Post by Lothyna on Sept 14, 2010 21:21:51 GMT -5
Character:
Name: Vraston/ V'ton
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Hetero Sexual
Occupation: Wing Leader
Description:
To look on the carefree, warm as sunshine smiles and glance of Vraston, you’d never take him for one of the more deadly men still alive after the recent events with the problematic mutated grubs. Warm, dancing eyes of green sit almost carelessly placed with grace above a well defined nose that bears the scars of being broken-more than once. Slightly crooked, the nose shadows a full mouth, often held grinning in pleasure or taunts, or downright smirking at some prank of turn of harmless “ill” fortune. Lips of a pale red nest neatly, if a bit too thin for some peoples tastes, above a proud, determined chin, which too bears the scars of past endeavors. The sweep of his hair, a vanity, falls now to his mid-back, trailing and perhaps accenting-never on purpose, mind you- the elegant sweep of corded and defined, rather than bulky, muscle. That muscle leads over a graceful body, perhaps one that belongs to a dancer, as it implies grace and ease of movement-rather than the truth of a body trained hard and long for war and death.
For one reason or another, most people will never see Vraston without a suit of clothing that covers him from neck down to his very feet. Yet for those that do, however few, the scars of his seemingly young body speak of an ancient man, pushed time and again into something that left a permanent, overt mark, when so many from Pern bear the internal ones. Arcing over Vrastons’ back is the one main reason he prefers to wear a shirt, for it is a large, bloody reminder of a hated day. Pale, white scar tissue marks a line from left shoulder to right hip, thin and neat-obviously a blade cut. A few other small scars dot his skin, small knife crescents, and the like, from shoulder down, and he’s long since grown tired of explaining them to others. Though his arms are peppered with a multitude of scars from fights, he cares less about those, and often leaves them bare, which do offer a view of the corded muscle wrapping his entire, lithe frame.
Though tall, at six feet of height, and lithe now, Vrastons’ bones and frame give the impression of one who would run to fat, did he not work as hard as he did, and did he not take care with what he ate, more than likely. Long legs make up the bulk of his height, and allow him a natural grace when either running or riding horseback, now dragonback, as he explores, earning new scars from tumbles through brambles on Pern. This grace is also evident if you manage to catch him swimming or sparring, both activities he attempts to fit in daily, when not working with the people at the new Weyr or out on his own. And yet, despite his grace, Vraston doesn’t dance. Does not. If there is dancing, he hides. Usually behind a wall or three. It could be his tripping over his own feet, or just a shyness that seems out of place, or it could be that he hates music. No one’s really certain of anything other than that when Vraston hears of music and dancing, he’s generally attempting to set a new record sprinting the opposite way.
More often than not, Vraston’s vibrant hair, a golden, almost orange tone, (he used to die it orange with plants), is either braided, or tied into a neat tail behind his head. This is partly to keep it from his face, though bangs often hide one or both of his eyes when he’s bent over some task or another, concentrating so hard he actually bites his tongue a bit. Those eyes, though, are the most enigmatic feature the young man has-they’re always so gay and vibrant when people are looking that they cannot possibly hold anything else, and more often than not hint at a wry, good humor. When he is caught, however, with the other emotion that he openly shows, at least to the children and animals, Vraston’s eyes deepen to a emerald tone, warm and loving, in care for those who cannot aid themselves. Any who know the man know well, whatever shade his eyes are, you can judge his true mood, no matter how he laughs or grins.
Personality:
I See You
Very little escapes Vraston’s notice in any given situation. Long ago, he learned to read the air around people, their movements, and their body language, to the point where it became second nature to assess a situation within moments of entering-and manipulate it. That manipulation has become a game of sorts, when he flirts, and in smoothing ruffled feathers after a prank. Yet along with that, comes an ability to mask his own emotions, partly to amuse himself as people guess, and partly because, well, lets face it, he had to know how before, and even here, some situations still require aid. Manipulation of people to aid them, though, is something Vraston hasn’t had much chance to do before, and it’s a soothing change from manipulation to harm. In a way, Vraston considers mediation to be a penance for the past, and it eases the burden of memories he carries.
Hear Me Well
Ever intent on learning, Vraston has devoted a great deal of time to study, before coming to Cerulean, and since impressing his beloved Dysiiliouth prior to the transfer. To him, knowledge is everything, be it about a body and how to use your own; about the dragons they fought so hard to save; about emotion- the tales of the heart, or music, which carries the souls of many. He welcomes any type of knowledge, as well as the chance to learn it. Vraston will never pass up an opportunity to learn, and often pushes others to as well, though he tries to keep from being pedantic about such matters.
Keep Up! Let’s Move!
Naturally a leader, Vraston has a tendency to take charge of any given situation, and sometimes comes off as either overbearing or gruff to the people around him. Well aware of this, Vraston prefers to leave impressions as they are-his gruffness is caused by a very real concern for everyone living around him, and knowledge that he often is the one with an answer.(Even if it’s one of many or not the best) While he allows for differences, Vraston still pushes any and everyone around him to the best of their abilities on whatever job they may be doing-himself most of all. If you shirk, Vraston will know-and will take it as an affront, and make certain the lesson is not forgotten.
