Sai's Stories

[saidaltam]

WIP

Pending

Accepted

Sr. Weyrwoman Siten of gold Isiloth
Wingsecond/Searchrider V'ran of brown Jhamith
Candidate Zafien
Apprentice Leatherworker Danei

Deceased

[saidaltam]

Status:Accepted
Show Us Your Colors

Name: Siten
Rank: Senior Weyrwoman
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Hetero
Wing:

Give Us A Portrait
-Five Sentences equal One Paragraph-
Appearance: Siten is not a tall woman, having reached her full growth at a very young age, but neither is she especially short, being just on the shorter side of average. Having inherited small, delicate bones and a lithe build, she gives off a deceptive air of fragility, making her seem smaller than she is. She is far too pale, a legacy of her mother, though recent turns between times have given it an uncommonly bronze kiss, with thick, straight, dark brown hair, also sun-kissed with gold, a legacy of her father, which she keeps cropped at the shoulders and clipped back in a simple leather clasp. Her eyes are large and bright, perpetually alight with emotion, making their pale jade-green colour seem less washed out. The young woman has a narrow, finely pointed chin, a stubborn jawline, and a proud set to her shoulders. With an equally narrow nose, high, prominent cheekbones, and an arching brow, Siten posesses a distinctly sharp mien. There is an air of dignity and confidence to the way she conducts herself, all relayed through the most carefully cultivated grace in her gestures, which is very much at odds with the almost feral passion in her eyes and voice.

Siten is not particularly well endowed, and her "feminine" curves stop above the waist. Below the waist, however, she does have the wide, distinctly female hips. She is long legged, garnering most of her height from that, and, indeed, generally long limbed. This quality extends to her hands, which are slender, with long, thin fingers. Fine white lines crisscross her arms and legs, the legacy of years spent learning that cultivated grace and falling frequently in the process, among other things. A single, pale, v-shaped scar also adorns her forehead, lightly touching her left eyebrow.

Personality: The best word for Siten is 'passionate'. Though she is highly intelligent, she is not a paradigm of logic. Instead, she is a creature of fire and zeal, with a panoramic view of the world and goals far above her reach. When she feels, she feels with startling intensity and with little limit. On the same token, however, Siten is no fool, and is well aware of the dangers of such passion. She has no desire, whatsoever, to live a brief, bright life and then burn herself out. In order to better avoid this, therefore, she has mastered an exacting control, learning to keep herself on a tight and careful rein. Only rarely does she allow (or is she forced to allow) this control to slip, but when she does, she does so absolutely.

There is more, of course, to Siten than passion, as there is to all people, and one major part of her struggle for self control is her resultant tendency to be disgusted by the lack of it in others. Siten views an inability to govern oneself as among the most greivous of failings. Accordingly, she is a strong proponent of honor, viewing it as a key path on the road to self-governance, and believes that ineffective leadership should not be rewarded with loyalty, but with usurpation. If you cannot lead, she is wont to say, then do not lead. Step aside and let someone else do it. Her personal history regularly places her as that "someone else". This is not, mind, out of any personal desire to lead, merely out of raw, unadulterated impatience. Though she isn't properly aware of it, she is a rather effective leader.

Siten is aware of her failings: her pride, her passion, and her high, demanding standards. Indeed, save for pride, some part of her revels in them, though she knows that there are dangers and drawbacks to all of them. Even her pride, though she does not revel in it, she views as acceptable and even justifiable. She believes that, by accepting her flaws, she posesses the force of will, foresight, and wisdom to correct for them, and she believes that it is only through ones flaws that one can truly understand oneself, and understand is, if you were to ask her, one of the most valuable commodoties one can posess.

It should also be noted that Siten, understanding that fiery speeches and passionate movements are a fast road to an early grave, believes that, although the word is mightier than the sword, it is most effectively wielded more subtly than that, and has chosen to assume the role of storyteller when the need to change the world or any of the people in it takes her. In order to keep up this guise (and frankly because she enjoys it), it is a rare day that she is unwilling to tell a tale, whether meaningful or no. Stories, she believes, are among the finest motivators known to human kind. Unfortunately, the finest, song, is not at her disposal. Siten cannot sing on key to save her soul. That particular failing irks her to no end.

