if her life depended on the matter.

[Onyxaeon]

Oh, but if you want to have a go, I just want to let you know...
Get off of my back, and into my game.
Get out of my way, and out of my brain.
Get out of my face, or give it your best shot.
I think it's time you better face the fact, get off of my back.

(*//*)Icyri(~)Icysk(*//*)[/center][/color][/size][/i][/b]

Hall: Wher Hall
Name: Icyri
Gender: Female
Craft: Watch-wher handler
Rank: Queen WherHandler
Age: 27


Appearance: Icyri is rather short in stature, so much so, that people find it hard-neigh, impossible-to picture her as a wherhandler, much less a queen one. She stands at an even five feet, and nothing about her delicately muscled frame suggests she has the ability to hold back an angry wher, though that really doesn't factor into the matter. Or, at least that's what she claims. Whers, in Icyri's eyes, can be held at bay by a firm, locking stare, and there, she easily makes up for her lack of brawn. Her brown optics, mixed with green tints in the bright light, are almost frightening when she adds that menacing glow to them. Luckily, though, Icyri has not had to use such a look on Icysk or any other unfortunate soul in a long while, not since her wher training, anyway.

Her intimidation factors aside, Icyri is not truly something that most people find themselves chasing after. She has her curves, like any woman, but not very many where it counts, and she isn't so well endowed. Her tanned skin from her endless hours outside, though a compliment to her work ethic, isn't a desired trait where she comes from, and she has had to deal with the fact that not many men want someone who is willing to work longer and harder hours than they themselves do, and do the work far better. Short, almost spiky, black strands jut out from her scalp and to lightly cover her forehead, a rich ebony in coloring that she loves to style just out of the blue with random colors on the tips from dyes that only last about a week or so.

Personality: Icyri's a tomboy, and would have a better time with a guy than any girl; period. It's not that she's boyish, it's just that she enjoys more of the active outdoor life and hates the things most women seem to thrive on. The matters of gossip and things of that nature just...Make her shudder, because she hates conforming to the crowd and being anything aside from unique. In her mind, she's her own person, and that's how it's gonna stay. Generally rebellious and spirited in nature, she hates to be controlled, and wont stand for any dominating figure to loom over her. She can handle her own problems, and doesn't need the help of another, as she's made a point of proving many a times. She has little to no patience with other people aside from her fellow Wherhandlers, and a temper most, if they value their lives, try to avoid. Nowhere near the plain her body makes her appear, she is cunning, and loves to twist your words to her own little sentences and have your plans backfire on you. But, she hates for the same thing to be done to her. Yet she is neither manipulative nor a player. One wont find her wasting her time, as she lives for the moment, living each day as if it were her last, a result of her past that she has made the great effort to forget. The word's 'can't' and 'no' do not exist in her vocabulary, so it would be in your best interest not to use them.

History: Icyri was born to a small family who, originally, lived in the Southern Continent at Talune Hold. Her parents, journeymen by trade, where loving as any could be, yet Icyri always felt that was something missing from her modest life in the Hold. She spent her early turns working as a runner assistant part time, and then filling the rest of her hours with drudge work, but this only seemed to further the void she felt that was slowly, it seemed, killing her. When Talune Hold signed a contract to bring in a wherhandler to the Hold, Icyri saw the wher and fell in love with the creatures, and that void was never the cause of one of her many days of depression.

And so, she moved to the Wher Hall to train, bidding her parents a farewell to train and learn everything she possibly could about the creatures she was so utterly smitten by. Her training went by as smoothly as any could (a few pranks here and there, a few grueling exams and all night study sessions) and all in all, she proved her worth as a promising WherHandler. When one of the Hall's youngest queens had clutched for the first time, Icyri could barely contain her excitement at the mass of eggs as they were continuously being attended to by their dear mother. As they spent a few mandatory weeks hardening, Icyri bounced back and forth like an eager candidate for a dragon clutch, making bets this way and that as to who would receive what egg.

She had no clue as to what she was getting. And just about passed out when they handed her the very same egg she had been eyeballing since the moment it had been laid. She knew, without a doubt, she had a queen on her hands. She could feel it in her bones. And so, it wasn't a surprise for her like it was the rest of the craft for the brown sized opal queen to hatch from the egg, announcing herself as Icysk as she proudly wandered over to hers without so much as flicking her tail in the direction of anyone else.

Once Icysk and Icyri had bonded, the two went through a year and a half long course of training that dealt in etiquette for Hold Whers, proper thread consumption, and various other courses that the two had to attend for being a queen pair. When Icysk had fully matured, Icyri was once more in that 'baby phase' and could not help but wait in wonder over who would dare to chase after her Wher. They where tied up at Solse Hold after leading a group of merchants (at the time, Icysk was mainly a trade guarding Wher) when that time crept up, and Solse's own bronze Watch-Wher caught her. There the two remained until the eggs had been clutched, staying long enough to allow the eggs to harden and be strong enough for travel. They returned to the Wher Hall shortly after, making certain that the eggs were kept quite warm, but duty pulled the loving mother away from her precious eggs before they could be hatched, and she did not get to see her babies imprint on their own handlers. She only knew who Icyri had given the eggs off to after seeing the candidates for who could be one and, though she trusted her bonded, she would have loved to have been there.

Three clutches later, Icysk is still the same lively tempered thing she was when she first hatched, and now, Icyri better watch out, because this mother is expecting to turn out all sorts of trouble this turn. Wherever her duty takes her, or, whatever unlucky Hold is contracted to a mischief loving pair.

Father: Ryaon (Journeyman To Eastern Hold)
Mother: Cisi (Journeywoman To Eastern Hold)
Siblings: None

Pets: Snow flit, Calypso

Calypso is quite the tender thing...when she wants to be. She has a bit of an attitude that has come from her constant teasing of all those not her Mine or Icysk though, make no mistake, they get their fair share as well. Calypso is quite clever, often times not even having to be told about her Mine's errands because she picks up on what is needed just by her surroundings. She is very observant, and sometimes a little too playful, but overall a very good flit and an excellent mother. She tends to each clutch without pause, and never takes time to eat or really rest because her eggs' safety is primary. She is quite large for her coloring, the size of a healthy raven queen, with a mainly white body that is blinding if the light catches her hide right. Her feet are pitch black, while the tops of her wings are a lovely golden shade as well as her many ridges and wedged shaped skull.

Spring flit, Serenity

Serenity is just like her sister Calypso when it comes to being teh caretaker or mom. She's a very trusting flit, and often times forgets the fact that she's a flit-no, she more thinks herself a wher because she almost worships Icysk for saving her and her sister-and quite petite. She is very sweet, never hurt a fly, and loves to pounce about randomly on all sorts of things when the mood strikes her. Serenity is impossibly calm for a flit, and has the patience of a saint when it comes to just about anything. Icyri doesn't think it's possible to upset the grass green flit.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Wher Name: Icysk
Wher Color: Opal
Age: 6

Personality: Icysk is...an oddity for sure. She's as feisty as an opal can be, with a notorious short temper to match, but the similarities with her and other opals ends there. While she has been known for stirring up the atmosphere when she feels that it is too dull and life has become sickeningly boring, and she can often be seen pestering somebody, she doesn't go out in search of said trouble, and often finds herself the accidental cause. What can be said? Trouble just sticks to her side like a loyal canine. Icysk is a manipulator through and through, with wily charms that she uses to the best of her ability to goad others into doing her bidding when she is being exceptionally lazy. It's in her nature to flirt about with the males who think that they can croon their way into her heart, teasing them with tidbits of affection only to swiftly smack them on the snout later when they get a bit too clingy for her tastes. She's the perfect, doting mother to her eggs and, though she knows by now that they are usually sold off before they hatch, she can't help but feel a touch of motherly heartache when the time comes. She's determined to get Hers to allow her to see her next clutch hatch one by one so that she can coax her little ones to their respective Wherhandlers, a form of motherly 'you can do it!' coaxing, a thought she is hellbent on making a reality.

Appearance: Icysk's name itself takes light in her hide coloration. Like the opal dragons, her hide is a glow with many swirls of colors that are not normally seen in wher hides. Her thick skin is a pastel blue, mainly, that is. Around her feet, it looks as though someone has speckled snow over her, for white dots coat the area and the same goes for the underside of her abnormally soft belly and all along her wing membranes. Around her eye ridges, a spiraling shade of darker blue dips away from both the corners of her eyes, ending just as they reach the beginning of her jaw line and feathering out in very light wisps. As far as size goes, Icysk is not on the larger size for her coloring, but directly int eh middle. She is the size of what could be considered a /very/ large brown or a medium sized bronze at twenty seven meters in length, and she prides herself in the fact that her hide, no matter how many hours she spends working and without a single oiling, is always a beautiful, delightful coloration no matter what. The fact that she has mothered four clutches does not even make an appearance in her lithe frame, nor does her age of six turns, though that itself is very young for a Wher.