Play With Me, Sugar
Flirtatious and seemingly carefree, Vraston bats for either team, and makes no bones about it- at least insofar as flirting goes. Long ago, he learned that personal preference couldn’t be an issue, and those lessons stuck, despite his preference for pillows and wetness. Now he simply takes pleasure when and where he can, both to forget, and to remember new, pleasant things. While Vraston isn’t what one would call a whore, by any stretch, he does enjoy the give and take of flirtation, with friends and the few whom he actually does bed. Friends have long learned that it’s just part of him, to flirt casually, though of late it’s a bit rarer for him to flirt overtly or overmuch, as he becomes more involved with work and his new future. Still, if there are a few days without anything to do of pressing import, it’s a good bet that the firey young man will be teasing his friends, or in the kitchens, playing it up.
Honey, It’s All Just A Game.
Joking and friendly, Vraston has very, very few enemies, and actively tries to stay on good terms with everyone he comes across. Friends now mean hesitation later-or at least it used to. Now he actively desires companions, and loves nothing more than to live life up in games or at the gathers, enjoying the happiness and excitement that steams from being safe, here, with a goal so near to completion. Haphazard in his flirting, Vraston learned quickly to make certain, however, that people knew: It’s a game, sugar, it aint real. You want the whole deal, you’ve got to give me something more. He’s hard to catch for more than a moment, and is unwilling to let anyone close as a lover just yet. He views life as too short, and also knows he’s not quite ready to settle down, nor will he be anytime soon. This freedom and is something he won’t give up just yet.
Molehills From Mountains
Understatement is an art. As well as a very intriguing one. And one that is practiced quite often by this young man. Vraston has a decided talent for finding the simplest answers to any given problem, either as a joke or in all sincerity. He is disgusted with those who waste time making mountains of small things that are easily taken care of, and makes no bones about that fact, even if it proves upsetting to the other party. After so long, it’s become second nature for him to do the reverse, whether with other peoples’ problems, or his own.
You Know, Back Home, We Kill Idiots Like You
Very little can frustrate or piss off Vraston, as it stands, but Faranth help you if you do. In fact, even her spirit may not be able to. Trained well and harshly, Vraston knows how to make it painful, and hold a grudge. While understanding and willing to make allowances, his pet peeve is those who actively laze, or are just intolerably stupid because of said laziness. That, and you’d better kill yourself first if you either hurt an animal, or hurt a friend. You WILL live to regret such actions.
Shadows of the Soul
Despite all his ease and determination that he WILL live his life, and do so with grace and thanks for those who sacrificed so much, there are scars on his heart. While only a few close friends know most, one is a secret burden that haunts him, in the nights alone, and is echoed in the amulet he bears about his neck, a fine, simple, silver wrapped diamond of startling blue, almost ice colored in tone. Though he knows no cost was too high to achieve the salvation of the great dragons, and others bonded to them and their kin, Vraston sometimes actively seeks to be alone, as he remembers the cost that makes him, at times, wish he had died instead. These moments of sorrow are things that he hides carefully from all that he can, lest they contaminate the victory, and are what allow him the willingness to understand others’ hurts-haven’t they all lost so much, in coming to Cerulean? Haven’t they saved so much? A secret sorrow, and a heavy burden-the death of his twin-and how he acquired the scar which forever reminds him, on his back, of her death.
History:
Born with a female twin to A master Dragon Healer mother, and a Harper Hall father, Vraston grew up surrounded from birth by dragon lore, care, and knowledge. He was immersed in politics, and training to such, brought to training as a fighter, and devoted to the preservation of that which was ancient and pure. From birth, both Vraston and his twin, Nayara, were brought up to be full members in the community they were part of. Their training started at a very early age, to turn them into intelligent, versatile weapons against the threats to any on Pern, via the so called abomination, changing life, or the dregs of society- spies, if you will, and training them for to aid the dragons and their riders. This early training left it’s marks on Vraston, though his parents had taken care to ensure that along with training, he learned that by no means were all people evil, and that there were good things in life, and all around-he merely had to see them. They had made sure to introduce him to the wonders of animal companionship, and friends among the Harpers and Healers.
By the age of ten, Vraston was fully a spy, attending public classes at several halls and making friends with those children he met, learning their secrets and keeping a façade with most. By fifteen, he and his twin had finished all the training they were to be given-the final lessons being those pertaining to seduction and sex-using their bodies as a tool. Though initially uncomfortable, and wary, Vraston soon learned that it really didn’t matter who, or what gender, he used his body on as a tool, as long as he received the information he needed. He knew his preferences lay in women, and thankfully Nayara was able to handle the men for the most part.
While both were taking a class at the Harper Hall, four turns into the current pass, a brown-rider bespoke Vraston for the imminent hatching at Benden, naming himself as V’taph. The hatching they attended would change everything, as Nayara, left standing (though she claimed it was fine, with a smile that drove away Vraston’s fears), watched her twin impress to the first bronze to crack his shell, Dysiiliouth. Vraston’s world ended and began that moment, as he found himself partnered to someone closer even than his sister.
Upon graduating from Weyrling training, V’ton traveled with the transfer riders to Silver Cove Weyr, and was reunited with his sister there, now working to establish the new home under the supervision of her father once more. Unfortunately, the brief time after arrival was stolen seconds of precious memories, since Nayara and their father were two of the first humans to fall ill from ingesting the vegetation around the Weyr, even as they tried to find a cause. The loss of a father was nothing compared to the loss of a twin for V’ton, and only Dysiiliouth, still hale, kept the young man sane for a time.
