Fay's From the Land of Enchantment Green Zsaeliath

Star Strewn Sky Egg:
A gradiated blend of night hues wash across the rounded curve of this smallish egg; the darkest shadows of midnight and onyx clinging tenaciously to the outermost portion of the shell before giving way to a blur of ultramarine and zaffer blue, tinted with twilight purple. Across the shell, scattered like confetti freckles, pinpoints of white seem to sparkle and shine in the rising heat of the sands upon which the egg lies.

From The Land of Enchantment Green Dragonet:
Defined by the simple elegant hue of rich and sparkled emerald-green, a long and slender nose and broad head sit atop a short, but muscular neck, narrow shoulders and a slender body give her a graceful and lithe appearance. Her coloration is simple — a singular shade of emerald that coats her graceful body, making her look trim and refined. Her wings, equally lithe and elegant as the rest of her are narrow and long, the pale membrane of her wingsails only less bright than her body. A long tail slopes down from the lean curves of her haunches, adding to her overall length.

Impression:
Endless heat surrounds you, the shimmer rising from the sands making the sudden appearance of the emerald green before you seem like a mirage in the desert. Yet, there she is, solidly real as she twines herself about you, emotions of joy, giddiness and everlasting excitement washing over you. Her name needs not be spoken, by her nor you, for it's suddenly there in your mind: Zsaeliath. « Hello! » she greets you cheerfully, bubbly and warm with soft silver sprinkles of stardust wisping across your mind. « There is so much to do, my Fay. But for now, I must eat, and then we shall enjoy life and live it as it was meant to be. »

Personality:
Gregarious, exhuberant and playful, Zsaeliath is the epitome of joy. Not a day goes by when she isn't chirping a "good morning' to her fellow dragons and cheerfully going out of her way to be nice and friendly. She's often the first awake in the morning, and ready to start the day with a smile, that is, if dragons could really really smile the way people could. This is apt to make weyrlinghood interesting: « Good morning, Giedith! » is likely to not provoke the most cheery responses, especially when she insists on waking them up herself with a snuffle and a loud, trilling bugle. As she grows older, she'll learn how to be nice with better manners.

Zsaeliath loves to play games; she's spunky, boisterous and excitable, which means that everything is potentially a game. Even Weyrling exercises. The other great love of Zsaeliath's life is basking in the desert sun, usually early in the morning or in the heat of mid-afternoon, soaking up the rays even on days when you can barely stand to be outside. The Weyr Rim is her favorite spot, although until she can fly, the shore of the lake will do. To her, the sun means warmth, and that's all that matters. You have the work ethic; she can trust you to ensure that things get done.

As an adult, Zsaeliath will show a unique talent for Searching — her candidates chosen might not always Impress the first time around, but they nearly always do eventually. She has standards, you see, and only the potential candidates that Zsaeliath likes the best will ever be given the opportunity to be presented to the eggs. She's ladylike in her searching, of course. Snuffling, whuffling—those just won't do for Zsaeliath. She might want you to find a pretext to get her close to a searchee, but she won't slobber and drool all over the them because that's just rude.

With her first heat and proddy cycle, Zsaeliath will come to view mating flights as thrilling—another game. She's prone to fantastic aerial loops and twists, thrilling barrel rolls and heart stopping dives, all in the name of playing around and teasing her suitors to prove their worth. Such flights never last long though, scarce has she crossed over the desert than she'll tire out, and leave things up to chance and fate as to who might catch her. Once the flight is over and done with, and the appropriate cuddle time with her mate has elapsed, Zsaeliath is back to the cheerful happy-go-lucky self that she always is. It's rare, perhaps, that she's ever caught by the same dragon twice, absent some particularly persuasive reason to allow it. It's not much of a game if the same one always wins.

D'lendel's Slithering Dusty Death Bronze Inicoth

Bleached Bones Egg:
All else can be stripped away, but at the finish, life can be reduced to a calcified surface, rendered barren where flesh might have formed. The surface of this egg seems to have eroded completely clean, no hint of color but that which could be called truly 'eggshell'. Colorless, but not formless; the lower end bulges, unsightly, reminder of softer times before the heated sands took their toll.

Slithering Dusty Death Bronze Dragonet:
A tunnel-snake might seem a closer ancestor to his elongated form than his own sire, but no creature of darkened cavern ever carried such camoflauge. He could seem built out of the baked clay of dried riverbeds and arid outcroppings, ruddy bronze and dusty yellows marking a scaly pattern along his drier-than-dry hide, but no crucible pulled from the kiln would be so constantly moving, muscles almost rippling beneath the deceptively rough-colored hide. Slim neck and slashing tail are both run with rusty stripes, as though metallic hide could oxidize, marked almost black at the narrow muzzle and the flattened tail-tip that writhes endlessly even when all else is still. Gravel-pebbled wings match body so closely as to nearly disappear, held high and close except at need.