History: Siten was born a burden, born to be a have-not. The child of an affair, born into a poor family, her hand was dealt short early on, and Siten was bright enough and observant enough to realize this while still very young. She was also observant enough to notice Daddy's frequent absences, late nights spent out with his friends, and Mommy's disgust and weariness. There was no question in her mind that there was no love lost between her parents.

That was why she was surprised when her mother turned up pregnant again, during her third turn. This child was, in fact, the biological child of Kalitena's husband, something Siten was not, but for the child, this was no issue of significance, as she did not yet understand either the concept of affairs nor the origin of children. The child was a boy, whom they named Falen. With Falen's birth, the shaky marraige between Kalitena and Alnar deteriorated quickly. Ironically, Alnar suspected Kalitena of cheating on him to produce his biological child, but held firm in the conviction that her young daughter, who was the product of an affair, was his own.

As their relationship deteriorated, tensions in the home rose dramatically. As tensions rose, the child, anxious for relief from the ever-increasing discomfort, became eager to please. Vocal, outgoing, and responsible, she began assuming tasks which, properly, she should not have been, without being asked to, and her sharp mind and desperation to satisfy quickly sent her ahead of her peers in her lessons. While this seemed to please both Kalitena and Alnar, however, it did little for the child socially, and as she grew progressively more opinionated over the course of her quest for knowledge, she grew progressively more socially outcaste, as well. Against the budding social star of her younger brother, this particular failing became a stabbing pain in the girl's side.

Her sharp tongue and strong opinions, however, were not met with well when they began clashing with the socially accepted order of things, and the verbal lashings she took, both from her instructors and at home, from Alnar, taught her quickly the ineffectiveness of bold and hasty words. In her quest to see change, she began cultivating a more subtle approach, and it was then that she started mastering the delicate art of story telling.

During Siten's fourteenth turn, the relationship between Kalitena and Alnar deteriorated beyond repair, degrading into constant arguing and the occassional thrown posession. Without even pausing to consider an alternative, Siten began sending Falen out regularly to spend time with his friends or shooing him into another room whenever the couple were fighting, as though it was her place to protect him from their arguments. Her effort, however, was wasted, and over time, he became bitter and violent. What little relationship the two had shared rapidly fell apart.

As the turns went on like this, the girl, now a young woman, began spending more and more time away from home. She studied trades second-handedly, learning just enough of everything to be passingly and inefficiently proficient at everything and master of nothing. She made excuses to stay out. She kept away under any viable excuse. As soon as she was of age, she left. Ever the underdog, she ekked out an existence on the fringes of society, making her way with menial labor, odd jobs, and the periodic friendly mark passed her way for a well-told story.

When the opportunity arose, therefor, to change her place in the world and stand for the egg, Siten tightened the reins on her emotions, put on her sweetest, most agreeable and docile face, and eagerly took up the mantle of candidate.

During what was easily the most terrifying and thrilling moment of her life, Siten stood on the sands while stolen eggs hatched, Northern dragons intruded, a rider lost his lifemate, and, amidst all the chaos, the coldest, sharpest, most prudent mind she had ever known found her own.

During weyrling training, life for the young woman became almost unmanageably busy, as she filled the hours around her lessons with self assumed duties, coming to know the people in her Weyr and learn as much as humanly possible about both management and the situation surrounding events going on within the walls of the Weyr. Then, in Isiloth's fifth month, Siten's most valued ally, the former Weyr Leader, R'lyn, fell to the north during a battle.

Following R'lyn's death, F'shr, his son, assumed his duties, but it became ever more imperative that the South have a proper Weyrwoman and a proper Weyrleader immediately, and so, in Isiloth's sixth month, Siten, the Weyrlings who impressed with her, and eight volunteer riders, along with twenty nonriders, went back in time to help Isiloth age and give the Weyr what it needs.

The two turns spent in makeshift conditions passed swiftly (detail to be expounded upon later), and, inevitably, the young queen rider returned to her own time.

