Post by adhoc on Apr 6, 2010 21:20:47 GMT -5
Recruitment: (How did you find Ponaa? Advertisement, a friend? let us know)
Email: adhocdramatist@yahoo.com
Character
Name: L'can
Rank: Weyrling
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Origin: Ponaa Weyr
Appearance:
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Already quite tall and always slender, saved from true scrawniness by an adolescent laborer's nascent muscle tone. He outgrows clothes as quickly as he gets them, so he wears his trousers stuffed in his boot-tops as often as not and has taken to belting or vesting his shirts. The hodgepodge of hand-me-downs covers a less than exciting color palette (that being of the brown-to-grey spectrum). Overall the look is so comprehensively off kilter that it isn't noticeable-- who cares what the boy hauling their things for them is wearing?
His hair was fire engine red in his youth, but (following an “experimental” haircut by his sister) has mellowed to a ruddy chocolate color that looks very becoming even when it's hanging into his dark eyes. His face is unremarkable at rest and just barely past babyish, but his rare smiles drip with personality and when he lets his guard down it becomes clear that he's well on his way towards the handsomeness of the serious.
Family:
Georgia-- Mother, cook, 61
Helmut-- Father, drudge, 65
Alfarr-- Brother, drudge, 36
Florian-- Brother, journeyman beastcrafter, 27
Elise-- Sister, kitchen drudge, 25
Belinda-- Sister, apprentice weaver, 20
Birning-- Brother, drudge, 19
Sexual Orientation: Heteroflexible
Personality:
When trouble has just been perpetrated, Lucan is the boy just to the left of the one who started it: the one you can never quite pin blame on, though your intuition is telling you otherwise. He has the intelligent rogue's relationship with authority: responsible and serious day to day, minimally expressive, and charming in a quiet, unobtrusive way. A pleasant boy, if dreamy.
Among his peers he takes on something of a different character. He is smart, assuredly, and because his station has left him little chance to share that side of himself with others, it has tended to seep out in the form of plots and pranks. He is not an instigator, per se, but he is always on hand to provide the method to a willing actor. Thankfully he is also far from cruel, and good at developing enough confusion to spare his accomplices from punishment.
There is more than boredom to his diversion-seeking. Lucan loves to plan, to analyze, and to pick apart. That he was not apprenticed is more due both to poor luck (being constantly overlooked) and to a lack of interest: he is quite adept at picking up what skills he needs casually, but has had a better time directing his own “studies”.
Hobbies/Skills: Watching people, solving problems, general tinkering skills, a remarkable memory for detail.
Pets: I have no cookies! Alas.
History:
"Shaffit boy, get out from underfoot!"
Helmut grasped his puny youngest by the scruff of his neck in with a hand the size of a small snowshoe and swung him toward the storeroom door. His other arm flexed around a sloshing barrel, managing to keep it steady on his vast shoulder.
Lucan, ten and already made of limbs, stumbled and careened out the portal, his arm smacking the frame painfully. He rubbed his wrist absently and stood up. His father had already moved back to what he was doing, and Lucan wasn't the kind to retort. Instead, he waited until Helmut had grumbled off and dodged back inside to snatch up the sachet of flour he'd been pinching when his father had nearly trampled him. He slid it on the inside of his shirt and retied the larger sack, then scampered back to the kitchen.
The next morning, he was cleaning the Hall when Belinda stormed past on her way to her lessons, her black hair spiked and slicked at curious intervals and her face crimson. His smile was like a whisper, and he paused to run a hand through his roughly cropped tresses.
Even.
~~~~~
He was sixteen and Camilla was a broad faced and beautiful kind of girl, if stupid, and he thought that as long as he didn't love her maybe they could at least pass time. Temry was a year older than them both and bold as sunshine. “C’mon Lucky, shift it. They’ll be here any minute.”
Lucan was already right on his heels, but he let it go, slowing his breath to steady the uncharacteristic fluttering of his mind. He’d coordinated their extrication from their usual guardians and duties carefully: a series of white lies to creche-mothers and workers that built into a delicate web of misinformation.