Yet grief had to be shunted aside-a cause had to be found and fixed, Thread still fell in a deadly rain from the skies, and his bronze was maturing, and starting to show interest in the risings of the greens of the Weyr that still flew. He’d made a promise, more, to his beloved twin to never give up, and he knew she’d never forgive him for failing that. He was forced to live, and somehow, thanks mainly to his dragon, found the strength to carry on even as he watched friends and companions perish-usually from the madness of the disease. He earned many a scar from trying to soothe and aid those friends he had with what healer craft he knew, including the mistake when one drew a knife, attempting to end the madness, which lead to the dark, ugly scar across his back.
As the dragonkind fell, V’ton found himself stepping more and more into a role as a leader, grouping together those around him, leading wings in Threadfall as Dysiiliouth filled out, and having to shunt aside the pain, turning away the searing anger that none could find an answer. And even when he felt all hope was lost, he somehow made himself rise every morning to another day, privately wondering who they would lose that dawn, that Fall.
Hatchings were the worst-with some eggs not even breaking, some hatchlings partnerless... He didn’t think he could bear seeing a dragon, a hatchling, go between for no one to chose. No more deaths. He’d already lost all close friends he held, and had no more answers for what to do.
On the discovery of the enemy from below, V’ton was both shocked and horrified, to realize that a mutation of the friendly could herald such. And the effects on the flora… and fauna. The potential scope was truly awe-inspiring-of a terror. With the other, V”ton readily agreed to move to found a new Weyr, safe on an island from the insidious grubs, and a place with no memories. A bare 23, with a young, sturdy bronze, he has no idea what the future may hold for him now, when it seems that all has been lost.
Fun Facts: Will Do later
-Does NOT dance, in fact, he runs away from it.
Bonded Critter(s):
Type: Dragon
Name: Dysiiliouth
Color: Bronze
Age: 5 Turns (Mid-Spring)
Description:
Dragon Description: Redeem Me in Sunset’s Light
Hatchling Description: Hopeful Haven
Strong and proud even at birth, this bronze is born a slim, and surprisingly rather elegant fellow, drawing appreciative, appraising eyes to his clean, beautifully proportioned wings and tail, proudly arched neck, and heavy, strong haunches. A deep chest and wide ribs leave him plenty of muscle, and flow seamlessly into the supporting muscle for heavy, long wings, topping the record span by a good two inches for a hatchling. A creamy, pale new golden tone flows smoothly over this dragon’s poll into a rich, heavy hue on his chest and down his back. Faint almost copper tones paint splashes on his wings and ridges, which he proudly arcs to show off, exposing the few faint speckles of aged-copper green that dance along his underside. The pride of Varath, this fellow seems to embody from the start everything that makes a dragon a dragon.
Adolescent: The One Who Can
As he grows, this beautiful bronze only becomes more breath-taking and gorgeous, lengthening quickly and elegantly, becoming almost serpentine in appearance when he poses. Deep and broad chested already, he has only become more so, adding needed muscle to carry those broad wings in flight. He’s still got that lead in wingspan for bronzes by about an inch now, as more growth goes into adding strength over dexterity at this point, building up his hind quarters for sturdy take offs and the ability to carry a heavier load than most. The aged copper speckling has remained on his underside, though it has faded some, and spread as it does, deepening those honey-bronze tones. His poll has retained that gorgeous creamy gold spill over his neck, which is shading into the rich tones of his back. When oiled ,he gleams brilliantly, drawing admiring gazes from any who pass by.
Adult: Picture Perfect Memory
As an adult, this bronze is everything. He is the true pride of Varath’s final clutch, when you count him against any other bronze, and is reminiscent of the great, true, and ancient bronzes from when AIVAS was first resurrected. He bears a strong, heavy wingspan, that as he grew traded that extra bulk from adolescence for an even, sturdy elegance, from poll to tail tip as well. No longer is there purely bulk, he has grown into his body in truth, and is one of the largest bronzes on Pern. While one of the largest, he is also rather neat in the air, though not as neat as some who are smaller, for his size he can move surprisingly well, and looks quite a sight when the sun strikes his rich hide. Now a dragon grown, he bears the faintest of hints of the creamy bronze on his polls still, as well as the rich, deep bronze specked with aged copper green on his belly. The rest has deepened further, turning him to the rich, dreamy hues of sunset bronze, with almost a redder glow along his spine, though he is, truly, a bronze. He bears every shade from new gold to the ancient, and knows well and good how stunning he is.
Personality:
Forsaken Echo
Like a ghost from the past come round again, this bronze knows who and what he is. He is the sunburst in the dark that carries hope into the morning’s light, redeeming his race and kindred in twilights’ fall. A strength incomparable resides in his heart and mind, as it did in his sire and clutchmother. A quiet solitude is commonly sought by this dragon, as he observes the life around him. Smarter than many save perhaps his gold sisters and bronze brothers, this bronze is the epitome of a wise, good, and powerful dragon. He watches over everyone and everything in the Weyr with a keen interest, not content to sit back like his other bronze brothers, or go forth with an almost avaricious need to prove the dragon’s legacy.