-Parents: Kalitena, wife and mother, 43
Alnar, laborer, 51 (not biological)
Sendan, healer, 42 (biological and unknown to Siten)

-Siblings: Falen, apprentice farmercrafter, 18

-Firelizards: none

V.I.D.
Name: Isiloth
Color: Gold
Appearance: Isiloth is small, as queens go, and sturdily built, valuable in a fighter but a bit odd in a queen. However, her hide is an almost impossibly perfect shade of gold. Even as a hatchling, she was lustrous and radiant, and time has only encouraged that feature. There is a proud set to the dragon's posture, and she flares her beautiful wings like a standard when she desires her will be heard, which is frequently.

Personality: Isiloth is a very cold, very calculating dragon. She has very little time or patience for unimportant people and will make this fact known. She’s like the ice queen of fairy tales, cold, aloof untouchable, completely without mercy and feeling. It makes her hard to get along with as she is highly arrogant and very much her own boss. It would take a strong personality to keep her in check. She enjoys battle, almost relishes in it, but, as intelligent as she is, she understands you have to pick and choose your battles to fight. As a matter of fact that underlines her whole existence, pick and choose your battles. But she wants to feel warmth, she knows her rider is a warm creature but what else is there?

History: Isiloth was laid in the Northern Weyr, but circumstance and a handful of unruly riders saw her on Southern sands before she shelled. She knew when the time had come to hatch, and when her siblings stirred to break their shells, so, too, did she, but Isiloth has never been one to waste, and energy went into breaking her shell. Doing so before hers was ready for her would have been very wasteful, indeed. Therefore, Isiloth waited. The more impatient of her siblings broke shell and impressed quickly, and Isiloth waited. Her more prudent kin found theirs, and Isiloth waited. Even the languid, weak, and slow of her brothers and sisters had shelled before Isiloth was done waiting. When the Northern Weyr came to take her back, however, Isiloth was done waiting. She did not want to go North. She wanted HERS, and HERS was there. With a furious roar, the dragon burst from her shell, issued a command to the intruding dragons, and, in a fury, called Siten to her.

Since then, she has served her weyrling training, which was hectic and swift, and, at the tender age of six months, disappeared /between/ to age and help save the Weyr. During that period of strife, Isiloth grew stronger and larger, into a healthy young queen on the brink of her first flight, then flicked once more back to her own time, bare hours after she had left, so that she and hers could be there for that momentous event.

[saidaltam]

Status:Accepted
Show Us Your Colors

Name: V'ran (Varran)
Rank: Brownrider/Searchrider/Wingsecond
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Sexual Preference: Bisexual
Wing: Gaius Wing

Give Us A Portrait
-Five Sentences equal One Paragraph-
Appearance: V'ran is tall, just shy of six feet, and was born with a small, effeminate bone structure. Only thanks to years of honing himself to be as finely toned as the feral southern-bred felines has he countered the delicacy inherint to his build. It has been absolutely necessary, however, and so he considers it well worth the effort. Appearance being a potent weapon, he will neither allow himself to become so muscular as to look like some common guardsman, nor to become so slim and delicate as to look like a scholar. A man of position must be scholarly, but physically capable, for if he cannot challenge his rivals on every field, he will find himself defeated by them on his weakest front, and half the battle is appearances. V'ran understands that.

Born pale, V'ran has spent the last decade in the sun, and his skin has darkened to a rich, soft bronze. With hair the color of spun gold spilling a few inches past his shoulders, never less than perfectly well-groomed and often, though not always, bound back into an elegant tail at the nape of his neck, and clear, dark grey eyes, flecked through with paler greys, the best word for V'ran's coloring is "striking". Were anyone to ever see him unclad, however, they would discover a myriad of scars on his person. He will not discuss them.

Though he had, in his youth, very effeminate facial features, time has been kind to him, and over the turns, his jaw has strengthened, his brow has drawn, and his high cheekbones have grown stronger. There are still lingering vestiges of what was once a delicate mien, he has grown into a handsome, carefully refined man. His face is clean shaven and clean, at all times and without exception, and he keeps himself immaculate at all times. It is imprudent to be seen at less than one's very best, and V'ran has, if anything, never been imprudent.