[Onyxaeon]

Vsiasi & Isionyth
>~>Angel((of))Mercy<~<


Weyr: Solainoti

Name: Vsiasi
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Rank: Weyrwoman - D'ron in Talune will be stepping down with the next flight, with the queen out of mind and a due wingleader or his now wing, Fatal Abyss. The next Weyrleader has the full right of taking charge over the Whispered Promise wing.
Age: Recently turned 26


Appearance: Tainted in graceful proportions, Vsiasi is a rather nimble being, with a dashing feline nature in that she has close to perfect balance. She's that certain kind of person most people tend to hate because they could eat just about anything they so wanted and not gain an ounce. But, what most people don't know is that this is only due to her fierce, strict workout routine. Not a day goes by that she isn't seen running along the slippery slopes in the early morning, and occasionally racing the messenger runners who come out from the Holds tied to Solainoti. She’ll go out of her way to get some form of running, jogging, or, when she’s terribly busy, walking in for at least an hour a day. It usually extends more toward a two and a half event, though, because running is her therapy: it allows her body to channel out all those negative vibes that occasionally cripple her as a body, no matter how trained and toned it is, can only cart so much emotional baggage. Athletic though she may be, it hasn't driven every ounce of fat from her body, as she's surprisingly adorned with a fairly lovely set of curves along her five foot six frame. Probably due to the fact she wasn't always so fixed on her health as she is now: she has to be fit and perfectly in shape to deal with Isionyth's inability to say something is impossible, a comment given when Vsiasi said staying in shape over the years was not feasible. Needless to say, she was proven wrong, and her dragon's persistent bickering on the issue has kept her firmly in the youthful shade of life. Her tanned flesh always bears a healthy glow due to a secret she has kept under lock and key: volcanic ash mixed in mud for mud bathes. She'll weekly visit these mud pits located in the back of the lower caverns, a few select drudges and the Headwoman the only users who know of its location besides her. This keeps her surprisingly rejuvenated, and helps to smoothen her generally wind resistant flesh from the many hours of running. With all this concern about health consuming her from Isionyth's nagging, it isn't surprising she bothers to take care of how her hair looks at any given moment. Even if it looks as though she's just pinned up the mid-length black curls, it somehow still manages to bring out the dashing hazel of her eyes, each stormy facet reflecting a different shade of her personality as they shift back and forth from a light gray, to a soft blue, or to a striking blue-gray combination.

Personality: Angel of Mercy,
How did you find me?
Where did you read my story?
Pulled from the papers,
Desperate and hardened,
Seeking a momentary fix.

The shadows have gradually crept up and alongside Vsiasi, slowing stretching out their mangled limbs in an attempt to pry her humanity from her. Countless times, she's plunged into a spiraling depression, her sanity threatening to burst like the pressured waters behind a too full dam and, always, something drags her back from the brink to remind her of everything that has come so far, and of the places she no longer stands among. She's never been the one to grow close to a small group of people; she's always been among the Weyr and everyone in it, the silent shadow who took it upon herself to listen to each plaguing thing another would tell her to find comfort. It may never show, but every aimless thought and uttering gets back to her, collecting inside until the swarthy, churning depths slosh out and splatter onto the soil. Isionyth's Impression has done nothing but shred her formerly sealed heart to innumerable pieces, throwing her onto the shores violently like a sea animal dragged ashore from a great tidal wave. She's floundering every moment she hears tail of pain in her Weyr, even outside of it and branching out to the Holds tied to Solainoti as well as the other Weyrs of Pern.

All I wanted to say,
All I wanted to do,
Is fall apart now.
All I wanted to feel:
I wanted to love.
Its all my fault now,
A tragedy, I fear.

Matters made worse, guilt seeps in through her subconscious like water soaks up into a sponge. She's never been the type to take it well-even in jest. And now...Now, it does nothing but lash at her like a merciless whip to bare flesh. She's burdened by the mindset that the world is her problem, that it all has to fall on solely her shoulders, and she'll never crack to share the weight. It will eventually drag her under, or crush her beneath the overwhelming weight and excruciating pain. But that never gets through to her, and only proves Isionyth's belief that the good among this world die for their nature, and that nothing so unbelievably compassionate could ever live for more than a moment in such a harsh and bloodthirsty environment. She's a constant caretaker, and would rather die than see suffering in another now that Isionyth has come into her world. Indeed, the sheltering nature was there before, but guarded by gates that could not fathom the agony the world could sputter from the depths of hell. Her beloved Brimstone took a battering ram to her gates, and brought down her walls for each emotion to stumble about like a newborn colt on its first legs. It was a better outcome in the end: had that not have taken place, she'd likely be a bitter creature, cursing life for the endless obstacles it threw before her.

Angel of Mercy,
How did you find me?
How did you pick me up again?
Angel of Mercy,
How did you move me?
Why am I on my feet again?
And I see you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.
I feel you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.

Suffering in silence is better for her. She'll take it all, and bear it forever so everyone else can live with a touch more beauty in their life. She's that mother dog taking the beating for its pups from its master for the younglings' trouble making, and never complaining. She'll struggle to her feet when those emotional beatings tear into her soul, and continue to soothe when she would rather nothing more than to fall and never stand again. Even the best break, though. She'll crumble when she runs, driving out all the pains she takes on and hoping to ground them into the rocky terrain with her feet, praying they'll flow from her body and allow her to take on more than she knows is possible. It never works. She'll stop in those early mornings, dropping to her knees and pounding at the earth with her fist, choked sobs struggling to make themselves known. Only Isionyth will hear her cries, but the queen never comes to the aid of Hers-she's learned it to be a truly losing fight to convince Hers that this is killing her and saying that about the queen whom no does not exist is a true testament to how stubborn Vsiasi can be when she sets her heart and mind to something. No, instead, Isionyth lets her have her peace, and has forbid anyone to be on the slopes during the time Hers can be found running: none yet has dared to cross the irate queen and disobey.

'Fortress, the daylight come,
And I stand by
Waiting to catch the quickest plane.
Fly me to nowhere,
It's better than somewhere:
That's where I've been and nothing's changed.

Being the emotional shoulder of the Weyr does take a toll on the one who rises to take the duty as their own. And, as one could guess, the price is crippling. But it hasn't stolen Vsiasi entirely. No, she's not the always emotional wreck her breakdowns make her out to be for, in truth, those actual moments are rare and few. They're just far too crippling when they do occur to ever be ignored. Yes, she lives a relatively normal life outside of her choked sobbing. But only as a facade. To everyone aside from her dear Isionyth, who knows the truth, she puts on a perfectly crafted mask to fool even the wisest to believe she's nothing more than a perfectly sane human being-though some would disagree with that notion seeing as how she is bonded with Isionyth. But, a mask is all lies, usually. This mask isn't. Her mask is the only chance her submissive traits get to surface and make themselves known, as with any other moment they fall like servants to a king without thought. Nothing will stand to conquer: not her clever tongue, not her delightful sense of humour when the mood so strikes her, nor her passionate love of being entirely random and impulsive to the point its endearing and almost adorable, making one want nothing more than to cradle the spirited woman and bottle that enthusiam and optimisim. Because, even though she has all these lovely quirks to make up the compounds of her saving grace, her compassionate nature still dominates her existence. She views her life as nothing more than a means for others to unload their problems on, for her to be the beast of burden, and make everyone elses lives a bit more bearable while hers crumbles to dust and withers away. It is a dear shame for she is far more than just a rag to be used when someone has problems of their own and she will graceously hear them out at her own expense.

All I wanted to say,
All I wanted to do,
Is fall apart now.
All I wanted to feel:
I wanted to love.
It's all my fault now,
A tragedy for sure

For all the agony and cruelty she sees, Vsiasi is so innocent to the world and all that she knows. She'll lay her heart and soul right in your hands like a child who knows no other choice than to simply give everything her absolute all. She doesn't see the joy in doing something halfway: can't even fathomdoing a slipshod work. Because she's so hopelessly dedicated to whatever new concept has flown into her mind. Yes, she's terribly open minded. It's not something that's going to go away, and will only space itself out to enclose more things within as time drags on and she gets the chance to see many other different concepts and beliefs.