Ghost of the Past
Carenath. Brianth. Mnementh. Torveth. This bronze carries a great legacy, and calls to mind the echoes of the great bronzes, from the devotion of Carenath, the first WeyrLeader’s Dragon, to the skill and cunning of Brianth, his son. From the heart and mind of Mnementh, to the acceptance and ultimate sacrifice of his own sire, Torveth from Thread. None of these great dragons, or any between, can be forgotten with him. He carries the best traits that any bronze can have, and proves the epitome of them once again. He is the first of his clutch, with a great weight on his shoulders. And he knows it. Steady, sure, proud and regal, strong and loving, he proves out again that dragons are a mighty species, and just as mighty in their love and duty to those whom they were created to protect. Nothing scares him, nothing trembles him. Like a calming breeze to set things right and raise hopes, this dragon raises from the ashes ghosts of the past.
Ending the Silence
With the clarion bugle from the moment he broke his shell, this bronze has brought to light and life the dragons once more. Now they will grow and fly freely in daylight, sweeping the skies once more. He carries a sort of restrained pride in this fact, tempered by a powerful love for all of the dragons. Temperate, this bronze takes time to form his opinions, and arguments, using persuasion and the slightest subtle manipulation. For him, life is best when all things in the Weyr are running smoothly, and his thoughts are often tuned to making certain it is so. The other bronzes are inclined to respect his opinions, and the queens so to listen, as long as he is careful in wording and offers opinion, not orders. So to, do his altered brothers and sisters in kind (watchwhers and firelizards), even if it goes against their natural tendencies to do so. Fonder of music than most, this great bronze recognizes the need for Harpers especially, and they are his favorite people of, for their words, stories, songs-they are what tells the future of the past, and soothe ruffled feathers. To him, they are the pinnacle of non-rider professions, and he spends much time enjoying their company.
True King
Aware of dissent and concern, he deals with it deftly when he finds it, soothing and reminding, easing and subjugating as needed. Preferring to be fair over harsh, regardless of the incident he will hear both sides, and listen to appeals. This even includes his rider, as he rules all without favoritism, acting out of the best interests of his own kind above all others. He separates riders from non-riders, and places their safety first, no matter how harsh it seems-riders can breed, and the loss of a single dragon is unacceptable, as it would be ever were there more of them. Yet keep in mind, he still strives to protect all under his gaze, and work with the Weyr’s Queens’ to ensure such actions are taken.
Beautiful Memory
This bronze, of all his kin, has a far greater ability to remember events, though he seems to still, perhaps thankfully, not associate pain with those memories, or injury, merely that they are things which happened, and he has moved on from. There are a few fond recollections he holds-hatching and Impressing V'ton, the first flight, and those of his eventual Weyrmate. Yet again, memory plays a strange part in this bronze. For any who saw the last dragons in their prime, or vidtapes of prior, it is obvious what line he descends from. For those who have read the last recollections of the thoughts, they can hear where he obtains his skills. Smooth of tongue and wit, gentle at heart and loving, this dragon will be the most successful speaker of his clutch, and ultimately, second only to one in his devotion to his rider and his Weyrmate.
Fun Facts:
Dragon Notes: Becoming the Bull Egg {Bronze}
Font Color:#DB9B00
Hatching Message: First to crack its shell, and earliest rocker-in fact, it started rocking before anyone could notice, the Becoming the Bull egg needed very little effort to part. A loud crack split the air as the egg parted into two ragged halves, as the proud dragonet spread its wings. A tiny, immature bugle that would one day become a powerful roar heralded it’s arrival onto the sands. Wings still half open, the dragonet regally surveyed first the clutch, then the people before it, eyes whirling slowly. Carefully, and with ease, the dragonet moved forwards, certain and sure of whom it wanted within moments of drawing its first breath of air.
Impression Message: You are here. At this time. At this place. For a reason. You’re certain of that above all else. The sacrifices that were made to get here were worth it, in the end, as this moment of fruition comes. A wave of strength and determination fills you and spreads outward, bolstered by something you can’t yet pinpoint. All you are aware of, as you blink, is a rich, creamy bronze hide before you, certain, steady, and well aware of itself. The spread wings are strong, elegant-pride. You feel that, too, and step forward without thinking. This moment. Him. You. Yes. We are.[/color] Perfection, and completion. V’ton. You are mine, now. And Dysiiliouth is yours.[/color] The wave of love buried under a supportive strength binds with you, mind and soul, and completes you, finally.
Egg: Becoming the Bull
Description: This Egg is a dark navy blue with bright smears of light pastel green. It really is rather feminine in appearance, though it too is one of the large ones. The shell has a rippled effect, softly rising and falling, though like the others that are textured,. The shell of the Becoming the Bull Egg is smooth to the touch.
Feel: Another forceful egg to be approached with caution, this one is aptly named. Though there isn't any sort of exact anger coming from it, there's a definite sense of hauteur from this one. A Candidate would feel like the air has turned to thick mud around their limbs, and then like they're being closely watched. Perhaps the Dragonet within is testing them for fear, or perhaps it just wants to be left alone. Some may feel this and some may not.