Personality: Turns of being drilled to death on the rules and patterns of governance by a man who, regardless of whether or not he liked the boy, would not have any of his children performing as less than perfect leaders, has made V'ran a very shrewd individual. He observes with a keen eye, swiftly identifying motivations, goals, and ideals, spotting chinks in armour, and locating weak points for exploitation. Once he has done so, he is even faster to use the things he finds to his advantage.

It isn't that V'ran desires power for power's sake. He does not. He concluded long ago that the desire for power is self-destructive and exceedingly dangerous. However, the position of power, when utilized correctly, is armour against the world, and it is V'ran's will to have the finest armour ever constructed by man or beast. To this end, he has devoted turns to securing himself in an unshakable position and a model of perfected leadership. He understands the principles which make a good leader, and has undergone all necessary steps to make himself as unreachable, distant, and awe-inspiring as possible. His exterior is cold and unshakably calm, and his compassion, when it arises, is swiftly tempered by his ability to dismiss it in a heartbeat for the sake of prudence. It is his notion that he should be both loved and feared by those around him, and so he is as swift to reward as he is to chastise, and as thorough in rewarding as in punishing. On the same token, he is swift to admonish, if subtly, those who outrank him for misuse of their power or abuse of their position.

V'ran has no patience with those who are impolite. Civility is never to be sacrificed, and he becomes very cold and cruel, even for him, toward anyone whom he feels is neglecting this most basic function of society. There is no excuse for being impolite, after all.

There is one subject about which V'ran is exceedingly passionate: the abused. Though he has no particular wish for his own, V'ran will become violently protective of anyone he perceives as abused, be they child or adult, abused physically or emotionally. Further, his perception of what is and is not a permissible form of conduct toward children, and he will not hesitate to defend it with everything he has.

History: V'ran, born Varran, was the seventh son of Morre, Lord-Holder of a meaningless hold, little more than a cothold. Two turns after his birth, his mother passed away during childbirth. The baby, a girl, was stillborn, and so Morre never had any daughters.

The death broke Morre's heart. Though Morre was not a kind man, by any means, or even a good one, he had loved his wife very, very much and been deeply devoted to her. Her death devistated him severely, and in his pain, he sought a target at whom he could lash out and vent his rage. There were, however, none immediately available to him that he could find. It was then that his eye fell to his youngest son, the only of his children to take strongly after his deceased wife, and he grew very cold toward the boy.

His apathy did not go unnoticed. Morre's eldest son, who shared his father's name, was a sadist at heart, and seeing his father's dismissal of the boy, was quick to take advantage of it. It was not long before the other five boys, desiring to avoid angering their brother or wishing to indulge their own tempers, for those few others who had a similar violent streak, followed suit.

At first, it was small things--a shove here, too tight a grip there--but as V'ran grew, the situation quickly escalated. By the time V'ran was seven, it had become normal for him to be tossed into walls or casually backhanded for a bad day. By ten, he had been shoved into the stones by the hearth, pushed over a broken chair, which did some significant damage to his person, and had his arm broken. By sixteen, it had become a frequent occurance for these abbreviated acts of violence to escalate into full-scale beatings.

It was during one such beating that the boy finally snapped. Snatching up a fire iron, he swing blindly toward his eldest brother. The poker caught the man squarely in the side of the head, killing him. During the moments of shock that followed, V'ran fled.

It was a dragonman who found him. The rider, who was on search, collected the boy, taking him back to the Weyr. There, V'ran stood for the clutch on the sands, and impressed to his beloved Jhamith. It was Jhamith who helped him learn to accept what he had done, for V'ran felt extraordinarily guilty, not that he had killed his brother, but that he was not sorry he had done so, and that his greatest regret of that night was that it had only been the eldest brother he had killed. Eventually, with Jhamith's aid, however, the pair worked their way not only through V'ran's self-doubt, but through Weyrling training, as well.

Afterwards, V'ran was swift to work his way through the ranks, using every tool that passed through his fingertips. Today, he continues to strive to strengthen his position, with Jhamith's dutiful assistance.