Angel of Mercy,
How did you find me?
How did you pick me up again?
Angel of Mercy,
How did you move me?
Why am I on my feet again?
And I see you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.
I feel you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.

I'm so lost in you.
A tragedy seemed to be over now, oh now.
A tragedy it seemed to be over now.

Angel of Mercy,
How did you find me?
How did you pick me up again?
Angel of Mercy,
How did you move me?
Why am I on my feet again?
And I see you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.
I feel you.
Whoa Whoa Whoa.


History: Originally from the lower caverns of Black Sands Weyr, Vsiasi was the end result of one of the many losers of a queen flight, her mother just happening to be the one grabbed by her father. The only real reason she even knew the both of them were her parents was entirely due to the healer who delivered her, other wise it was just a fading fact into her background. As soon as it was possible, Dasi left her babe with a foster family:
a pair of weavers who made the Weyr their permanent home with the readily available amount of work. Of course, she grew up to learn some of the trade of her parents, sometimes even helping out when the mood struck her, but she never pursued that line of work. It was just far easier to mend a rider's torn sleeve than to help out around the kitchens like the other weyrbrats had to.

Truth be told, that was the way it remained for a good many turns, because Vsiasi was never really plagued by the dragon craze that most who grew up in the Weyr were. She was content with her odd end repairs, and found no reason, really, to go out and about. That was until about eleven or so turns ago when Solainoti Weyr was founded. Without due cause, Vsiasi was plagued by the sudden urge to pack up and move, to get out of the Weyr she was born to and find something entirely different and new. Without warning, she convinced one of her elder Brownrider friends-more like her adopted big brother-to to secret her away to the new Weyr. S'dir was impossibly easy to persuade, though he hated to see his 'little sister' go, and he and his Brown Gionth secreted them away in the dead of the night to Solainoti. Of course there were matters that needed to be attended to, like how a new candidate suddenly appeared, but S'dir took care of all of that, and Vsiasi never questioned how. His reasoning with the Headwoman to give her a place to stay and rousing a Blue to Search her officially was all she knew aside from the lie she was from the newly brought in batch of candidates from the North which, technically, wasn't entirely a lie at all. She knew nothing of what all he had done to bring her to the one place she wanted to be, or the pain he had suffered when he had left her there only to later find out the suffering that had taken place in Solainoti. He could do nothing because he was not supposed to know where she had run off to, so he sat and prayed for something to keep her safe from the addiction plagued Weyr.

As S'dir fretted and worried over his 'little sister', Vsiasi began to settle in quite well for a newcomer. The eleven year old had come to find the lying about where she had come from easy enough-most was not actually a lie, she had grown up with Black Sands Weyr in her sight-and no one had noticed her entrance, so she could tell the truth and say she was a last minute candidate, brought in during the night. However, that idea soon dropped, dying the instant the Headwoman found out she was not yet even twelve turns. It was with a dampened spirit that Vsiasi took up mending clothes for riders again, though this time gaining some comforting solace in the fact that at least the company she would be keeping for another turn was new and foreign. It gave the long wait up until the hatching bearable, for the most part. That was how it had been for six turns. She would rise, work, eat, work, and then sleep, rising to the very same thing the next day unless another Hatching was to occur that day where she would turn up dragonless again. It never faltered from that path until other things began to flit into the daily Weyr life, and chaos soon coated the Weyr like a fine mist.

Yes, she was there in the beginning when the dragons first began to show signs of their serious addiction, hidden by choice and time only bringing it out into the open, and she had been there to stand by and watch helplessly as they fell, one by one, to their cravings. The Riosian dominated their lives and, for turns, it was allowed to strengthen and grow to a terrible, driving need for the mineral: so much so, it began to cripple the dragons who consumed it, each finding nothing more important than that sweet rush of relief once the stone hit their tongues. It blinded them from everything: food, mating, and even their own riders. Out of personal choice, Vsiasi steered clear of the thought of the Gold Feonelleth's next Rising, but that very same thing was the saving grace of the Weyr. After she had Risen and the massive clutch of fifty-two eggs had been laid, her symptoms cleared, as did those of her male chasers and then mate. It was clear what needed to happen to cease this endless addiction: and so consumption of Riosian was banned immediately, those females driven mad by their agony Rising and, soon after, finding themselves cured of their sickness as well as their chasers. Oh, but nothing could last forever. As the eggs began to weaken from the shell in, stores of Riosian were forcibly brought up from the sheds in the hopes of saving the clutch. When the thought proved its value and managed to save each egg, the theory that the unborns were still addicted rose up and nearly drove what remained of the Weyr mad as the clocks ticked onward and the days fell like lovers from a lost flight. The day of the Hatching came and, with it, a great bout of surprise.

As impossible as it sounds, not a single egg was left uncracked on those sands. Oh, yes, a few did not Impress because they ducked between, or were killed by their siblings, but each did break shell-though not all protruding beaks were those known to Pern. Several mutations sprung about from the effects of Riosian in their early stages of development: Dusks, Chromes, Solars, Tempests, and Brimstones. Of the five, it was later distinguished by various hatchings of the Brimstone queen the rank of each new color, and none, thankfully, dared to ingest their 'birthstones' once they claimed one for themselves. This was all met by a huge sigh of relief to the Weyr and, doubtlessly, to Vsiasi as well. By the time she had overcome her aversion to the mutants, though, it was almost too later for her to be a candidate, and with Naesth's last Rising, Vsiasi's dragon was clutched. There was nothing special about this clutch: it was entirely normal looking to any observer aside from the obvious queen in one corner, but it was the very last chance the elder candidate had to Impress and, with that thought in mind, she couldn't view this clutch as anything aside from a gift from Faranth.

When the day of the Hatching had finally come, Vsiasi could only stand waiting in uncomfortable sandals with the heat from the Sands scorching through to her feet. It didn't register, though. Nothing did: not the silliness of her Impression garments, or the awkward feeling of being the oldest candidate on the Sands, or even the still humming as the queen egg rocked back and forth, pulsing and claiming her attention. Naesth's younglings began to hatch, some finding their Mines almost immediately along with their birthstones, some taking their time to do both, and of course combinations of both of the two. A few dragonets had been shuffling aimlessly about, and Brown and a Solar having gotten into an argument that escalated into a fight, one Dusk sibling trying to get out of dodge but ending up in the crossfire as the three scrambled about in blind bickering. Everyone was too focused on the feuding dragons to catch sight of the queen egg having stopped its rhythmic swaying, pausing long enough to allow a crack down the center of its glossy, stone like surface. The quarreling siblings settled long enough to watch the egg spiderweb, and the young Dusk pulled himself away to stare curiously at the oddity of such a hatching-they usually chipped off portions and then burst free. But, as he would soon discover, the dragonet inside was nothing normality could dream in its wildest fantasies. With a faint prodding push of his snout, the egg lurched forward, shell splintering and egg fragments scattering over the sands and the fluid covered Brimstone lifted her head, watching with crimson orbs as the startled Dusk scrambled across the sands, making his way back to the safety of the group of formerly arguing siblings. Another hatchling, indecisive as she had been while trying to pick out a birthstone, snatched the first one she caught in sight and raced off the Sands with her Mine. The others were left all alone, sitting ducks, for they had waited too long to find Theirs and they knew there was nothing could be done to save them from the wrathful temper of the Brimstone whose space had been invaded.

Circling the group like a venomous, hissing snake, the Brimstone's wet wings spread wide to intimidate the three, her barbed tail lashing out at her Brown brother who had tried to make a break for it. Oh, you thought you were going off somewhere, didn't you? Her voice was honey soft, Vsiasi noted as her eyes half closed to the delicate tune, wondering why no one else seemed to bother to paying attention to such a beautiful sound. The dragonet flashed a cruel smile of ivory spears as she stared them down, the embered scales along her body glistening from the egg fluids and the light from the nearby glows along with the darker intentions in her eyes. Well, maybe you're wrong. Her barbed tail wrapped around his throat, the grip tightening as his struggles increased, and his flailing had allowed the other two to dart past her. No matter: they were too scared to find Theirs anyway. When the Brown fell to blood loss, the Brimstone queen released him, walking over the crippled body with her sights set on the Solar nosing his way through the male candidates in search of His, his yellow-orange hide clearly visible through the cluster of white tunics and breeches. A low, snarling roar thundered from the depths of her throat as she charged, ramming into several candidates and nicking others with her barbs before she met the Solar head on, the startled beast lifting up onto his back legs at precisely the wrong moment. Her straight head horns had roughed gored him through the stomach, the Solar male falling over onto his side and allowing the queen to gracefully slide her horns out of his body before she lapped gingerly, like a feline to milk, at the green ichor pooling from his puncture wounds. She did not remain long, however, for other matters plagued her frayed nerves aside from hunger. With deliberate slowness, she shoved aside the candidates frozen in place before her path of travel, not bothering to grace them a second thought as she caught the Dusk cowering desperately against the carved wall of the Hatching Grounds and whimpering for His to come closer, to save his Fuvinth. The lad never had a chance to get to his dragon for the angered Brimstone stalking him, watching in bitter amusement as the thing pleaded for his life where she had not spared the Brown and Solar's. Now why would I do that? She purred, Vsiasi shivering in place from the sheer sound of the dragonet's voice. Despite the gore she had brought about, she was still a marvelous creature, and she could not understand why none had taken the courage to step forward to show the beast they were worthy of Impression. Cowards, the lot of them were. Well, she wouldn't be caught backing down to such a challenge, wouldn't dare to breathe an instant longer if she succumbed to such a pitiful existence as shying away from the saviors of Pern, even though this one was a bit touchy in attitude.