Telekinetic Rating: 68
Bonuses/Minuses: (Base Roll 75) + (color -7)
Specialization: Strength (+10)
Breakdown
Strength: 39 (29+10)
Precision: 5
Endurance: 24
Concentration: 10
Craftskills:
Craft: Harper (Healer/Dragon Healer knowledge Via parents)
Level of Proficiency: Journeyman
Specialty: Leadership, fauna, espionage
Weakness: tolerance for excuses, parties involving dancing
Name: Vraston/ V'ton
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Hetero Sexual
Occupation: Wing Leader
Description:
To look on the carefree, warm as sunshine smiles and glance of Vraston, you’d never take him for one of the more deadly men still alive after the recent events with the problematic mutated grubs. Warm, dancing eyes of green sit almost carelessly placed with grace above a well defined nose that bears the scars of being broken-more than once. Slightly crooked, the nose shadows a full mouth, often held grinning in pleasure or taunts, or downright smirking at some prank of turn of harmless “ill” fortune. Lips of a pale red nest neatly, if a bit too thin for some peoples tastes, above a proud, determined chin, which too bears the scars of past endeavors. The sweep of his hair, a vanity, falls now to his mid-back, trailing and perhaps accenting-never on purpose, mind you- the elegant sweep of corded and defined, rather than bulky, muscle. That muscle leads over a graceful body, perhaps one that belongs to a dancer, as it implies grace and ease of movement-rather than the truth of a body trained hard and long for war and death.
For one reason or another, most people will never see Vraston without a suit of clothing that covers him from neck down to his very feet. Yet for those that do, however few, the scars of his seemingly young body speak of an ancient man, pushed time and again into something that left a permanent, overt mark, when so many from Pern bear the internal ones. Arcing over Vrastons’ back is the one main reason he prefers to wear a shirt, for it is a large, bloody reminder of a hated day. Pale, white scar tissue marks a line from left shoulder to right hip, thin and neat-obviously a blade cut. A few other small scars dot his skin, small knife crescents, and the like, from shoulder down, and he’s long since grown tired of explaining them to others. Though his arms are peppered with a multitude of scars from fights, he cares less about those, and often leaves them bare, which do offer a view of the corded muscle wrapping his entire, lithe frame.
Though tall, at six feet of height, and lithe now, Vrastons’ bones and frame give the impression of one who would run to fat, did he not work as hard as he did, and did he not take care with what he ate, more than likely. Long legs make up the bulk of his height, and allow him a natural grace when either running or riding horseback, now dragonback, as he explores, earning new scars from tumbles through brambles on Pern. This grace is also evident if you manage to catch him swimming or sparring, both activities he attempts to fit in daily, when not working with the people at the new Weyr or out on his own. And yet, despite his grace, Vraston doesn’t dance. Does not. If there is dancing, he hides. Usually behind a wall or three. It could be his tripping over his own feet, or just a shyness that seems out of place, or it could be that he hates music. No one’s really certain of anything other than that when Vraston hears of music and dancing, he’s generally attempting to set a new record sprinting the opposite way.
More often than not, Vraston’s vibrant hair, a golden, almost orange tone, (he used to die it orange with plants), is either braided, or tied into a neat tail behind his head. This is partly to keep it from his face, though bangs often hide one or both of his eyes when he’s bent over some task or another, concentrating so hard he actually bites his tongue a bit. Those eyes, though, are the most enigmatic feature the young man has-they’re always so gay and vibrant when people are looking that they cannot possibly hold anything else, and more often than not hint at a wry, good humor. When he is caught, however, with the other emotion that he openly shows, at least to the children and animals, Vraston’s eyes deepen to a emerald tone, warm and loving, in care for those who cannot aid themselves. Any who know the man know well, whatever shade his eyes are, you can judge his true mood, no matter how he laughs or grins.
Personality:
I See You
Very little escapes Vraston’s notice in any given situation. Long ago, he learned to read the air around people, their movements, and their body language, to the point where it became second nature to assess a situation within moments of entering-and manipulate it. That manipulation has become a game of sorts, when he flirts, and in smoothing ruffled feathers after a prank. Yet along with that, comes an ability to mask his own emotions, partly to amuse himself as people guess, and partly because, well, lets face it, he had to know how before, and even here, some situations still require aid. Manipulation of people to aid them, though, is something Vraston hasn’t had much chance to do before, and it’s a soothing change from manipulation to harm. In a way, Vraston considers mediation to be a penance for the past, and it eases the burden of memories he carries.
Hear Me Well
Ever intent on learning, Vraston has devoted a great deal of time to study, before coming to Cerulean, and since impressing his beloved Dysiiliouth prior to the transfer. To him, knowledge is everything, be it about a body and how to use your own; about the dragons they fought so hard to save; about emotion- the tales of the heart, or music, which carries the souls of many. He welcomes any type of knowledge, as well as the chance to learn it. Vraston will never pass up an opportunity to learn, and often pushes others to as well, though he tries to keep from being pedantic about such matters.
Keep Up! Let’s Move!
Naturally a leader, Vraston has a tendency to take charge of any given situation, and sometimes comes off as either overbearing or gruff to the people around him. Well aware of this, Vraston prefers to leave impressions as they are-his gruffness is caused by a very real concern for everyone living around him, and knowledge that he often is the one with an answer.(Even if it’s one of many or not the best) While he allows for differences, Vraston still pushes any and everyone around him to the best of their abilities on whatever job they may be doing-himself most of all. If you shirk, Vraston will know-and will take it as an affront, and make certain the lesson is not forgotten.