-Parents: Morre, 71, retired "Lord Holder", and Aryssa, 64 (deceased)
-Siblings: Morre, 47 (deceased)
Staven, 46, "Lord Holder"
Ivoran, 43, "Lord Holder"'s heir
Ralan, 39, holder/unofficial healer's apprentice
Dural, 38, holder
Evyran, 36, holder
-Firelizards:
-Color:
-Appearance:
-Personality:

V.I.D.
Name: Jhamith
Color: brown
Age: 13
Appearance: As browns go, Jhamith is very large, nearly a full 35 meters, and sports a deep, rich mahogany hide. He is built to almost terrifyingly perfect specifications, as though the hand that crafted him had it in mind to see a dragon whose form was meant to serve as an example to other dragons of what they should aspire to look like. Indeed, he is a handsome fellow, and he knows it. It is patently clear in the way that he tilts his head, arches his neck, and holds himself. His beautiful hide darkens along his wings, until they fade nearly to black at the tips, and down his tail until it forks in much the same shade. When the sun catches his hide, it glitters stunningly where it isn't burnt, touched with a faintly golden kiss, as though even his very hide is striving for more than is properly its lot.

Where V'ran's voice is a low, rich, soothing tenor, Jhamith's, while still rich, is just a bit deeper, a light baritone. If voices could have a feeling, Jhamith's would be crushed velvet: a person could fold themselves up inside the warmth of the dragon's mindvoice and shelter against a storm without fear of reprisal. It is perhaps in this that his voice differs most strongly from V'ran's, for he never, or almost never, develops the cool, biting edge that V'ran so frequently has. On the rare occasion where it does arise, however, his voice swiftly melts from crushed velvet to ice daggers.

Personality: It is a rare day in which one will find V'ran with even a heartbeat's lapse in his armour of unshakable control, but on the rare occassion where it does occur, Jhamith is there, like a pool of quiet, to ease the burden on his rider's mind. As time passes, however, this is needed less and less, and though Jhamith is glad to see his beloved rider so strong, he finds himself feeling superfluous more and more often.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, but when V'ran impressed, he was a very broken young man, and Jhamith's soothing calm was his world. The dragon felt that he had purpose, when he was watching over his dear rider, whether he was actually watching over him or not (he wasn't, but it was close enough to satisfy him). As time passes, he finds himself seeking new tasks to take on to give him the sense of purpose he finds lacking. Recently, this has manifest itself in monitoring candidates, weyrlings, hatchlings, firelizards, and anything else young that passes under his nose. This has not escaped V'ran's notice, however, and the rider finds himself wondering more and more often if he shouldn't try to see Jhamith catch himself a clutching dragon, so that he can have young of his own to dote on. It certainly wouldn't hurt his agenda in the slightest.

That isn't to say that Jhamith spends all his time worrying over others or looking for ways to feel needed, of course. The big brown is inordinately fond of swimming, spending much of his time doing just that, and is too restless to often allow himself to sit and sun idly. Instead, he tends to seek excuses to fly, perpetually trying to show off his skills, despite the fact that none of the smaller dragons are ever impressed. The greens, at least, are indulgent often enough to flatter him, and there is little that Jhamith enjoys more than flattery, the proud beast.

History: When Jhamith broke shell, he knew that His was there. He also knew that His was broken. With all the other hatchlings scrambling about, that worried him. He had been looking anxiously about the sands for someone who looked damaged, which is probably why it took him so long to find his. Varran had looked confident, composed, and prepared. When he'd finally met the boy's eyes, however, he'd seen through it. :Mine,:[/color] he'd sent in his warm, rich baritone. :Here is your Jhamith.:[/color]

That had been all there was to the impression. It was brief and unremarkable, but it was all either of them had particularly wanted or needed.

Over the period of their weyrling training, Jhamith had prudently kept his mouth shut on the matter of his's mental wellbeing, but he'd nevertheless seen a steady improvement, steady enough that even he could notice it, and that was sufficient for him.

By the time they were adults, the pair was easily among the most psychologically solid and externally together dragon and rider set at the Weyr, and Jhamith was happy.