My dear little brother, life isn't fair. The Solar was almost innocent, and he still fell. I enjoyed every ounce of blood I watched gush forth from his wounds, for he had not stood to fight as he should have. There is nothing I loathe more than a coward, and here I found three. That Brown was dead as soon as he had defied me, daring to break away, and so I put him, too, in his place. And you, well, you broke a cardinal rule. The Dusk gulped audibly as the Brimstone took a step closer, her tail curling around his throat but the barbs yet to pierce flesh. You invaded my space. A sickening gurgling entered the air as the Dusk's air supply was cut off, his limbs flailing about in all places to try for escape. He couldn't be met with it, though, for the instant the Brimstone loosened her grip around the column of his throat, her clawed foot had snatched one wing and jerked the bone out of socket, her tail fully releasing him as the pain deprived him of coherent thought, her horned head batting him away like a rag dog some few feet off with stab wounds in his side. When she wandered over to him, the poor dear was still alive, struggling to stand. He never rose as, with a single, curved barb, she slowly slit him from the base of his neck to the beginning of his tail, pulling out a collection of organs and watching the life fade from his eyes before she rolled her shoulders, the murderous, crimson hue fading to a relaxed shade of green-blue as she padded toward the female candidates finally. Come now, Vsiasi. You've known since I stabbed that Brown that you were Mine. Your Isionyth requires a feeding as well as a bath. -I'm none too fond of having the blood of idiots caked on me. Life was never truly the same after that moment. The Brimstone had picked up a healthy sized chunk of Riosian for herself, the star shaped mass dotted with what would appear to be shimmering, reflective spots where the pressure from the initial meteor impact was greatest. They fleck evenly over the entire surface of the stone, oddly enough and, when held up to Rukbat, the light shines out from each refelctive point to create rays. The two walked off the Sands after that and headlong into their weyrling training. There was never a moment where either had a chance to look back, because both were ploughing headlong into their destiny.

Memorizing tithe orders, records of past clutches and thread falls, formalities, and care of one's dragon: that had all been the easy part. She had expected it, because every queenrider before her went through the exact same thing and she knew it never wavered from that path. Graduation into the wings was nothing out of the normal: she stood as anyone did to receive her skin that declared her a wingrider, and soon after took up her duties that were brought about with Isionyth as her dragon. It was a fairly boring and easy beginning, though fate never allowed for something so perfect as peace to reign for longer than an instant before it was ripped rudely away from those starving for its touch. Isionyth had taken to calling that as truth for many months and, as needed, Vsiasi would push the prophetic words out from the forefront of her mind and go about taking care of what was immediately involved in her world at the time. It was a mistake she would not soon dare to make again, or ever, for that matter. Isionyth's words rang true in her first flight when her own clutchmother Rose to challenge the males of the Weyr for her affections at preciously the same moment: it proved the reality of life to the Brimstone, that nothing good would last because something would come along and pry its lifeless hands away from those it held dear.

As her mother Rose, Isionyth screamed her defiance and outrage, demanding to know how any could dare to look at another but her on her day. No, all of Pern had to know she was in the air, had to feel the glorious crescendo of lust scorching over their bodies, and they had to know it was only she who could invoke such a blistering feeling inside them. She would not stand for this insubordination, even from her own dear mother; the very reason for her existence. Without hesitation, she launched from her ledge after the smaller queen with jaws parted to allow an ear splitting roar through the confines of her vocal chords. Naesth barely had the chance to pivot her skull around before Isionyth struck her, the resounding, echoing thud the equivalent of two great marble slabs colliding. Naesth was taken by surprise, her wings furling in blind attempt to catch herself as she had been sent with her belly up to the other Brimstone, her back breaking the wind as they plummeted together. She couldn't move for the jaws wrapped around her throat, screaming in bitter agony as Isionyth's fangs dug deeper into her flesh with her barbs ripping through her wing membranes. Of course she tried to fight: her own barbed tail and claws trying desperately to rake across Isionyth, but the other queen never allowed it, kept twisting and turning her dying mother in the air to avoid the collision as she rake mercilessly across the soft underbelly before her. With the ground only three hundred feet below her, Isionyth disentangled herself from Naesth, watching as the fall killed her clutchmother, the life passing out of her eyes the moment her daughter landed beside her and gingerly began to blood the mangled corpse for her kill before taking back to the skies and finding her mother's previous mate now as her own.

So it has been for the last three turns and, as it has passed gradually with the patience of a saint, Isionyth's raging moods have calmed...somewhat. At least she hasn't harmed her two sired clutches like the Magmas she so takes after do. In truth, she's a very doting mother, and it's a side that only Vsiasi and her now mate have had the chance to see for, the moment they break shell, that delightful, caring nature vanishes as if never there. She's still bitterly realistic, though, and curt to the point that all conversation just about fails miserably with her. Oddly, though, she is growing softer: at the rate of rocks being weathered by the wind, but still. It is a change that everyone is more than happy to see, but it's not going to live until Isionyth stops fighting. On a more positive note, her rider has benefited from this softening taking place in the Brimstone. Vsiasi has tried to gather her composure and be more like the rock she takes on as a facade, yet only time will tell if she can hold herself strong without breaking again.


Father: V'sin of Bronze Quilonth-Black Sands
Mother: Dasi of Green Cioanth-Black Sands
Siblings: None by birth. S'dir of Brown Gionth by personal adoption.

Pets: Alpha Cion Asuka

Notables: S'dir of Brown Gionth (NPC), Unamed Solar, Unamed Brown, Dusk Fuvinth.

Songs: Mercy by One Republic-Vsiasi,
It Only Hurts by Default-Isionyth

*~*~*~*~*~*

Dragon Name: Isionyth

Dragon Color: Brimstone

Age: 4 & 1/2 turns

Personality: Isionyth is not what anyone could fathom to be a gentle creature: she has the appearance of something that crawled, snarling and spitting flames from birth out of an active volcano, and still strikes the eye as murderous without the intentions of a Magma at heart. And they are right, to an extent. Isionyth has a blistering temper when anyone trespasses on her finely divided nerves: she has the patience of a saint for close to damn near everything but, Faranth forbid you to ever step on a pet peeve or a tender nerve ending. Those lucky ones end up shredded from head to toe, left broken and bleeding with wounds too numerous to count in the festering bowels of some still active volcano. The last thing who stepped on her metaphorical tail was her clutchmother, the fellow queen plummeting thousands of feet through the air after being attacked during her mating flight, her stomach severed into slivers of flesh with Isionyth's curved tail spikes tearing into the other Brimstone's wing membranes to make flight impossible. She crashed into the earth, bones shattering from impact, and still Isionyth lingered to blood her mother for her kill before she herself took to flight to Rise for the very first time. Clearly, one of those already frayed nerves extends to her males: hers and hers alone: best not to muck with her when she's about to Rise. Another such peeve is her 'space'. Respect it, and don't get in her face; she tends to snap when you get too close without her consent. Others include; being punctual, back talking, rebellion, and cleanliness. For Faranth's sake, be on time, clean, and don't sass or fued with her. It's far easier to keep her...decently amused and on half-good terms than it is to deal with her in one of her moods.