Play With Me, Sugar
Flirtatious and seemingly carefree, Vraston bats for either team, and makes no bones about it- at least insofar as flirting goes. Long ago, he learned that personal preference couldn’t be an issue, and those lessons stuck, despite his preference for pillows and wetness. Now he simply takes pleasure when and where he can, both to forget, and to remember new, pleasant things. While Vraston isn’t what one would call a whore, by any stretch, he does enjoy the give and take of flirtation, with friends and the few whom he actually does bed. Friends have long learned that it’s just part of him, to flirt casually, though of late it’s a bit rarer for him to flirt overtly or overmuch, as he becomes more involved with work and his new future. Still, if there are a few days without anything to do of pressing import, it’s a good bet that the firey young man will be teasing his friends, or in the kitchens, playing it up.
Honey, It’s All Just A Game.
Joking and friendly, Vraston has very, very few enemies, and actively tries to stay on good terms with everyone he comes across. Friends now mean hesitation later-or at least it used to. Now he actively desires companions, and loves nothing more than to live life up in games or at the gathers, enjoying the happiness and excitement that steams from being safe, here, with a goal so near to completion. Haphazard in his flirting, Vraston learned quickly to make certain, however, that people knew: It’s a game, sugar, it aint real. You want the whole deal, you’ve got to give me something more. He’s hard to catch for more than a moment, and is unwilling to let anyone close as a lover just yet. He views life as too short, and also knows he’s not quite ready to settle down, nor will he be anytime soon. This freedom and is something he won’t give up just yet.
Molehills From Mountains
Understatement is an art. As well as a very intriguing one. And one that is practiced quite often by this young man. Vraston has a decided talent for finding the simplest answers to any given problem, either as a joke or in all sincerity. He is disgusted with those who waste time making mountains of small things that are easily taken care of, and makes no bones about that fact, even if it proves upsetting to the other party. After so long, it’s become second nature for him to do the reverse, whether with other peoples’ problems, or his own.
You Know, Back Home, We Kill Idiots Like You
Very little can frustrate or piss off Vraston, as it stands, but Faranth help you if you do. In fact, even her spirit may not be able to. Trained well and harshly, Vraston knows how to make it painful, and hold a grudge. While understanding and willing to make allowances, his pet peeve is those who actively laze, or are just intolerably stupid because of said laziness. That, and you’d better kill yourself first if you either hurt an animal, or hurt a friend. You WILL live to regret such actions.
Shadows of the Soul
Despite all his ease and determination that he WILL live his life, and do so with grace and thanks for those who sacrificed so much, there are scars on his heart. While only a few close friends know most, one is a secret burden that haunts him, in the nights alone, and is echoed in the amulet he bears about his neck, a fine, simple, silver wrapped diamond of startling blue, almost ice colored in tone. Though he knows no cost was too high to achieve the salvation of the great dragons, and others bonded to them and their kin, Vraston sometimes actively seeks to be alone, as he remembers the cost that makes him, at times, wish he had died instead. These moments of sorrow are things that he hides carefully from all that he can, lest they contaminate the victory, and are what allow him the willingness to understand others’ hurts-haven’t they all lost so much, in coming to Cerulean? Haven’t they saved so much? A secret sorrow, and a heavy burden-the death of his twin-and how he acquired the scar which forever reminds him, on his back, of her death.
History:
Born with a female twin to A master Dragon Healer mother, and a Harper Hall father, Vraston grew up surrounded from birth by dragon lore, care, and knowledge. He was immersed in politics, and training to such, brought to training as a fighter, and devoted to the preservation of that which was ancient and pure. From birth, both Vraston and his twin, Nayara, were brought up to be full members in the community they were part of. Their training started at a very early age, to turn them into intelligent, versatile weapons against the threats to any on Pern, via the so called abomination, changing life, or the dregs of society- spies, if you will, and training them for to aid the dragons and their riders. This early training left it’s marks on Vraston, though his parents had taken care to ensure that along with training, he learned that by no means were all people evil, and that there were good things in life, and all around-he merely had to see them. They had made sure to introduce him to the wonders of animal companionship, and friends among the Harpers and Healers.
By the age of ten, Vraston was fully a spy, attending public classes at several halls and making friends with those children he met, learning their secrets and keeping a façade with most. By fifteen, he and his twin had finished all the training they were to be given-the final lessons being those pertaining to seduction and sex-using their bodies as a tool. Though initially uncomfortable, and wary, Vraston soon learned that it really didn’t matter who, or what gender, he used his body on as a tool, as long as he received the information he needed. He knew his preferences lay in women, and thankfully Nayara was able to handle the men for the most part.
While both were taking a class at the Harper Hall, four turns into the current pass, a brown-rider bespoke Vraston for the imminent hatching at Benden, naming himself as V’taph. The hatching they attended would change everything, as Nayara, left standing (though she claimed it was fine, with a smile that drove away Vraston’s fears), watched her twin impress to the first bronze to crack his shell, Dysiiliouth. Vraston’s world ended and began that moment, as he found himself partnered to someone closer even than his sister.
Upon graduating from Weyrling training, V’ton traveled with the transfer riders to Silver Cove Weyr, and was reunited with his sister there, now working to establish the new home under the supervision of her father once more. Unfortunately, the brief time after arrival was stolen seconds of precious memories, since Nayara and their father were two of the first humans to fall ill from ingesting the vegetation around the Weyr, even as they tried to find a cause. The loss of a father was nothing compared to the loss of a twin for V’ton, and only Dysiiliouth, still hale, kept the young man sane for a time.