He doesn't remember much of the rest, so well, but that's alright. Whenever he forgets, His will remind him.

Other:

[saidaltam]

Status: Unofficially Self-Accepted
Show Us Your Colors

Name: Zafien
Rank: Candidate
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Sexual Preference: Bi
Wing: n/a

Give Us A Portrait
-Five Sentences equal One Paragraph-
Appearance: Zafien is short, yet, not quite reaching five and a half feet, but with several turns of growth left, it is difficult to say if that will last. Perhaps due to his age, the boy is wiry and coltishly gangly, but his bone structure makes it clear that this will likely not last more than another turn or so, though it appears unlikely that he shall ever be large. His skin is just on the pale side of average, giving it a pleasantly bronzed kiss after a few hours in the sun. His brown-black hair is thick and straight, falling unbound several inches past his shoulders, but it is rare that he leaves it down, preferring to bind it in a loose tail at the nape of his neck. He often considers cutting it, because it falls perpetually into his face, bound or not, but never quite seems to make the time. With distinctly lupine, angular features, a sharp nose, and large eyes of a rich golden brown, Zafien, while not classically handsome in any way, is very striking to look upon, and he knows it. His choice of copper and black attire serves only to accentuate the ferality of his features, and his tendency to stand as though perpetually poised to spring into motion, a sense of quivering energy clinging to his skin and a quality of purpose to his movements, gives him an almost brutal, very vital quality in all things.

Personality: Zafien's appearance does not lie. In all things, the boy is, indeed, very vital, as though every heartbeat could be his last. He is also almost feral in his conduct, frequently resorting to very abrupt, very blunt measures to see things done as he wishes them to be. For many turns, Zafien has had a problem of not asking for permission before acting. Further, he has never done well apologizing after the fact, either. It is not out of some desire for nonconformance. Indeed, Zafien believes that society exists for a reason and serves a critical fuction for human kind. Rather, Zafien merely finds that he does not fit well, by and large, and so tends to find himself places on the fringes of 'proper society', much to his mother's chagrin.

Despite all of his eccentricities, however, under the (very) rough coat, Zafien is ethical to an extreme, while still managing to be strangely selfish. The things he considers morally permissible are often of the sort which are frowned upon, yet, on the same token, his views of moral obligation are very extreme and surprisingly self sacrificing. Some activities, such as theft, for instance, Zafien considers amoral only if performed in a skill-less manner, and though having his pocket picked might irritate the boy, he would not be irritated with the thief, but with himself for failing to notice. On the same token, however, Zafien would not hesitate to throw a boy two years his senior into a wall bodily, knowing both that either of them could break bones and that, if the elder boy did not, he could (and likely would) beat Zafien until he achieved the consistency of finely churned butter for raising a hand to a child.

It is Zafien's personal stance that, once a thing is yours in any way, directly or otherwise, it is mandatory that you do anything and everything in your power to protect it, and this protection extends not just to inanimates, but to living things (to include people), as well.

History: Dragons. No matter what anyone says or does, for as long as we're on Pern, that's what everything comes back to. I've always seen that. I don't know why everyone else can't. It seems obvious, to me. Look at the history. Even during the Intervals, it always came back to dragons. Now, it's been centuries, and here we are again, back to dragons.

My parents would be horrified if they knew what their precious baby boy believed. My mother is a good wife, a good mother, and a proud foster mother. My father, a proud, simple craftsman. It's a bit confusing, sometimes, to think that they turned out a child such as me.

My parents wed young, and neither was even twenty turns, yet, when I was born. I was their first child, and after I was birthed, the healer informed them that I was to be their last. My mother, bless her stubborn heart, would have none of that, however. Before I saw my second turn, I had three foster siblings.

Children passed through our home like flowers through my mother's garden, coming into her care, growing as she nurtured, and then passing from her hands when the time came. I can't remember a time when I wasn't surrounded by other peoples' children. It never seemed to bother anyone else, but I could not abide the clamoring. By seven, I had taken to spending my days as far from my "siblings" as time would allow for me to see myself home before dinner. I was a wild child, more at home with the working canines and the wild runners than with my own family. I spent as little time around any of my passing brothers and sisters as I could without distressing my mother, and when I was home, I closeted myself in a corner, weary of the bickering, chattering, tittering brood that constantly lurked in my home.