Isionyth will never glimpse the optimistic shade of life that oh so many people seem to thrive in, because she refuses to see anything as that good in life. It's not so much a case of denial as it is the firm mindset of being a realist: that nothing good will last forever, that everything dies no matter how much we love them and nothing can be done to fix it. Ever with Hers, so unbearable close as she is to her, she knows that eventually something with drag them kicking and screaming apart, and a portion of her is always shut off: she's never fully open and will die shut off from at least some side of the love Hers gives her. Because of this harsh truth, she is damnably bitter to most of those she comes into contact with, and rarely bothers with being sociable unless it is absolutely necessary. When she is possessed by some talkative mood, and let the record show that it's fine cold day in hell when it occurs, she cannot 'sugar coat' any small sentence, preferring to be terribly direct and to the point, and would rather take being eaten alive by thread than dare to utter an untruth. Often times, people and dragons alike avoid her bitter tongue, which truly is ironic because she has a rather lovely, melodic voice for something so distant.

Regardless of whether she believes something to be a pointless battle or not, that doesn't stop her from pushing past the boundaries of her limits to prove something right. Because the words 'I can't' and 'no' and 'impossible' are not engraved in her mind. Even she with her quick wit and vast store of memory cannot define these words, cannot comprehend the meaning and, as such, they don't exist in her vocabulary: or, for that matter, anyone around her. Despite how gloomily she sees life-all the wretched sickness, poverty, cruelty, and unfairness creating a terribly thick shroud over her thoughts-she'd go against any foe, face any obstacle, and die trying to prove that something can happen if just given enough strength, enough willpower. Even though she may disagree with everything and every thought you utter, she will fight to the death your right to say it. And she never expects anything else than the same treatment.

Appearance: Like all Brimstones, Isionyth has a thick, yet soft, scaled hide that is coated with an ashen hue, looking as though she has rolled in the remains of a kitchen fire. Along her head, trailing down to her jaw and as a full mask around her eyes that makes them flare out to ensnare the attention of an onlooker, her scales are a glow, shimmering like the scales of a fish born in the lava of a volcano. This ember coating also rushes thinly down her spine to the very tip of her tail, finishing out by covering her clawed feet and her soft underbelly. Black ridges settle along her shoulder blades in a set of three, the middle ridge sticking out further than the other two and making it difficult for a traditional saddle to be used-a special one had to be crafted for each time Isionyth out grew her previous one. Riding on the line of ember scales lies a very small, trailing set of black ridges that end at the tip of her barbed tail, four curled spikes resting two on each side. Along the base of her tail rests another set of three columned ridges resembling those along her shoulder blades, and branching out from that are two twin sets of single lined ridges-slightly larger than the ones that dot her spine-that curve around her thighs. Finally, along the remaining untouched portions of her thighs and the very edge of her back heels, small black ridge bumps prod out, making this dragon about as cuddly as a cactus to look at. Her wing membranes, as well as the arm like limbs that hold them in place, are soot black, a metallic red tint appearing when the light hits them: as when a raven appears a glossy, deep purple when looking at it head on. Quite sturdily built, they are wide and, when landing, they can easily make it a hazard for other dragons to try to land unless they are very good at judging distances, and even then the more apparent, sharp spears atop her head could swerve at any moment to deter the thought of landing next to her. Resting between those two larger horns is a 'crown' of smaller ones, about five altogether, and about four smaller ones in front of those. To top it off, one horn like spike rests at teh tip of her nose, and another just under her chin. Definately a prickly face of beauty! She's almost perfectly proportioned: a flawless beauty when one gets past the intimidating appearance of something a touch larger than an Emerald at about fifty-one meters in full girth. As every other Solainoti dragon, she bears her birthstone around her neck, glistening for all to see. It is in the shape of an upside down light-bulb, though Pern sees it as more of a gord shape since such a thing does not exist.

[Onyxaeon]

Until the day I die,
I'll spill my heart for you.
As years go by, I race the clock with you.
But if you die right now, you know that I die too.
You remind me of the times when I knew who I was.

`'*'`R'taik`'&'`Fremonth`'*'`


Weyr: Talune Weyr

Name: R'taik
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Rank: Candidate
Age: 18 turns


Appearance: As far as appearance goes, Rytaik is not too bad off. He isn't the best looking guy in the crowd, but he could certainly hold his own if need be and, besides, his personality helps to add on to what he was given. The young man bears an average height of close to 5'11, and probably will grow that extra inch before he fully matures. His skin is a faint tan, nothing normal to the Southern continent, as most everyone here is dark as can be from the many hours of sunlight. Apparently, he doesn't tan well, but who needs to with those eye? Rytaik's greatest physical attribute are his eyes: so vibrant a green, emeralds would fawn at his feet in envy and wish their scales such a color. The irises are aglow with the jade like shade, with strands of yellow-green running through the iris to meet the pupil. A small freckle, only a dark brown speck, marrs the hue, and this birthmark is in his left eye, just on the edge of the iris. Rytaik has a fairly simple build. Until recent turns, he did not claim much muscle to his body, as his job did not call for it. Due to his recent activities, though, he has gained a fair few in his arms and legs, though he still doesn't quite have that washboard stomach or six pack that woudl make him a stud. His short, normally spikey brown hair has been allowed to grow out, just enough to tangle ones hands in, but it does not have a length to it, and is merely thick. The average shade of brown has its worthwhile qualitites, though, as it can catch the light, and the faint streaks of lighter brown throughout can give the man a blond appearance in the fading sunlight when, in fact, he is nothing of the sort.

Personality: Loyal. Reliable. Faithful. Rytaik is the kind of guy you want to have owe you a favor, because he'll go wherever you need him to, do whatever has to be done, and bear whatever must be to stick to your side. Ask him once, and he'll coming running. He'll be right there for you if you are his own, and, even if he can't, he'll find some way to reach you. At the very same time, Rytaik has a firm belief in taking any chance you get. He knows exactly who he is, where he stands, and what he deserves. He's not spineless, far from it, and would go into an all out brawl if someone dared to show a closed mind or force an opinion onto another. Just...No. Everyone deserves their own opinion. He's not afraid to stare someone down until they look away; he's got the gaul to be a leader if need be, but would rather not find himself in the position as he's a more behind the scenes kind of guy. He knows if given the chance, he could so many things for Pern, but he'd rather allow others to see their potential than simple hand the answers over an leave no mystery to life. He's far from a social butterfly, more of a loner, but can carry a fine conversation if need be. Truth be told, though, he'd rather be left to his thoughts, as he is the aimlessly wondering sort from time to time, but also dedicated to a point far from able to be comprehended. He'll do it once and he'll do it right. End of story.

History: As far as accidents go, Rytaik was a fairly amusing one. His birthmother Yasakie was beginning her healer training, just into it, even, and had been called along with her master down to Nusa for a form of healer gathering. No big deal; healers loved to gab and she had never been to Nusa before.-It'd be fun. Fun was a bit of an overstatement. While there, an accident had occured. A group of Nusa's lumbermen were bringing in a grudging supply of wood for Talune's tithe, and one of the logs had rolled off from a pile and crushed a man's leg in the process. Well, Yasakie and her master to the rescue! The man who had been injured was none other than the mentor to Rytaik's father. Well, you get close to the people who heal up your loved ones and ten minutes of pleasure ended up being nine months of "What the fuck did you do to me?!?!" and twelve hours of "I'm going to murder that man for this!" Rytaik was born that night, and into the life of a healer's home.

His father wasn't fit to raise a babe or, so his mother always told him, and he never bothered to question more than what his father did, where he lived, and what his name was. The lad had a small gift in memorizing things and recalling details, ingredients, and lists. A photographic memory was the reasoning behind this, though no one ever dug deep enough to understand the young man and simply thought him a protogey. He would have easily graduated his healer training had he remained in the craft, though the constant completmenting of his memory gave him a disdain for wanting to finish out his trade. No, when Rytaik was a ripe sixteen turns, he took to the herder craft, where honest labor was all that mattered and not how many things can you recall at the drop of a hat. He kept in close touch with his mother, not wanting the poor woman to worry, and, while bringing in tithe animals to Talune one day, he was Searched by a young, bubbly Green. Not wanting to find a more complicated lifestyle than need be, he ran. He ran as far as he could before the same Green scooped him up and scolded him for his stupidity. She dropped him home and told him to pack and then and there, his fate was sealed. Without complaining (he knew it would do no good and he would have to assume the role he had been given) he clambored back up and was taken to the Weyr for the next and last Hatching of Opal Linnelyth.