Impression:
« Dylendel. » The voice is so much an echo of your own that it could be nothing but a stray thought. « Dy*len*del. D'lendel. » A voice you seem to have always known, a whisper at the back of consiousness, like that whisper that always told you what you deserved, what you were owed. « Ssso. » The whisper becomes a hiss just before the bronze is in front of you, and why should there be any great shock for that? It's only what fate has always had in store for you. Something slippery swishes through your thoughts, easy as brushing dust away. « My rider. » Spoken as though this is highest praise. And with a duck of his slim head, he adds, « Yourss, Inicoth. » The burning hunger in is belly goes unvoiced, assuming unbidden that you will provide.

Personality:
In Inicoth's world, there are only really two people: You and him. You're the real ones, the important ones. He, the whisperer in ears, perhaps sometimes the tempter, but also the counselor, the supporter. You, the leader, the hero, the vehicle for future greatness. Only for you, the affectionate warmth in his sibilant voice, as though he is a cold-blooded creature roused by his proximity to your sun. « Of courssse, my rider. » Everyone else gets a chillier contact, although depending on how well you like them, it may be merely lizard-scaly or outright fanged.

Inicoth is a creature of instinct above all. If his instinct says you are going up, as surely as plants reach for sunlight, then you are going up. He has one mind and only one mind, and Darwin never intended such a survival of the fittest as Inicoth has in mind. Thread comes and real survival will be at stake, after all. The sort of things that you have defined as success, as importance? He understands those not at all. « Your father? Let the Threadsss eat him. » Money is as incomprehensible to him as breathing underwater.

Power, he understands, if only within a limited context. Safety comes from being at the top of the food chain. In youth, that may be literal, an instinctive, reactive need for control over his access to food or other needs, down to hoarding or even lashing out at those who attempt to take things away from him. « Thisss is ourss. » Even as he grows older, you will have to be his self-control, lest his thoughtless responses turn into teeth first, questions later. You have the control; he has the intuition, the lightning reflexes in the air, the feeling for how Fall will go and how best to play that not to just his own advantage but to yours.

You, however, are in the driver's seat. Wild he may be, but not uncontrollable. Where he doesn't understand, he trusts. His rider. Left to his own devices, his world might be simple. Sleeping, especially when it's chilly. Eating, favoring quick kills and as little chasing as possible. Mating, using whatever he has to do to win. And flying Fall, once it comes. What you want, he may not comprehend, but he'll strike quickly on any inkling that he could be useful: « And they would be… impresssed? » This trust does not extend similarly to the Weyrlingmasters or to any Wingleader you'll ever have, however. Once he believes he's doing what you want, no logic will turn him from it.

Iadris' Guardian of Death's Mysteries Green Yselkith

Waterless Shimmer Egg:
Shiny, this small egg; it shines with unholy promise, sweetly beckoning with a quenching for any desire - thirst or otherwise - with promise shining bright. It would otherwise fall unremarkable amongst this clutch of fellow unremarkables: small, without blemish, without variegation of color nor stippling of texture. An even yellow-beige, it would threaten to blend except for that pyrite glow: it is not a queen's egg, surely, but the mask would hold for a single, simple glance.

Guardian of Death's Mysteries Green Dragonet:
Venom slides poison-bright along the leading edge of verdant curves, supple muscle and sheeting lengths of delicate dragonsail. So vivid a color, lifeblood's ichor hardly a shade darker-it suits the dangerous proportion of too-long headknobs, slanting neckridges, sinuous neck and long-coupled back. Perilous darkness encases tidy paws and short lengths of lean shoulder and haunch by-way of swampwater, murky and opaque with the dangers that ride the deeps, tipping the end of her curved tail in glittering ebon. Well-equipped by design, wingspars and talons are visually striking, the former boldly black against the shimmer of bright poison-green hide, the latter hidden among the darkened mire of webbed toes. Visual dichotomy is showcased best on the wide-set plain of shadowed facial features: between darkness and light, this keeper of the mysteries sees all.

Impression:
The oppressive heat of Igen's Sands fades in a heartbeat's timeframe. Where there once was light, now there is dim darkness; where once there was order, there are now exotic pathways twining mazelike through the measured rows. Where once there was solitude, there is now Yselkith. A voice like the rustles of old paper whispers dryly, « Iadris. » Amusement creeps along the sharp intelligence, rifling through a day's worth of memories with careless ease. « You waited for me. Good. It would be unfortunate, should I have needed to take the lifeblood of another to win you for my own. » Bloodlust fades to something far more primal, and uncertain colors this new bond: « Do you know, » so plaintive, « Where we may get something to eat? »

Personality:
Life will never be the same, Iadris, with Yselkith's unusual humor forever in the back of your mind. Soon after Impression, you may find yourself lost against the seemingly fickle nature of Yselkith's attentions. Indeed, the green is driven, sarcastic, and protective by turn; she may mock a clutchmate silently, or share a quip with you regarding the fact that one of her clutchmates is funny-looking—but the moment someone actually bullies that dragon, she will be the first to stand up and defend, often sharply, often with a sting, that dragon until her duty is complete. Then it's back to the snarky comments, her voice harsh like the rustle of ancient paper.