I admit that much of my life from that point was little different from anyone else's. I attended lessons. I played games, mostly alone, but even I was always willing to join in for some group games. I studied. I grew. Eventually, I discovered girls. Within a turn, I also discovered boys. That last never went over very well with my mother, and at her advice, I kept it from my father. I would have kept it from her, as well, to be honest, had she not caught me at ogling a young man my temporary sister fancied as she flirted shamelessly with him in our front yard. I believe she left us to marry him, though I honestly cannot recall.

As I aged, my understanding of the world grew with me, and I came to realize that there were a number of reasons why society and I did not get along, and a number of reasons why I should not condemn it for being unsuitable for me. It was not, after all, as though society had been designed for me, and for its purpose, it works exquisitely. I am merely... off. I also came to understand, however, that that did not give me the right to disregard it. My mother, my father, those siblings who stayed with us longest... they were all apart of it, and they were mine, and so it became necessary that I accept it, insofar as it applied to those around me, and defended it, in order to keep them safe.

Perhaps it should have been the parent protecting the child, but I have never done well in heeding the will of others, and so I saw it as my duty to protect them. The day I realized that, some three turns ago, was the day I realized that I wanted to ride a dragon. I cannot be certain that I will ever be capable of defending them on my own, and I cannot accept that there is any reason I should ever be unable to, so I've spent the last three turns waiting for my chance to be searched, and, more importantly, my opportunity to impress.

-Parents: Zaelel, Woodcrafter (Journeyman), 34, father
Fienla, foster-mother, 30, mother
-Siblings: none, but countless foster siblings
-Firelizards: none

V.I.D. or V.I.W
Name:
Color:
Age:
Appearance:
Personality:
History:

Other:

[saidaltam]

Status: Totally, Inappropriately, Self-Approved
Show Us Your Colors

Name: Danei
Rank: Apprentice Leatherworker
Age: 17
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: Bi
Wing: n/a

Give Us A Portrait
-Five Sentences equal One Paragraph-
Appearance: Danei is of a middling height and slim build, but bears the distinct lines of finely honed, wiry muscles beneath her pale skin. Angular features, a small, soft mouth, and large, dark grey eyes dominate her face. High cheekbones and a narrow, delicate chin give her an effeminate quality to her appearance. Her eyelashes are long, curling, and dark, and her hair falls halfway down her thighs in an ashen, sandy curtain somewhere between blonde and brown. With a long, slender neck, narrow shoulders, and gentle curves, there is a distinct softness to her appearance. She holds herself with exquisite posture, shoulders set proudly and chin tilted very slightly upwards, and there is a quiet confidence to the way that she moves. Long limbed and long fingered, with narrow, bony hands, Danei bears the callouses and scars of a life spent earning her right of way, giving lie to the seeming of softness granted by her build. There is, too, a trace of wisdom in her eyes, speaking of witness that her turns deny.
Personality: The look in Danei's eye is not without reason. Despite her youth, she is a well-grounded, prudent young woman, sensible to a fault and world-wise beyond her turns. Swift to take on responsibility and swifter to seek solutions to her problems, there are few challenges that face her that she is not swift to meet.

Despite having a sharp, vicious temper, Danei has studiously mastered the careful art of composure and is slow to rile on most topics. Unflappable in her ability to keep calm under even the greatest pressure, she rarely allows herself a moment of weakness. Every so often, however, someone will touch a nerve, and then, she is wont to erupt fiercely. Her sharp, caustic wit and dark, vicious anger are nigh boundless when she is bestirred from her quietus. Other things that raise her ire in slower manners are more likely to be met with unforgiving subtlety than her malevolent fury, but will be met, without exception.