Camilla, of course was feeling ill. Temry did poorly enough at cleaning the tables that he had to stay late (and how strange how quickly he’d finished when the old hen in charge had gone elsewhere). Lucan himself merely needed to prod Florian enough to get him to lull Helmut into discussion on herding. They would be at it for the next several hours, father and prideandjoy. No trouble there.
The pair met Camilla and Kadian down by the lake, relaxed as Weyrbrats could be and as nervous as teenage boys. They spent the early night being as forward as they could bear and would have had no real trouble at all had they not struck on the idea to sneak up to the Leaders’ Weyrs.
“This is a bad idea,” Kadian purred, from her place attached to Temry’s shoulder. Lucan smoothed a hand around Camilla’s waist and looked to his friend, permitting his boldness. “You could go to bed.” Temry said with a broad smile. The girls shuffled and hawed, but kept right on with them as they dodged half-jokingly around corners, avoiding the other workers still awake. They had nearly made it when a shout and a light came down the corridor ahead of them and Camilla yelped. The rap of quick footsteps froze the expedition in their tracks.
Lucan shoved Camilla back down the passage, and mouthed “move it” at his partner in crime. The trio set off running, and he followed them a few steps before feigning a twisted ankle. An irritable brownrider hauled him to his feet.
"You had better have good business skulking about in the middle of the night."
Lucan looked sheepish, but not fearful. He heard the others disappearing into the distance. “I want to be a rider,” he said: it was the first thing that came to mind. He went with it, “My family, none of us have ever stood. So I wanted to find someone to make my case to. This just the only time I could get away. I know it’s late, but what else could I do?” His eyes broadened, plaintive. The man who held his vest in one hand was clearly not buying it. He pressed on. “What would you have done? I’m invisible.” The last word hung in the air wretchedly. Something of a masterstroke, really, Lucan thought.
The man set him down roughly and pointed back the way they’d come. “Go to bed. Tomorrow, go see the Candidate master and tell him J’mer sent you. If you don’t, expect your tasks to become somewhat less pleasant for the foreseeable future.”
Lucan forgot to act grateful. But as he stood there in the glowlight, he found himself thinking.
Why not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dragon
Name: Rasalath (means “Head of the Lion”)
Age: Hatchling
Color: Bronze
Clutch: 1188: Gold Nisurath/ Bronze Rovanoth
Appearance:
Bright bronze for most of his body, Rasalath has a darker bronze on the underside of him. He is slightly above average in size and has an even larger wingspan than needed for one his size. His tail is also slightly long for his body, possibly to steady himself from having such large wings. Everything to be seen on Rasalath screams Bronze from his sheen to his size to his demeanor when he moves. Even his claws match the darker bronze color of his underside.
Personality: A Bronze through and through, Rasalath is a charming dragon. He has a quick mind which he uses to analyze situations. This makes him both a logical dragon and a bit of a troublemaker. He ends up in as many sticky situations because he feels the need to explore everything. Curiousity may have killed the feline but it hasn't killed him yet. Rasalath does not care to converse with lesser colors than himself although he will chat with the occassional brown. He prefers to only talk to humans he deems worthy of his time.
History:
The Tiger's Eye egg would not wait longer and it shattered in dramatic fashion. An arrogant head rose out of the shards and there would never be doubt in anyone's minds just was kind of dragon this was. He surveyed the surrounding Candidates fairly, but of course, he knew which he already wanted. Like his sire, he was a bright bronze. Long in wing and tail, he promised to have size and stamina both. Though, he would never match the size of an old time bronze like Malekith.
He picked the egg goo off his wings with his nose then rubbed it neatly on the sands. Oh no, he was not going to be sloppy and messy the same way some of his brothers and sisters were. He was a bronze. The bright hatchling took one step forward and then another, almost stalking in his deliberation. The crowd watched in near silence; up on the ledge, Iaslia gripped her skirts until her knuckles turned white. A bronze, and a good sized bronze. It was a reaffirmation of her bond with the golden Queen and on the sands, Nisurath visibly relaxed at the sight of this son.
The bronze stopped in front of his chosen boy, arrogant head bent down with a powerfully arched neck to look him in the eyes. Still wet wings, dangled at his sides, long enough to drag in the hot sands.
Why are you looking at everyone else. I am Rasalath, L'can. I am here.
