Post by adhoc on May 3, 2010 9:49:41 GMT -5
Recruitment/Email: see Lucan
~~~Character~~~
Name: D'ron
Gender: Male
Rank: Weyrling
Age: 19
Origin: Ponaa Weyr
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Appearance:
((Face claim: James Haskell))
The tendency towards wiry leanness among dragonriders and other Weyr denizens only emphasizes Derron’s mass. Perhaps best described as burly, the raw power (and size) of his musculature cannot be overlooked. He appears to be the kind of lad who could simply carry his runner home if it became lame. Actually, he looks like the sort of person runners would shy from for fear of being forced to bear his weight.
Too young to have finished growing, he already tops six feet in height. His face, like the rest of him, is broad and attention demanding. His features are highly expressive and honestly handsome. He tends to care little for dressing finely, preferring his work clothes or perhaps a simple shirt and loose trousers. His propensity towards looking a bit sloppy is not helped by his occupation or his hobbies, which leave him covered in flour, sweat, or dirt. This does not mean he is constantly unclean, just that he is not often sparkling.
Personality:
Derron is jovial and lively and preeminently trustworthy. He loves to laugh and to make others happy, and never has a bad word to say about someone. He does, however, occasionally have something bad to say TO someone, as he is quick to make his displeasure loudly known or to defend others. A take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy, Derron is easygoing and not one to hold a grudge or set fixed judgments. He is hardly stupid, if perhaps not extremely deep. He prefers to keep things simple, and finds pleasure in working and playing hard.
Pets: None
Skills/Hobbies: Derron’s love of baking is only matched by his enjoyment of recreational wrestling, and he is quite skilled at both.
Family:
Foster father: Joseph—baker, 48
Foster mother: Karrie—drudge, 39
Foster brothers:
Markus—Weyrbrat, 10
Benji—Cook, 17
Enrique—Cook, 25
Father—unknown
Mother—Cassandra, rider of green Camilath, deceased (threadfall)
History:
The ring was just a circle scratched into the earth with a stick, and his opponent was a Beastcrafter apprentice with big eyes and a large paunch.
Derron smiled with something like glee in anticipation of the sharp rap of leather-on-leather that would signal the start of the round. The little referee raised the clapper and brought it down with a *rap*, and the two young men lunged inward.
As he’d suspected, the herder boy was big but horribly slow. The limber baker sidestepped a pair of thick, grasping arms and gripped his opponent’s shoulder in one meaty palm. He yanked and the boy fell forward. Derron’s feet shifted to the side ad he looped his free arm up and under the herder’s armpit to grasp the back of his neck. Locking himself in place chest-to-back, he pressed the young man to the floor. The boy’s struggles and size made no difference to someone as solid as Derron. The round was over.
One of the spectators, an older blue rider with whom Derron had bonded over their love of beating the stuffing out of others recreationally, came over and clapped him hard on the shoulder. “You know boy, I think you’re getting good at this,” he said with a smile. Derron laughed. It was something of a ritual between the two of them, being what the man had said the first time Derron had leveled him in the ring. The pair walked out further into the bowl, where the rider’s partner was sunning himself by a rocky outcropping. The dragon opened one eye and flicked its tail down against the ground. The rider looked back at Derron, who was collecting his apron and boots from behind the rocks—he had to go start his evening shift. “You know,” the greybeard rider said, “Peloranth still thinks you should stand. I would think it over carefully, he’s not often wrong.” The change in subject and return to a conversation they’d had long ago raised Derron’s eyebrows. He started to say something, but then looked over at the dragon again and grinned.
“Maybe.”
The rider laughed and went to his partner, who opened both eyes now and slowly snaked his neck out towards the young man, giving a solid outward snort that ruffled his sweaty hair.
“Alright, alright! Yes, Peloranth. I will.” The rider slapped the dragon’s side affectionately, in much the same way he’d tapped Derron before. “We’re both glad to hear it. It would be a shame for you to not even give it a go.”