For the most part, all the dragons were perfectly normal and healthy. Many bronze kings were in the clutch, and even a gold and onyx, and all seemed well enough as the dragons hatched. Somewhere down the line, though, the three oddly hued white eggs hatched, bearing forth stunning, new mutations. They were blind, it appeared, and perfectly see through-every organ, every vein, the ichor...it was all visable. But Rytaik didn't care. He was fascinated by the creature as their eyes burst open, their gender changing to that of the draon they first saw. Whomever their eyes looked next upon, their body outlined in that exact shade, coating over the joints as well, but leaving the remainder of their bodies translucent. The three, two males and a female, each respectively held three different colors: the female a clone of the wite Nazreth, one male a clone of the emerald Typhith, and the last a clone of the onyx Varanth. Almost immediately the ebony mimic sized up the young onyx king, the two other see through creatures pinning the king's Mine and an eerie transfer of words passed between the three. Of course the lad was released, none worse for the wear, and two of the mimics found theirs directly after. The third, the ebony copy, met with Rytaik, renaming his new Mine: R'taik. Fremonth. His Fremonth. His violently possessive dragon whom had slaughtered a fellow candidate who had only tried to congradulate His, but had gotten too close for Fremonth's liking. The only death of a candidate ever recorded on Talune sands.



Father: Runtaif, Lumberman at Nusa Hold
Mother: Yasakie, Healer at Talune Hold
Siblings: Ratif, half-brother (7)

Pets: N/A


///////////

Dragon Name: Fremonth

Dragon Color: Mimic

Age: Weyrling

Personality: Sabatoge. Revenge. Here come the band of theives built of deception and clad in iron. There is no room for anyone outside of His, Folkvarth and HisOwn, and Fedorath and HerOwn. Anyone else is expendable, useless and perpetually in the way. Despite the boiling malice and overrall disgust for any other creature aside from his siblings and Theirs, Fremonth is actually a devotedly affectionate creature...As proven by the dismemberment of one candidate when he came too close to R'taik. The blood thirsty desire with which he watches over Fedorath and Folkvarth is perhaps endearing, at least in the eyes of a Magma, Cyan, Black, or perhaps Brimstone. He delights in causing the weak to realize

Appearance: As pale as the rolling fog with veins of green ichor and golden shaded organs standing out against a translucent hide. His sinews are well apparent, muscles buldging from beneath flesh that appears but paper thin, with many years of growth expecting to add on to his girth. He is a stocky brute with carved, angled features that are disdainful to the eye if one were to stare too long, but a boggling sight for certain. Ebony orbs stare down judgingly, a taunt, a challange boasting of a violent nature that would claim the life of any who wandered too close to the see-through creature. Down his joints and wrapped around the tip of his perfectly pointe tail, an abyss as black as between coats his body, further staining his wing membranes. He will grow and, in time, be a beast who will tower over the bronzelings who surround him. He and his siblings will bear the body build to rival the Onyx Kings.

[Onyxaeon]

If everyone cared and nobody cried,
If everyone loved and nobody lied,
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride,
Then we'd see the day when nobody died.
And as we lie beneath the stars,
We realize how small we are.
If they could love like you and me,
Imagine what the world could be.

[/font][/size]

)Av'dras)(Poseidonth(

Weyr: Atlanopolis Weyr
Name: Av'dras
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Rank: Protector, former wingleader
Age: 27 turns


Appearence: Av'dras bears a striking, angular jaw line, these duel lines drawing attention to a soft mouth, usually twitched into a smirk or a faint grin. His face could almost be feminine were it not for the lightly stubbled upper lip and jaw, though only for the straight, soft features. His nose is thin, straight, but not long in the least. Dark brows rest over startingly swarthy, blue depths. The irises themselves are painted a dark, blue-gray around the pupil, with an outer ring of solid ebony making up the border. The entire organs themselves are narrow, as if the eyes had been pinched to be smaller. Not quite beady, but definately something to make you question his actions for the slyness they gift him. His eyes are rarely hidden by the thick tresses he bears, and always portray an air of mystery to them that is through no fault of his own. It's just how his body made him. The locks that cannot be tamed, endlessly tousled and always appearing as though he has "sex hair", are a dark brown in coloring, the tips a lighter, tan brown, with no trace of the gray that will eventually get him as it does every human, male or female. Below his left optic, just to the left a touch, lies a scar that bends his flesh in just a bit. An indention, if you will. It less than an inch in length, and shaped like a very faint, slopy 'S'. It is from one Makois hatchling that tried to claim him before his Poseidonth did.

Av'dras stick to mainly dark colors, this doing nothing for the mysterious, almost distrusting air he exudes. Darker browns, blacks, navy blues, etc. They are usually open, v-neck tunics that split in the front to reveal a glimpse of lightly tanned flesh.-It is obvious he spends long bouts of time on the surface with his dragon, as his underwater life would not allow for much sun to find his skin. The man is of a build brought from hauling in nets all day and constantly training for the next festival.-He's not going to lose again for something ridiculious. His body consists of lean, ropey sinew, almost bulky were it not for the fact the "thin" trait that plays throughout his body is present again in his stature. Standing at 6' even, he's not someone to be taken lightly, but certainly not the intimidating one of the pair.

Personality: Av'dras is rather...odd. The man has so many weird things that he just can't support. Like shoes, for example. He doesn't wear them. No boots, no nothing, even to between. He sees it as he has better grip with just his feet to the ground instead of something man-made, and can't see why anyone would enjoy having something constricting your balance. Or lists. Just...No. Don't give him a list or as him to file something in a list fashion. That aside, his oddness does not end there. The man has a strange personality that is a mix between a lazy beach goer and a serious role model. He has these bouts of sheer...nothingness, where it is near impossible to get the man out of bed much less to do his duties for the Weyr. Luckily, though, these aren't long in lasting, and Poseidonth can usually coax him out of bed quite quickly with the thought of going to the surface. When he isn't in such a astate, Av'dras is actually rather outgoing, and loves to go from here to there and over again. He's probably the only person in the Weyr who has seen almsot every shore Pern has to offer, because he loves to travel with his dragon that much. It probably also has something to do with his fear of being tied down. He doesn't like being told that something has to remain that way, and sees change as the greatest thing that can be offered in life. There's no point to being stuck with something, in his mind, aside from mayhaps friends, family, and a lover. That being said, Av'dras's more adult side is something young weyrlings could look up to...If they never caught him in his playful bouts, of course, because that just ruins his whole "manly" image. When matters of the Weyr are concerned, he's about as strict as it gets, and yet he cannot follow the rules. There's always an exception to his eyes, and nothing is ever black or white. Most things are gray to the man, so he only enforces things when they are absolute necessity. He is a devoted wingrider, and former wingleader himself, looking to prove himself again when given the chance, because he sees himself suited for that role, and needed even, becuase certain people need to learn to mellow out and he can show them how.

History: Av'dras is just your everyday Weyrbrat. His mother is a drudge, and was born into the Weyr herself. She slept around, so it isn't too hard to understand why the now man has no clue as to who his father is. Oh, he has his guesses of course, but nothing is ever set in stone. He doesn't really mind not knowing, though. Leaves him free of his father's expectations and forever being in his shadow. When Av'dras was fourteen turns, his mother finally got around to letting him out of her sight and thought it fine to let him stand on the sands. It didn't matter that he didn't Impress until his third try at sixteen. At least now he had the opportunity to Impress like the rest of the guys his age.

The Hatching itself was nothing terribly special; average number of eggs, all healthy, no duds, no betweeners. There were a few maulings, but nothing too bad that some numbweed couldn't cure. Close the end of the Hatching, a Makois who had been circling the group of remaining boys seemed to finally make his choice. He paddled through the water, hissing at a passing Tcathlus that had yet to find his, the male gliding away to the girls to find someone after his play was rudely interrupted. The Makois was heading directly for Aviodras until a cracking was heard from one of the larger eggs. A Megalaodin spilled into the waters, challenging his brother with a splash of his tail, flinging egg shell bits all about the hatching pool. The smaller male paid no mind to his brother and continued on to what he thought was His, cocking his head curiously at Aviodras as he judged the candidate. The Megalaodin didn't think too fondly of this idea, and had shot through the water without hesitation or thought, grabbing the Makios by the tail and slinging him across the pool and away from Aviodras. Of course, the Megalaodin was stung with the Makois's poison, but it wasn't enough to bring him down and, in the process of throwing the other dragon, Aviodras received a wound across the cheek from one tentacle, stung by the poison just the same. Again, it wasn't enough to be a pain, but far more than enough for both to build an immunity to the toxic susbstance, and strong enough to leave a scar still to this day. That was the only act of violence Poseidonth has ever displayed, but it was to protect His because the man was born for him.