Weyrling Class: N1
Font color: CC9900
Email: adhocdramatist@yahoo.com
Character
Name: L'can
Rank: Weyrling
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Origin: Ponaa Weyr
Appearance:
Already quite tall and always slender, saved from true scrawniness by an adolescent laborer's nascent muscle tone. He outgrows clothes as quickly as he gets them, so he wears his trousers stuffed in his boot-tops as often as not and has taken to belting or vesting his shirts. The hodgepodge of hand-me-downs covers a less than exciting color palette (that being of the brown-to-grey spectrum). Overall the look is so comprehensively off kilter that it isn't noticeable-- who cares what the boy hauling their things for them is wearing?
His hair was fire engine red in his youth, but (following an “experimental” haircut by his sister) has mellowed to a ruddy chocolate color that looks very becoming even when it's hanging into his dark eyes. His face is unremarkable at rest and just barely past babyish, but his rare smiles drip with personality and when he lets his guard down it becomes clear that he's well on his way towards the handsomeness of the serious.
Family:
Georgia-- Mother, cook, 61
Helmut-- Father, drudge, 65
Alfarr-- Brother, drudge, 36
Florian-- Brother, journeyman beastcrafter, 27
Elise-- Sister, kitchen drudge, 25
Belinda-- Sister, apprentice weaver, 20
Birning-- Brother, drudge, 19
Sexual Orientation: Heteroflexible
Personality:
When trouble has just been perpetrated, Lucan is the boy just to the left of the one who started it: the one you can never quite pin blame on, though your intuition is telling you otherwise. He has the intelligent rogue's relationship with authority: responsible and serious day to day, minimally expressive, and charming in a quiet, unobtrusive way. A pleasant boy, if dreamy.
Among his peers he takes on something of a different character. He is smart, assuredly, and because his station has left him little chance to share that side of himself with others, it has tended to seep out in the form of plots and pranks. He is not an instigator, per se, but he is always on hand to provide the method to a willing actor. Thankfully he is also far from cruel, and good at developing enough confusion to spare his accomplices from punishment.
There is more than boredom to his diversion-seeking. Lucan loves to plan, to analyze, and to pick apart. That he was not apprenticed is more due both to poor luck (being constantly overlooked) and to a lack of interest: he is quite adept at picking up what skills he needs casually, but has had a better time directing his own “studies”.
Hobbies/Skills: Watching people, solving problems, general tinkering skills, a remarkable memory for detail.
Pets: I have no cookies! Alas.
History:
"Shaffit boy, get out from underfoot!"
Helmut grasped his puny youngest by the scruff of his neck in with a hand the size of a small snowshoe and swung him toward the storeroom door. His other arm flexed around a sloshing barrel, managing to keep it steady on his vast shoulder.
Lucan, ten and already made of limbs, stumbled and careened out the portal, his arm smacking the frame painfully. He rubbed his wrist absently and stood up. His father had already moved back to what he was doing, and Lucan wasn't the kind to retort. Instead, he waited until Helmut had grumbled off and dodged back inside to snatch up the sachet of flour he'd been pinching when his father had nearly trampled him. He slid it on the inside of his shirt and retied the larger sack, then scampered back to the kitchen.
The next morning, he was cleaning the Hall when Belinda stormed past on her way to her lessons, her black hair spiked and slicked at curious intervals and her face crimson. His smile was like a whisper, and he paused to run a hand through his roughly cropped tresses.
Even.
~~~~~
He was sixteen and Camilla was a broad faced and beautiful kind of girl, if stupid, and he thought that as long as he didn't love her maybe they could at least pass time. Temry was a year older than them both and bold as sunshine. “C’mon Lucky, shift it. They’ll be here any minute.”
Lucan was already right on his heels, but he let it go, slowing his breath to steady the uncharacteristic fluttering of his mind. He’d coordinated their extrication from their usual guardians and duties carefully: a series of white lies to creche-mothers and workers that built into a delicate web of misinformation.
Camilla, of course was feeling ill. Temry did poorly enough at cleaning the tables that he had to stay late (and how strange how quickly he’d finished when the old hen in charge had gone elsewhere). Lucan himself merely needed to prod Florian enough to get him to lull Helmut into discussion on herding. They would be at it for the next several hours, father and prideandjoy. No trouble there.