This is not to say that Danei is a paradigm of strength. Though strong, like everyone, she has her moments of weakness, when she simply cannot do it, anymore. She is very, very careful to have these in private, behind closed doors, buried under a pile of blankets, where no one can see her or hear her. There, she will bury her face in her knees and cry herself to sleep. She feels weak when she does it, but it serves its purpose, and, typically, by morning, she is recovered and ready to challenge the world, once more.

Danei has always been an underdog and seems perpetually trapped in that mindset. As such, resources of all types are rare and precious commodoties to her and must never be squandered, but utilized sparingly. Though this is not restricted to her marks, it does include them, and she keeps those stockpiled in careful, tidy piles in a locked box, the key to which she wears around her neck. Her other resources -- allies, information, and anything else that might ever have the potential to be of value -- are hoarded with no less tenacity and dolled out no less sparingly.

What surprises others most often about the girl is her mind. Though she was born into a situation that offered her little chance for wealth or advancement, she was fortunately positioned to receive an education, and with a frighteningly brilliant mind and a thirst for knowledge, she learned quickly, thoroughly, and well, fast proving herself to have the makings of a genius. Facts roll off her tongue with distracted ease, and her keen, observant eyes catch far more than most ever realize. She has forgotten more in her lifetime than most ever bother taking the time to learn. Unfortunately, that is the problem: she remembers the parts which seemed important at the time, but swiftly forgets the rest, making her knowledge base highly bewildering and mostly made up of a shocking amount of trivia. The other major complication of her intelligence is that her mind often moves more swiftly than her mouth, making her prone to skipping sentences worth of thought, or even full paragraphs of it. This makes her speech choppy and convoluted, with bewildering conclusions drawn from things which, on the surface, seem entirely unrelated.

It should be noted that, while not uninterested in relationships, Danei has a very low gender awareness and tends to forget the ramifications of the gender makeup of a given situation.

History: Born first in a line of sixteen children, Danei has always known her place in the line of responsiblity: right around the top. To this end, she spent her childhood surrounded by the constant thrum of noisy, chattering children, and those rare moments of quiet privacy, when she was allowed to curl up alone with a good book were among the most valuable in her early life. Of course, those precious hide books all had to be returned to the Hold's aging Harper, but Danei read them swiftly and was always painstakingly careful with them, so it was rare that they were unavailable to her.

As, turn after turn, children continued to join the passel in her home, Danei found it becoming more and more her duty to oversee the growing brood and take responsibility for them. Her short temper grew a shorter rein, and her patience became timeless. She began to learn how to better utilize those tools at her disposal, and became proficient in wielding them. Her sharp mind granted her the advantage in most situations, and she took on the role of guardian and taskmaster for her younger siblings in order to ease the burden on her parents, who both worked busy lives helping the Hold to thrive.

At fourteen, Danei left home to seek apprenticeship to the nearest Leathercrafter's hall.

She was fifteen when her first sister became betrothed. She was sixteen when three of her siblings left at the same time to seek apprenticeships. Finally, when her first sister announced the birth of her first child and a second sibling, a brother, this time, stood at the altar of his wedding, Danei, then seventeen, had gone through enough training, despite constant interruptions for weddings and births, that she was just about ready to accept her journeyman's knots.

It was, however, around that same time that a very strange offer came to her plate: a brownrider arrived, offering her placement at the Weyr as an apprentice under the Weyr's new journeyman, if she wouldn't walk, yet. After a long explanation, she finally discerned his reasoning. He believed, it would seem, that having a student would help keep calm the new journeyman and provide a bit of stability. The offer of guaranteed work and a place for herself was too good to resist, and so, Danei accepted. The last thing she expected was for their arrival to occur in the midst of the first hatching of Southern-clutched dragons in over a decade.

-Parents: Daeson, holder, 36, father
Neina, 37, mother
-Siblings: Nesona, sister, 16
Draedan, brother, 15
Dorevan, brother, 15
Nesena, sister, 14
Neida, sister, 12
Einan, brother, 10
Inason, brother, 9
Nedana, sister, 8
Soneia, sister, 7
Danason, brother, 6
Seina, sister, 4
Seida, sister, 4
Sonan, brother, 3
Ondana, sister, 1
Dansi, sister, newborn
-Firelizards: none