Derron took his leave of the pair and made his way back to the kitchens, stopping on his way in to clean up superficially and to slip the apron over his clothes. The head cook rolled her eyes when he entered, but he just smiled and grabbed an enormous vat of sweet dough from where it had been rising by the stove, hauling it with a freakish ease over to one of the work benches. He scooped a pile of flour from a bag below the table and flicked it lightly over the surface, then slapped the sticky mass down onto the powder and began to work it methodically. His arms bulged impressively as his sizable fingers dug and twisted and yanked the dough into submission. There was such peace in this small act: The give and the take, the slow and steady transformation of the simple into the magnificent. Derron’s thoughts did not delve too deeply into these poetic profundities, but he did feel the centered calm that comes with honest work.
He was lucky, he felt, to have a life like this. His big face split into a smile. He always finished his work for the day long before the other boys, which gave him time to rest and enjoy the sunshine. Maybe that was why he’d grown so big, he joked to himself.
Feeling the dough become elastic beneath his massaging, probing digits, he began to portion it out: chop, weigh, correct, form, set aside, repeat. With the rolls formed and set for their final proofing, he wiped his palms on his apron and started to clean off the bench. As he did, he listened to two of the younger kitchen boys gossiping over their chopping.
“I heard Nisurath almost ate somebody after her clutching,” said the slim youth with the black mop of hair.
“Don’t be stupid,” his red-faced friend retorted, “Dragons don’t eat people.”
“Well I’m not standing this time anyway.”
“Yeah, that’s because they won’t let you, dimglow.”
“At least I’m not as ugly as you; you’d scare the first fledgling to look at you right to death.”
Derron covered a snort and began gathering up what he needed to make the dough for the next morning’s bread. As he carried, measured, and mixed, he thought about what his friend had said earlier. It had been a long time, it seemed, since he’d last stood on the sands. It was not that he had lost interest in being a rider, it was just that he’d gotten older and his hours with the baker had become longer. He still harbored a young man’s urge to do great and exciting things: it had just been tempered by the slow monotony of daily life. Well, he would give it one final try. Why shouldn’t he? He was just barely young enough, and a dragon had told him to do so. Besides, if he should fail again, he could simply carry on like this. Not the most thrilling life, but a good life just the same. The only trouble, he thought with some humor, would be growing a dragon large enough to carry him.
Dragon:
Name: Eltanth (means “Snake”)
Age: Hatchling
Color: Blue
Clutch: 1188: Gold Nisurath/ Bronze Rovanoth
Appearance: Eltanth's coloring shades from darker blue to lighter in places. The underside of his wings are a blue-green color so that if someone only saw that part of him they would have trouble discerning which he was. He is proportioned almost perfectly so that one could almost judge other dragon's proportions off of his own.
Personality: Blues although known to be rather easygoing are not all happy go lucky sorts. Eltanth is an exception, quiet and a little socially awkward he has trouble making himself heard. His agile body matches his flexible mind making him easy to manipulate but also quick to learn. He needs direction from his rider in all things and requires a lot of patience. When the blue finds someone to look up to or imitate he does exceptionally well. He is very much a visual learner. While he could care less about most other dragons, the few he befriends will be his friends forever. Eltanth would never bespeak another human at least not if he could help it.
History:
As the light hit the hatchling, there were some gasps from the crowd. He was a remarkably lovely creature, his hide glistened in the glow light, varying from a dark blue to an almost glassy light blue. His wings however, shaded to green on the membranes. This seemed to give the dragon an effect of shifting color, you could look at him a hundred diffrerent ways and see a hundred different variations on his hide.
He moved without much pause directly towards the candidates and many would comment later on the almost intelligent calculation in the little dragon's gaze. This one would be forever on his own tier, perfectly proportioned and so uniquely colored, there was no doubt in any onlooker's mind that this little guy was going to make some waves...
...The brilliantly colored opal blue moved first, the beeline he made to the large Candidate was so fast, that those on either side scattered. The hatchling locked gazes with his chosen human and he sat with a thump on the hot sands. His choice had not taken very long at all, he wanted this one. And by Faranth, he was going to have him first. None of this mincing around that some of the others would do.
D'ron, I am your Eltanth. We shall show them a thing or two. But first, you must feed me.