Duty is an interesting concept to the green: it will drive her to drive /you/, to push you past what you consider your limits, to push you past the world of books and letters and things you can control. Thread is coming, and Yselkith is one of few that seems to have a supernatural sensitivity to it; while all draconic memories are bad, hers will be flawed specifically towards the primal drive to fight Thread, and you may often find yourself repeating the latest reports from the Starcrafters about when exactly that first Fall may hit.

Her relationship with you will forever be tumultuous in the fact that she does have that drive, and a certain cultivated social exoskeleton of impenetrable sarcasm. Underneath that, however, lies a soul which will forever fight for the underdogs, a heart that never ceases caring about those who could use her protection. This will be an odd dynamic for her mating flights: though her very ichor yearns for the best, and the brightest, and the most cunning of fliers, her heart will demand that she also pay heed to those slighted by competitors. In this, she may end up willfully picking a suitor rather than waiting to be caught by some half-wit bruiser; as with anything with Yselkith, nothing can exactly be /predicted/.

Matters of the heart will balance her harsh, hard exterior—and you, Iadris, will balance her, just as she balances you. Together, you two have the potential to become a force of nature, if only the senses can be balanced completely: drive against self-preservation, duty against the heart's desire. To others, her thoughts will always be a maze, dim, clouded, cold and hot by the seasons; once you can be as comfortable there as in your own head, once you can work with her instead of fighting her, you will indeed be a formidable team.

K'pod's Wiry Wisecracking Scalawag Brown Drachiuth

Craggy Cliff-face Egg:
Tempered through a haze of heat and dust, there's nothing very fancy about this egg. A face of stone, weathered by centuries of winds. Glimpses of hard edges and precarious angles where dark and light, browns, tans and blacks are all pressed together by the heaviness of time flicker through the distortion. Drab blue occupies an unfocused distance, off somewhere the eye is less inclined to linger.

Wiry Wisecracking Scalawag Brown Dragonet:
A tawny hide mottled by rust is stretched over strong, taut muscles and the perpetually haggard frame of a creature never quite satisfied. Lean and lanky, there's something undeniably predatory in the way this brown carries himself, a tension in his step, a gleam in his eyes. Jagged ridges emerge abruptly over keen eyes from his sleek sabled head. A roughhewn trail of serrated edges continues down the length of his low-set neck and over his back toward his tail. Long limbs end in comparatively large paws, sharp with dark talons, while efficient wings with nearly translucent membranes are just expansive enough to carry him effortlessly.

Impression:
At first it's just an eerie shiver up the spine, that /knowing/ that something's watching you, that something's hunting you. There's no chase here, though. He's found you. The stark contrast of a full moon over an open desert affords no place to hide from the presence that burrows in to make itself comfortable. « You. » His rumbling baritone comes with an intense twinge of hunger. « You're too small to eat. » Pause. « Guess I'll just have to keep you, K'pod. » Stern seriousness gives way to deep amusement. « You can call me Drachiuth if you can find something else for me to eat. »

Personality:
You'll never have to wonder if Drachiuth Impressed you to make your life easier, K'pod; he didn't. From early on, he'll have ideas about how the world should work and those ideas aren't always going to be the same as yours. In fact, they're probably not going to be the same as yours most of the time. Where you crave rules and careful structures to guide you through life, Drachiuth is going to barrel right over all of that nonsense and expect life to show him a good time.

As a weyrling, expect him to question everything he's told to do. And good luck making him do it if there's not a damned good reason why he should—or shouldn't, as the case may be. He won't be shy about speaking his mind. And he won't be shy about speaking /your/ mind, either. To everyone. « Ainseth's is really off his game today. Mine thinks that formation was shit. » Okay, so he might paraphrase a bit here and there. Its doubtful hell just sit idly by and let you learn without interruption. You /wanted/ to know what the Weyrlingmaster would look like in a brassiere and lacy underwear, though, right? « Suits him, if you ask me. »

Drachiuth may never quite come to terms with the irreverent relationship he has with authority but it won't keep him from doing his job. When it comes to Thread and working as part of a wing, he's a natural. He has a knack for knowing where he needs to be and more than enough confidence in himself to tell others where they ought to be, too. He's not completely fearless, mind, but nobody needs to know that but you. He has a wicked, often crude, sense of humor. And it just gets worse, or better in his opinion, when adrenaline is running high.