They trained, and they grew. For a time, they were happy just being wingriders. It was a simple life, and nothing much was expected of him. And then Poseidonth flew one of the clutching queens and was bumped up to a wingsecond. The new job was bearable, and the turns found them wingleaders after a time. That was until the queen's games, of course. Well, long story short, Av'dras fell short in winning, a dirty trick of some muscle numbing agent preventing him from competing the day of, and so he was forced to forfit the match to gain back his title of wingleader. Now he's after the fool who cost him his rank, but level headed enough to know that just winning this time around will keep him content. After all, Poseidonth is more than capable of taking down anything in his way.


Father: Unknown
Mother: Aasva, drudge
Siblings: None

Pets: N/A


///////////////////

Dragon Name: Poseidonth
Dragon Color: Megalaodin
Age: Eleven Turns

Personality: Romeo. Casanova. Prince Charming. Poseidonth is the picture perfect example of a knight in shining armor. He'll sweep you off your feet with his easy charms and dulcid tones, and he'll lead off on that white horse into the sunset. He's a sweetheart through and through, and could not stand to hurt someone unless it was an absolute last resort. He's so easily heart broken, because his surface is easy to see and people know he's very trusting. He believes that most people, and dragons, are generally good by nature, and that everyone is meant to be happy. Sorrow only gets you to your place of happiness, and you can't know true joy until you've seen bitter anguish. He's a hopeless romantic, and lives life without seeing regrets. You go through what you're meant to, and you can't fight fate: whatever happens, happens. He's respectful, but open and truthful. Withdrawn, but always ready to live a helping hand. If you need him, he'll be there for you. He doesn't expect anything in return for his kindness, and he doesn't see himself as perfect for all the good he has inside of him. The gentle giant wouldn't harm a fly unless provoked, but that's just as well. After all, he could really do some damage!

Appearence: i77.photobucket.com/albums/j71/TollBoothWillie/1204392492836.jpg -Because I did not want to lose the image.

Poseidonth is a fairly...Well...Massive is the only way really to put it. After all, once you get past a certain size, regular adjectives just don't quite fit. His height is intimidating enough being that of a Bronze in excellent health, but, great Faranth, was he born in radioactive waters? With his powerful fins, the "legs" buldging with what could only be mucles built from his travels and the force it takes to pull his weight around so deep underwater with all that pressure upon him, that stretch out wide, he could easily grab a soaring Bronze overhead and drag him down to a watery grave. Simply allowing a third of his girth to bear down on a landborne dragon would be enough to sink them, if his jaws did not get to them first. True, the width of his bite is not that frightening (when compared to the jaws of an Amber or Wraith or Black, one would only laugh and look away) but its the teeth inside that make one wary. Poseidonth, like all other Megalaodin, bears rows upon rows of serraded teeth, large enough that they protrude from his maw and are seen even when his jaws are closed tightly shut. Indeed, one wouldn't want to be bitten by him. Poseidonth also claims four feelers to pick up on his sonar: two on his maw, one right after the other, and two jutting out, one on each side of his jaw. On the ends are bioluminescent bulbs, an icy blue in shade (blue is the last light that vanishes from visibility underwater), that dots the edges of his fin tips and runs in a straight row directly behind his eyes and down his body until they reach the end of his tail. His fins are long, allowing him easy prupulsion through the water, and resembling wings in that they are webbeed with a simliar membrane. His back also has the same webbing between his spikes, another fierce quality about the Megalaodin that proves rather intimidating. His body is a mix of dule, clay red, blacks, and darker browns, the great mixture swirling around his body. His underbelly and membranes bear more of the clay red shading, and most everywhere else is a black brown mix.

[Onyxaeon]

Weyr: Skrull Island

Name: Patrón, also known as “Tequila”
Gender: Male
Sexuality: He's decided he must be homosexual...Although in acutally he's a straight as an arrow.
Rank: Candidate
Age: 19

www.wheninrometours.com/customimages/stallion.jpg


Appearance: Patrón comes in at about a fairly average 5'11". Nothing too intimidating or overpowering, but enough to get most of his points across and to prevent himself from being accosted. Years of managing and training runners have distributed close tp 198 lbs of muscle around his body, mosly lingering in his upper torso and arms. The sinews are chorded, but not bulging, and display a rather nice subtle hint of strength to them that most would perceive as the build of a farm hand. It has porpotioned around his body nicely, leaving a distinctive carrot shape where te body is larger near the head and narrows down at the waist. Those many years outdoors tanned his skin a near permanent shade of olive completion though in the winter months it does fade to a light tan.

His face is composed of soft angles that give him a slight feminine look in certain lights or settings. This is not really helped by the fact he bears a slightly rounded nose and full lips, all of which is higlighted thanks to his higher set cheekbones. The only real saving grace are his eyes and even those betray him with long lashes. The irises are a startling shade light gray with flecks of green scattered throughout the colored portion of his eyes that give him a rather startling appearance and a formidable, sultry gaze when he so chooses. That was perhaps the reason most, if not all, women from the Hold fell into his bed during his numerous drunken escapades before his 'incident' that halted all that fun.

The top off his carrot frame, Patrón sports thick, and I do mean wrap-your-hands-in thick, black hair. Whisps of a darker brown seem to probe this way and that into the mop with the occasional sun streaked lighter brown falling mostly against the crown of the skull. The rest of his hair falls to about mid neck and runs down the sides of his jaws, mingling into the sideburns. Those locks that sweep across his forehead are kept just a touch shorter than those at the back of his head but, more often than not, they simply flip into waves against the top of his head rather than having to be cut too frequently.

Personality: Patrón is a character that's for sure. He has a strong system of roots that have taken a rather firm hold in his mind and given him fairly proper mannerisms. Politeness and chilvary roll off of his skin from years of conditioning, and he has learned well when it is appropriate to speak and when it is best to simply be quiet and let others figure things out for themselves. That said, that does /not/ mean he chooses to exercise those learned skills. Especially when he's drunk. Only when he's drunk. For the most part...Kinda sorta not really maybe but still. All joking aside, Patrón s actually fairly well involved with tradition; perhaps that is the reason he has managed to assimilate into Weyr life so easily among his seniors (his peers have decided him somewhat off and are still wary of him after his odd entrance into the Weyr and his actions at the Trial of Courage). He doesn't like to deviate from things he's grown accustomed to over the years (like those family gatherings where everyone's got a cup of klah and sharing stories around the fire in the winter months) and it saddens him deeply to know that most of those traditions he cherished at home are on longer available to him. He's decided that was probably all for the best and is doing his best to get acquainted with and master all of the traditions of Skrull.

When not intoxicated, Patrón displays a fairly urbane demeanor. He is not overly loud or quite, stays to himself but approaches the small talk conversations with enthusiam, and keeps himself well knowledgable of simple matters such as the weather and the newest piece of news from all surrounding Holds and Weyrs. Most candidates tend to stray away from him (he has not thoroughly been accepted yet despite his best efforts) though they all would agree he's the person to go to should you want to keep up with the times. He's gotten into so many conversations with people well beyond his turns that Patrón has quickly managed to learn how most of the Weyr and Caverns run, including all of the little details like whose carrying whose kid currently and who decided to cut their hair waaayyyyyy too short. That said he detests idle gossip and, once someone starts a "Did you hear what..." sentence he quickly takes his leave. Only the facts matter, and senselessly repeating possibly untrue information only pollutes the wells to gather information from. Intoxicated, it's a different story. The fairly well-put-together man thrives in socializing and becomes the literal life of the party. His natural good humor bubbles to the surface and he can successfully con just about anyone with a little bit of liquid courage in him. He's a terrible party animal, loves his drinking games, and can pull off some serious dances moves that he other wise would normally consider 'improper' behavior amongst company. He becomes almost jock like in his actions and tends to go out of his way to make sure everyone's having just as awesome of a time as he is without being pushy, annoying, or "that drunk guy over there".

He's from the mindset that if you want it-whatever it is-it's gotta be real, that feeling you're feeling. That if you fight for it, it's gotta be worth it. To Patrón, everything usualy is. It's all about persuing and chasing after life, all about moving forward and striving to make that next great step. He loves life and discoveries because he recognizes his own mortality. We all die sometime and he's looking to leave a fairly large footprint behind to mark his path. He finds it hard to complain compared to just about everything else on Pern that could go wrong, especially considering how he's been given a second chance. It's important to offer mercy instead of justice. It's necessary to recognize that there are thers to consider beside yourself, something Patrón makes a point of. It's probably the reason he keeps up with the news. Play comes after work, love comes after you can provide for her and can keep her happy. Everything else, that's your job to obtain. He knows this and, because of it, he is not in need.