Weyrling Class: N1
Font color: 6FB9BE
~~~Character~~~
Name: D'ron
Gender: Male
Rank: Weyrling
Age: 19
Origin: Ponaa Weyr
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Appearance:
((Face claim: James Haskell))
The tendency towards wiry leanness among dragonriders and other Weyr denizens only emphasizes Derron’s mass. Perhaps best described as burly, the raw power (and size) of his musculature cannot be overlooked. He appears to be the kind of lad who could simply carry his runner home if it became lame. Actually, he looks like the sort of person runners would shy from for fear of being forced to bear his weight.
Too young to have finished growing, he already tops six feet in height. His face, like the rest of him, is broad and attention demanding. His features are highly expressive and honestly handsome. He tends to care little for dressing finely, preferring his work clothes or perhaps a simple shirt and loose trousers. His propensity towards looking a bit sloppy is not helped by his occupation or his hobbies, which leave him covered in flour, sweat, or dirt. This does not mean he is constantly unclean, just that he is not often sparkling.
Personality:
Derron is jovial and lively and preeminently trustworthy. He loves to laugh and to make others happy, and never has a bad word to say about someone. He does, however, occasionally have something bad to say TO someone, as he is quick to make his displeasure loudly known or to defend others. A take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy, Derron is easygoing and not one to hold a grudge or set fixed judgments. He is hardly stupid, if perhaps not extremely deep. He prefers to keep things simple, and finds pleasure in working and playing hard.
Pets: None
Skills/Hobbies: Derron’s love of baking is only matched by his enjoyment of recreational wrestling, and he is quite skilled at both.
Family:
Foster father: Joseph—baker, 48
Foster mother: Karrie—drudge, 39
Foster brothers:
Markus—Weyrbrat, 10
Benji—Cook, 17
Enrique—Cook, 25
Father—unknown
Mother—Cassandra, rider of green Camilath, deceased (threadfall)
History:
The ring was just a circle scratched into the earth with a stick, and his opponent was a Beastcrafter apprentice with big eyes and a large paunch.
Derron smiled with something like glee in anticipation of the sharp rap of leather-on-leather that would signal the start of the round. The little referee raised the clapper and brought it down with a *rap*, and the two young men lunged inward.
As he’d suspected, the herder boy was big but horribly slow. The limber baker sidestepped a pair of thick, grasping arms and gripped his opponent’s shoulder in one meaty palm. He yanked and the boy fell forward. Derron’s feet shifted to the side ad he looped his free arm up and under the herder’s armpit to grasp the back of his neck. Locking himself in place chest-to-back, he pressed the young man to the floor. The boy’s struggles and size made no difference to someone as solid as Derron. The round was over.
One of the spectators, an older blue rider with whom Derron had bonded over their love of beating the stuffing out of others recreationally, came over and clapped him hard on the shoulder. “You know boy, I think you’re getting good at this,” he said with a smile. Derron laughed. It was something of a ritual between the two of them, being what the man had said the first time Derron had leveled him in the ring. The pair walked out further into the bowl, where the rider’s partner was sunning himself by a rocky outcropping. The dragon opened one eye and flicked its tail down against the ground. The rider looked back at Derron, who was collecting his apron and boots from behind the rocks—he had to go start his evening shift. “You know,” the greybeard rider said, “Peloranth still thinks you should stand. I would think it over carefully, he’s not often wrong.” The change in subject and return to a conversation they’d had long ago raised Derron’s eyebrows. He started to say something, but then looked over at the dragon again and grinned.
“Maybe.”
The rider laughed and went to his partner, who opened both eyes now and slowly snaked his neck out towards the young man, giving a solid outward snort that ruffled his sweaty hair.
“Alright, alright! Yes, Peloranth. I will.” The rider slapped the dragon’s side affectionately, in much the same way he’d tapped Derron before. “We’re both glad to hear it. It would be a shame for you to not even give it a go.”