The pair met Camilla and Kadian down by the lake, relaxed as Weyrbrats could be and as nervous as teenage boys. They spent the early night being as forward as they could bear and would have had no real trouble at all had they not struck on the idea to sneak up to the Leaders’ Weyrs.
“This is a bad idea,” Kadian purred, from her place attached to Temry’s shoulder. Lucan smoothed a hand around Camilla’s waist and looked to his friend, permitting his boldness. “You could go to bed.” Temry said with a broad smile. The girls shuffled and hawed, but kept right on with them as they dodged half-jokingly around corners, avoiding the other workers still awake. They had nearly made it when a shout and a light came down the corridor ahead of them and Camilla yelped. The rap of quick footsteps froze the expedition in their tracks.
Lucan shoved Camilla back down the passage, and mouthed “move it” at his partner in crime. The trio set off running, and he followed them a few steps before feigning a twisted ankle. An irritable brownrider hauled him to his feet.
"You had better have good business skulking about in the middle of the night."
Lucan looked sheepish, but not fearful. He heard the others disappearing into the distance. “I want to be a rider,” he said: it was the first thing that came to mind. He went with it, “My family, none of us have ever stood. So I wanted to find someone to make my case to. This just the only time I could get away. I know it’s late, but what else could I do?” His eyes broadened, plaintive. The man who held his vest in one hand was clearly not buying it. He pressed on. “What would you have done? I’m invisible.” The last word hung in the air wretchedly. Something of a masterstroke, really, Lucan thought.
The man set him down roughly and pointed back the way they’d come. “Go to bed. Tomorrow, go see the Candidate master and tell him J’mer sent you. If you don’t, expect your tasks to become somewhat less pleasant for the foreseeable future.”
Lucan forgot to act grateful. But as he stood there in the glowlight, he found himself thinking.
Why not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dragon
Name: Rasalath (means “Head of the Lion”)
Age: Hatchling
Color: Bronze
Clutch: 1188: Gold Nisurath/ Bronze Rovanoth
Appearance:
Bright bronze for most of his body, Rasalath has a darker bronze on the underside of him. He is slightly above average in size and has an even larger wingspan than needed for one his size. His tail is also slightly long for his body, possibly to steady himself from having such large wings. Everything to be seen on Rasalath screams Bronze from his sheen to his size to his demeanor when he moves. Even his claws match the darker bronze color of his underside.
Personality: A Bronze through and through, Rasalath is a charming dragon. He has a quick mind which he uses to analyze situations. This makes him both a logical dragon and a bit of a troublemaker. He ends up in as many sticky situations because he feels the need to explore everything. Curiousity may have killed the feline but it hasn't killed him yet. Rasalath does not care to converse with lesser colors than himself although he will chat with the occassional brown. He prefers to only talk to humans he deems worthy of his time.
History:
The Tiger's Eye egg would not wait longer and it shattered in dramatic fashion. An arrogant head rose out of the shards and there would never be doubt in anyone's minds just was kind of dragon this was. He surveyed the surrounding Candidates fairly, but of course, he knew which he already wanted. Like his sire, he was a bright bronze. Long in wing and tail, he promised to have size and stamina both. Though, he would never match the size of an old time bronze like Malekith.
He picked the egg goo off his wings with his nose then rubbed it neatly on the sands. Oh no, he was not going to be sloppy and messy the same way some of his brothers and sisters were. He was a bronze. The bright hatchling took one step forward and then another, almost stalking in his deliberation. The crowd watched in near silence; up on the ledge, Iaslia gripped her skirts until her knuckles turned white. A bronze, and a good sized bronze. It was a reaffirmation of her bond with the golden Queen and on the sands, Nisurath visibly relaxed at the sight of this son.
The bronze stopped in front of his chosen boy, arrogant head bent down with a powerfully arched neck to look him in the eyes. Still wet wings, dangled at his sides, long enough to drag in the hot sands.
Why are you looking at everyone else. I am Rasalath, L'can. I am here.
Weyrling Class: N1
Font color: CC9900