History: Patrón was born the first son to the wealthy land owner and Lord Holder Atrón of Ring Mount Hold. At an early age he was conditioned to take over after his father learning how to properly deal with tithes, other Holders, the right methods for runner breeding, and the best ways to farm the soil. This kind of hard labor kept the silver spoon in his mouth from completely staining his tongue that metallic color of the wealthy as did his behavior as a child. In his youth, Patrón was quiet and preferred to play alone in the fields or to run off to the stables to feed the runners. He displayed only the most well-behaved of manners, exhibiting politeness, courtesy, and chivalry correctly and effectively by the age of six. He learned to watch his tongue when dealing with his superiors but also to demand respect for himself from those around him. It wasn’t his birthright that caused this demand but rather an internal belief that he deserved to be treated well. The lifestyle Patrón was born into allowed for many opportunities such as learning how to become a thoroughly promising harper and mastering several instruments with his nimble fingers, and anyone whom knew him would tell you from the get go that “that boy had talent somethin‘ fierce“. He was never a problem child and his former servants and his father’s friends as well as their families would only testify the boy as the quietest of souls they had ever seen. Something must have happened during puberty because well, hell, a complete 180 occurred.

The relatively reserved young man turned into an absolute wild child. It started simple enough; he began to attend social events from all over the island. That wasn’t all that abnormal but, for him, it was certainly different. His family was glad that he had finally decided to become sociable so they didn’t really question and thoroughly encouraged him to attend more and more of them. The later stages of adolescence saw Patrón engaging in heavy drinking. From there it really was a downward spiral. Wine, ale, more wine, various odd concoctions…The more he began to drink at the dinners and parties of others, the looser he became and the more of his “proper” barriers fell. Many drunken escapades including but not limited to herd beast tipping, taking apart rival runner breeder’s fences, and thievery began to happen almost nightly. He slept throughout the day to party all night and start it all over again. By the age of seventeen he was in a constant state of fucked up. His parents attributed this to typical teenage rebellion and tried to not think too much of it. Besides, they were too busy dealing with his little brother-whom liked to get the servants in trouble unjustly and cause drama-and his little sister whom was too withdrawn and had not yet spoken a single word in her short young life.

Patrón really hit rock bottom when he started sleeping around when he was particularly wasted. The night that brought about the end came swiftly and hit like a full on train-wreck. His father and mother were away to trade runners with another holder and they had taken his sister and brother to get them out of the house. Perfect time to host a party. The only things he for certain remembers is dancing shirtless in the kitchens on top of the counter with a wine bottle pressed to his lips and several women wrapped around his waist, arms, and legs. He had been singing to the hired harper’s music in the background, though now slightly slurred and off-key, but his words were clear: “You‘re on Patrón, Tequila. I‘m drunk; me and my ladies are gonna have you so fucked up!” When he woke up the next morning it wasn’t in the bed of those lovely young ladies but instead one of the other men at his party. How in the name of…? He only managed half thoughts over the next few hours because a serious hangover kept him constantly at a waste bucket. By the time he returned to the room the other man had fled and left Patrón to his perfectly muddled thoughts. Up until that point he had been convinced he was perfectly straight but that episode proved him other wise. (Or so he still believes.) Out of shock, and possibly shame, he packed his bags. Before he could clean the place up from his escapades he was mounted and off to only Faranth knows where.

Several days and one last drunken night later Patrón found himself falling off his Waeryl, the chestnut stallion he had taken from his father. (Technically, it wasn‘t theft. It had been his runner before he had fled but by nothing but verbal contract from his father.) The runner dragged the thoroughly hung-over man to Skrull’s East Gate. A Ghost returning from Hold patrol found him and his runner, shaking his head and the dragon’s rider ushered the frightened animal and the unconscious Patrón through the gate. The healers bandaged his minor cuts and, when he awoke and could actually stand on his own, the Weyrleader B’ach himself showed up at his cot.

It was a fairly standard interrogation that ended in shame on Patrón’s part. He bore the entirety of his history on the shoulders of the short Weyrleader and explained the details of his fleeing Ring Mount. Due to his recent discovery, he could not remain there. It was better his father thought him a cowardly thief than a “reach-arounding shlong sucker” as his father would put it. B’ach didn’t exactly take sympathy but he did consent to allowing him to stay and to be searched for Impressing material. A Ghost by the name of Gryth deemed him “suitable” and, since then, he’s been awaiting the next hatching and hoping to earn the hospitality he has been provided.

When it came time for the Trial of Courage, Patrón was not exactly looking forward to it. Having met B'ach and knowing how the whole process was going to be conducted (he had had the sense to go to older former weyrlings and to ask as to how he should expect the trials to challenge him and where he was supposed to show up at) he felt uneasy enough as was but, when he settled down for the first lesson....Something in the manner in which his Weyrleader had delivered such swift, harsh retribution rubbed his flesh raw. Despite the "courage" the Weyrleader had exhibited, Patrón had unfortunately not agreed and had voiced such thoughts stating that, "I humbly ask for your pardon Weyrleader and WraithQueen, but that was not courage. Zenith is a mighty beautiful dragon and her size terrifies most born within her own Weyr. That Hold had never seen her before, nor Skrull's many other dragons. Imagine their terror. Imagine their faces as they watched their land, homes, and lives go up in smoke and be laid barren for turns to come. I see nothing courageous in a massacre of resources and an annihilation of livelihoods. Regardless of how it is put and what their Weyr-one they could have supported unwilling because of enslavement-did to those queens and their riders, you cannot force understanding by bleeding those around Black Sands dry. Especially considering how deranged the minds of those in charge of Black Sands are. Where is the point in having the blind lead the deaf? Yes, what they did was wrong. Yes, they deserve what will come to them, but I do not believe that Hold should have suffered as it did. Black Sands very well could have thrown them aside the moment they lost their use but I cannot see how it was our right to take action and end their lives for them "mercifully" or not. M'lord, respectfully, we have unwarranted blood on the Weyr."

A powerful speech-one that got him in trouble more than it did any good. He wasn't looked on well by his peers after that little tiff and had to go out to be prepared for the shaft pretty much by himself. Thank Faranth the Weyrleader paired them up according to what he wanted. Patrón ended up with a rather short, much younger fellow who suffered a nearly ever present stutter. It made it difficult to communicate with, or even understand, one another so the two pretty much just built their own equipment; Patrón with a rag-tag chute and the other lad with a pitiful glider. As they made the trek to the shaft, the Weyrleader made the motion for the other lad to go first. He shuffled to the edge and, rather bodly, took a leap. Unfortunately for Patrón the kid's glider was poorly constructed and, with several of its ropes hangign back behind him, one of them caught Patrón's leg and pulled him off of the ledge with him. The boy's glider crashed into the side of the shaft and the twelve year old managed to wedge himself into the rocks enough to climb out back to the surface leaving Patrón's leg trapped in the mass of rope still connected to the shredded glider. He didn't call out, merely dangled for a minute and tried to assess the situation. In the midst of free-falling his chute had slowly made its own way down the shaft without him and, as no one was coming to check on him, Patrón figured he was pretty much s.o.l. While hanging there he considered the notion of falling to his death, wondering why the Weyrleader went to such great extremes to test his candidates when most Weyrs could hardly care less. It was almost as if he did not trust his own Search dragons' judgements on whether a person was bondable and deserving or not. With that in mind, he decided no sane individual would waste candidates and began the process of untangling his foot. It only took a moment and he was speeding through the shaft head first with arms at his sides and the force of the wind forcing his eyelids closed. The only thing he noticed in that short drop was the sudden woosh of air running out of his lungs when a Ghost's clawed foot snatched him out of the air and tucked him against his chest before setting him gingerly on the ground. A little dazed and disoriented, he was led back to the entrance of the shaft to await the rest of the candidates to finish their own challenges. B'ach never exactly credited him with a "pass" or "fail" so in his mind he probably failed and will have to retake the trial. Unless B'ach informs him other wise of course. Till then he's returned to work out his debts in the runner stables and makes an effort to go out riding Waeryl each afternoon.


Father: Atrón, Lord Holder of Ring Mount Hold
Mother: Patriss, Lady Holder to Atrón
Siblings: Sister Atriss (7), Brother Trón (13)

Pets: Chestnut runnerbeast Waeryl-stallion. A powerful animal with speed to spare; formerly Atrón’s best breeding animal and the sole reason Patrón ended up at the Weyr.


Color Preference & Why: Bach knows what I've got in mind. ^^
What Colors/Color don't you want and why: No Ghosts or Greens please and the Wraithking is out of the question. Blues wouldn't really mesh with his general personality because he might unintentionally overwork the poor dragon.