Derron took his leave of the pair and made his way back to the kitchens, stopping on his way in to clean up superficially and to slip the apron over his clothes. The head cook rolled her eyes when he entered, but he just smiled and grabbed an enormous vat of sweet dough from where it had been rising by the stove, hauling it with a freakish ease over to one of the work benches. He scooped a pile of flour from a bag below the table and flicked it lightly over the surface, then slapped the sticky mass down onto the powder and began to work it methodically. His arms bulged impressively as his sizable fingers dug and twisted and yanked the dough into submission. There was such peace in this small act: The give and the take, the slow and steady transformation of the simple into the magnificent. Derron’s thoughts did not delve too deeply into these poetic profundities, but he did feel the centered calm that comes with honest work.
He was lucky, he felt, to have a life like this. His big face split into a smile. He always finished his work for the day long before the other boys, which gave him time to rest and enjoy the sunshine. Maybe that was why he’d grown so big, he joked to himself.
Feeling the dough become elastic beneath his massaging, probing digits, he began to portion it out: chop, weigh, correct, form, set aside, repeat. With the rolls formed and set for their final proofing, he wiped his palms on his apron and started to clean off the bench. As he did, he listened to two of the younger kitchen boys gossiping over their chopping.
“I heard Nisurath almost ate somebody after her clutching,” said the slim youth with the black mop of hair.
“Don’t be stupid,” his red-faced friend retorted, “Dragons don’t eat people.”
“Well I’m not standing this time anyway.”
“Yeah, that’s because they won’t let you, dimglow.”
“At least I’m not as ugly as you; you’d scare the first fledgling to look at you right to death.”
Derron covered a snort and began gathering up what he needed to make the dough for the next morning’s bread. As he carried, measured, and mixed, he thought about what his friend had said earlier. It had been a long time, it seemed, since he’d last stood on the sands. It was not that he had lost interest in being a rider, it was just that he’d gotten older and his hours with the baker had become longer. He still harbored a young man’s urge to do great and exciting things: it had just been tempered by the slow monotony of daily life. Well, he would give it one final try. Why shouldn’t he? He was just barely young enough, and a dragon had told him to do so. Besides, if he should fail again, he could simply carry on like this. Not the most thrilling life, but a good life just the same. The only trouble, he thought with some humor, would be growing a dragon large enough to carry him.
Dragon:
Name: Eltanth (means “Snake”)
Age: Hatchling
Color: Blue
Clutch: 1188: Gold Nisurath/ Bronze Rovanoth
Appearance: Eltanth's coloring shades from darker blue to lighter in places. The underside of his wings are a blue-green color so that if someone only saw that part of him they would have trouble discerning which he was. He is proportioned almost perfectly so that one could almost judge other dragon's proportions off of his own.
Personality: Blues although known to be rather easygoing are not all happy go lucky sorts. Eltanth is an exception, quiet and a little socially awkward he has trouble making himself heard. His agile body matches his flexible mind making him easy to manipulate but also quick to learn. He needs direction from his rider in all things and requires a lot of patience. When the blue finds someone to look up to or imitate he does exceptionally well. He is very much a visual learner. While he could care less about most other dragons, the few he befriends will be his friends forever. Eltanth would never bespeak another human at least not if he could help it.
History:
As the light hit the hatchling, there were some gasps from the crowd. He was a remarkably lovely creature, his hide glistened in the glow light, varying from a dark blue to an almost glassy light blue. His wings however, shaded to green on the membranes. This seemed to give the dragon an effect of shifting color, you could look at him a hundred diffrerent ways and see a hundred different variations on his hide.
He moved without much pause directly towards the candidates and many would comment later on the almost intelligent calculation in the little dragon's gaze. This one would be forever on his own tier, perfectly proportioned and so uniquely colored, there was no doubt in any onlooker's mind that this little guy was going to make some waves...
...The brilliantly colored opal blue moved first, the beeline he made to the large Candidate was so fast, that those on either side scattered. The hatchling locked gazes with his chosen human and he sat with a thump on the hot sands. His choice had not taken very long at all, he wanted this one. And by Faranth, he was going to have him first. None of this mincing around that some of the others would do.
D'ron, I am your Eltanth. We shall show them a thing or two. But first, you must feed me.
Weyrling Class: N1
Font color: 6FB9BE