Yet grief had to be shunted aside-a cause had to be found and fixed, Thread still fell in a deadly rain from the skies, and his bronze was maturing, and starting to show interest in the risings of the greens of the Weyr that still flew. He’d made a promise, more, to his beloved twin to never give up, and he knew she’d never forgive him for failing that. He was forced to live, and somehow, thanks mainly to his dragon, found the strength to carry on even as he watched friends and companions perish-usually from the madness of the disease. He earned many a scar from trying to soothe and aid those friends he had with what healer craft he knew, including the mistake when one drew a knife, attempting to end the madness, which lead to the dark, ugly scar across his back.
As the dragonkind fell, V’ton found himself stepping more and more into a role as a leader, grouping together those around him, leading wings in Threadfall as Dysiiliouth filled out, and having to shunt aside the pain, turning away the searing anger that none could find an answer. And even when he felt all hope was lost, he somehow made himself rise every morning to another day, privately wondering who they would lose that dawn, that Fall.
Hatchings were the worst-with some eggs not even breaking, some hatchlings partnerless... He didn’t think he could bear seeing a dragon, a hatchling, go between for no one to chose. No more deaths. He’d already lost all close friends he held, and had no more answers for what to do.
On the discovery of the enemy from below, V’ton was both shocked and horrified, to realize that a mutation of the friendly could herald such. And the effects on the flora… and fauna. The potential scope was truly awe-inspiring-of a terror. With the other, V”ton readily agreed to move to found a new Weyr, safe on an island from the insidious grubs, and a place with no memories. A bare 23, with a young, sturdy bronze, he has no idea what the future may hold for him now, when it seems that all has been lost.
Fun Facts: Will Do later
-Does NOT dance, in fact, he runs away from it.
Bonded Critter(s):
Type: Dragon
Name: Dysiiliouth
Color: Bronze
Age: 5 Turns (Mid-Spring)
Description:
Dragon Description: Redeem Me in Sunset’s Light
Hatchling Description: Hopeful Haven
Strong and proud even at birth, this bronze is born a slim, and surprisingly rather elegant fellow, drawing appreciative, appraising eyes to his clean, beautifully proportioned wings and tail, proudly arched neck, and heavy, strong haunches. A deep chest and wide ribs leave him plenty of muscle, and flow seamlessly into the supporting muscle for heavy, long wings, topping the record span by a good two inches for a hatchling. A creamy, pale new golden tone flows smoothly over this dragon’s poll into a rich, heavy hue on his chest and down his back. Faint almost copper tones paint splashes on his wings and ridges, which he proudly arcs to show off, exposing the few faint speckles of aged-copper green that dance along his underside. The pride of Varath, this fellow seems to embody from the start everything that makes a dragon a dragon.
Adolescent: The One Who Can
As he grows, this beautiful bronze only becomes more breath-taking and gorgeous, lengthening quickly and elegantly, becoming almost serpentine in appearance when he poses. Deep and broad chested already, he has only become more so, adding needed muscle to carry those broad wings in flight. He’s still got that lead in wingspan for bronzes by about an inch now, as more growth goes into adding strength over dexterity at this point, building up his hind quarters for sturdy take offs and the ability to carry a heavier load than most. The aged copper speckling has remained on his underside, though it has faded some, and spread as it does, deepening those honey-bronze tones. His poll has retained that gorgeous creamy gold spill over his neck, which is shading into the rich tones of his back. When oiled ,he gleams brilliantly, drawing admiring gazes from any who pass by.
Adult: Picture Perfect Memory
As an adult, this bronze is everything. He is the true pride of Varath’s final clutch, when you count him against any other bronze, and is reminiscent of the great, true, and ancient bronzes from when AIVAS was first resurrected. He bears a strong, heavy wingspan, that as he grew traded that extra bulk from adolescence for an even, sturdy elegance, from poll to tail tip as well. No longer is there purely bulk, he has grown into his body in truth, and is one of the largest bronzes on Pern. While one of the largest, he is also rather neat in the air, though not as neat as some who are smaller, for his size he can move surprisingly well, and looks quite a sight when the sun strikes his rich hide. Now a dragon grown, he bears the faintest of hints of the creamy bronze on his polls still, as well as the rich, deep bronze specked with aged copper green on his belly. The rest has deepened further, turning him to the rich, dreamy hues of sunset bronze, with almost a redder glow along his spine, though he is, truly, a bronze. He bears every shade from new gold to the ancient, and knows well and good how stunning he is.
Personality:
Forsaken Echo
Like a ghost from the past come round again, this bronze knows who and what he is. He is the sunburst in the dark that carries hope into the morning’s light, redeeming his race and kindred in twilights’ fall. A strength incomparable resides in his heart and mind, as it did in his sire and clutchmother. A quiet solitude is commonly sought by this dragon, as he observes the life around him. Smarter than many save perhaps his gold sisters and bronze brothers, this bronze is the epitome of a wise, good, and powerful dragon. He watches over everyone and everything in the Weyr with a keen interest, not content to sit back like his other bronze brothers, or go forth with an almost avaricious need to prove the dragon’s legacy.
Ghost of the Past
Carenath. Brianth. Mnementh. Torveth. This bronze carries a great legacy, and calls to mind the echoes of the great bronzes, from the devotion of Carenath, the first WeyrLeader’s Dragon, to the skill and cunning of Brianth, his son. From the heart and mind of Mnementh, to the acceptance and ultimate sacrifice of his own sire, Torveth from Thread. None of these great dragons, or any between, can be forgotten with him. He carries the best traits that any bronze can have, and proves the epitome of them once again. He is the first of his clutch, with a great weight on his shoulders. And he knows it. Steady, sure, proud and regal, strong and loving, he proves out again that dragons are a mighty species, and just as mighty in their love and duty to those whom they were created to protect. Nothing scares him, nothing trembles him. Like a calming breeze to set things right and raise hopes, this dragon raises from the ashes ghosts of the past.
Ending the Silence
With the clarion bugle from the moment he broke his shell, this bronze has brought to light and life the dragons once more. Now they will grow and fly freely in daylight, sweeping the skies once more. He carries a sort of restrained pride in this fact, tempered by a powerful love for all of the dragons. Temperate, this bronze takes time to form his opinions, and arguments, using persuasion and the slightest subtle manipulation. For him, life is best when all things in the Weyr are running smoothly, and his thoughts are often tuned to making certain it is so. The other bronzes are inclined to respect his opinions, and the queens so to listen, as long as he is careful in wording and offers opinion, not orders. So to, do his altered brothers and sisters in kind (watchwhers and firelizards), even if it goes against their natural tendencies to do so. Fonder of music than most, this great bronze recognizes the need for Harpers especially, and they are his favorite people of, for their words, stories, songs-they are what tells the future of the past, and soothe ruffled feathers. To him, they are the pinnacle of non-rider professions, and he spends much time enjoying their company.
True King
Aware of dissent and concern, he deals with it deftly when he finds it, soothing and reminding, easing and subjugating as needed. Preferring to be fair over harsh, regardless of the incident he will hear both sides, and listen to appeals. This even includes his rider, as he rules all without favoritism, acting out of the best interests of his own kind above all others. He separates riders from non-riders, and places their safety first, no matter how harsh it seems-riders can breed, and the loss of a single dragon is unacceptable, as it would be ever were there more of them. Yet keep in mind, he still strives to protect all under his gaze, and work with the Weyr’s Queens’ to ensure such actions are taken.
Beautiful Memory
This bronze, of all his kin, has a far greater ability to remember events, though he seems to still, perhaps thankfully, not associate pain with those memories, or injury, merely that they are things which happened, and he has moved on from. There are a few fond recollections he holds-hatching and Impressing V'ton, the first flight, and those of his eventual Weyrmate. Yet again, memory plays a strange part in this bronze. For any who saw the last dragons in their prime, or vidtapes of prior, it is obvious what line he descends from. For those who have read the last recollections of the thoughts, they can hear where he obtains his skills. Smooth of tongue and wit, gentle at heart and loving, this dragon will be the most successful speaker of his clutch, and ultimately, second only to one in his devotion to his rider and his Weyrmate.
Fun Facts:
Dragon Notes: Becoming the Bull Egg {Bronze}
Font Color:#DB9B00
Hatching Message: First to crack its shell, and earliest rocker-in fact, it started rocking before anyone could notice, the Becoming the Bull egg needed very little effort to part. A loud crack split the air as the egg parted into two ragged halves, as the proud dragonet spread its wings. A tiny, immature bugle that would one day become a powerful roar heralded it’s arrival onto the sands. Wings still half open, the dragonet regally surveyed first the clutch, then the people before it, eyes whirling slowly. Carefully, and with ease, the dragonet moved forwards, certain and sure of whom it wanted within moments of drawing its first breath of air.
Impression Message: You are here. At this time. At this place. For a reason. You’re certain of that above all else. The sacrifices that were made to get here were worth it, in the end, as this moment of fruition comes. A wave of strength and determination fills you and spreads outward, bolstered by something you can’t yet pinpoint. All you are aware of, as you blink, is a rich, creamy bronze hide before you, certain, steady, and well aware of itself. The spread wings are strong, elegant-pride. You feel that, too, and step forward without thinking. This moment. Him. You. Yes. We are.[/color] Perfection, and completion. V’ton. You are mine, now. And Dysiiliouth is yours.[/color] The wave of love buried under a supportive strength binds with you, mind and soul, and completes you, finally.
Egg: Becoming the Bull
Description: This Egg is a dark navy blue with bright smears of light pastel green. It really is rather feminine in appearance, though it too is one of the large ones. The shell has a rippled effect, softly rising and falling, though like the others that are textured,. The shell of the Becoming the Bull Egg is smooth to the touch.
Feel: Another forceful egg to be approached with caution, this one is aptly named. Though there isn't any sort of exact anger coming from it, there's a definite sense of hauteur from this one. A Candidate would feel like the air has turned to thick mud around their limbs, and then like they're being closely watched. Perhaps the Dragonet within is testing them for fear, or perhaps it just wants to be left alone. Some may feel this and some may not.
Telekinetic Rating: 68
Bonuses/Minuses: (Base Roll 75) + (color -7)
Specialization: Strength (+10)
Breakdown
Strength: 39 (29+10)
Precision: 5
Endurance: 24
Concentration: 10
Craftskills:
Craft: Harper (Healer/Dragon Healer knowledge Via parents)
Level of Proficiency: Journeyman
Specialty: Leadership, fauna, espionage
Weakness: tolerance for excuses, parties involving dancing