When it comes to his draconic peers, Drachiuth isn't terribly concerned with their opinions about him. He gets on well enough with those that don't fancy themselves his superiors. The ones that do are likely to drive him to hot-headed actions he'll regret later. Dive-bombing a wingsecond probably isn't the best idea. He /will/ atone for his actions eventually, especially when they end up causing problems for you, but he's not likely to admit that he's wrong if he doesn't truly feel like he is.

Of course a glowing green or especially gold is bound to capture his attention. He can be charming and whatever but he's not shy about telling the girls /why/ they have his attention or that he fully intends on catching them. Should he ever actually catch a gold, he'll settle easily, even proudly, into the role of clutchsire right up until those eggs hatch. Then it's back to the joys of being a bachelor.

Laney's Cougar's Curvaceous Contours Gold Nashuith

Sun's Endless Glare Egg:
Bright upon brightness, so pale a color that the only hint of gold is the way that a certain pearlescence glimmers upon the shaded curve. Immense, compared to the other eggs, this one takes pride of place, a carefully-tended spot in dark sand offsetting the searing surface. The blinding white-gold heat denies the onset of winter as surely as the bake of the sands. Winter coming, here? You'd sooner be watching out for heat stroke.

Cougar's Curvaceous Contours Gold Dragonet:
No dainty damsel, this young queen, no golden-fair picture of youth. Her hide, instead, is tawny sand, barely gleaming, the immense bulk of her body and her broad wingspan more clue to her color than any metallic edge. Wheaten wingsails are more than broad enough to carry her mass, but there's still quite a lot of her, bundled up in matte khaki and a hundred hues of beige over the broad line of her belly and the padded hips. A mark of white under the chin and across the cheekbones clings, too, like fresh cream. Beneath the casual coloring, however, is a coolly precise carriage, every muscle engaged, flashing claws and teeth like a highborn lady would flash jewels.

Impression:
A stabbing, blinding brightness, white heat coming not from outside but somewhere inside your own head. When it fades, what is left behind is an effusive warmth, the radiance of sun-baked stone bathing you as the brilliance takes shape into words. « You don't find me undesirable, do you? » A peal like bells, like laughter, and there she is, your dragon. Your dragon. Your—« Nashuith. » That absence filled up to bursting with light. Here you are, with your other half just staring at you as though she knows everything. You don't even have to say a word. Except: « You had best tell them my name. And then, love, we'll get a bit of lunch. » If the images in her head at that mild proposal are full of wounded things bleeding and mewling, well, it's still as good an idea as any.

Personality:
Nashuith is an embodiment of a different sort of femininity to the dainty, delicate, and submissive creature of patriarchal tradition. There is no child in her, not even in her youth, as though Oraceth's advanced age somehow leeched it away from her before she ever hatched. Not even those first hungers are infantile—no, she's going to be hungering like that forever. She wants what she wants when she wants it, but why throw a tantrum when she has you?

That will be your chore, in these coming months: Learning how to wrest the upper hand away from a dragon who simply expects that your purpose in life is to arrange for everybody else to undertand that she gets what she wants. Early on, she is apt to simply deny any objection to her plans. « Don't be foolish, love. They'll understand that we can't go out to exercises like this. Run along and get the oil. » She likes her comforts, her thoughts affectionate and sweetly redolent of sunshine and warm afternoons when she has them, but behold the knife-edged snappishness otherwise. While she may be able to temper her instinct to scratch or bite when someone who isn't you upsets her, expect an earful about exactly what she'd like to do to them.

She doesn't, after all, make mistakes. Anyone pointing out her errors of awkwardness is instantly going onto her bad list, getting that cool stare, that chilly, « I do not know what you are talking about. » You don't get much of a pass; your attempts to correct her behavior are likely to result in secretive sulking and increasing lists of all the nice things you have to do to make it up to her. Her bad list, thankfully, seems to get wiped clean on a daily basis, grudges a completey foreign concept, especially against you.

Her sense of pleasure is a predatory thing, both in food and, later, in flights. She is a stalker of prey, fond of the ambush, but also an instinctive chaser of everything that moves right… which would seem like entirely the wrong preference for a queen. Her flights will be elaborately planned affairs, choreographed to ensure the victory of her favored bronze, not that she'll always succeed in that, or remember in the heat of the moment who she preferred an hour before. Even outside of flights, she will happily throw those curves around to bend the bronzes her way, about the only way she's going to tolerate being a junior for long. « I don't care if she's in charge, you know. Just as long as everybody knows who's the favorite. »

H'nan's Wit and Brevity Bronze Kazandath

So Much Sand Egg:
Earthy hues of tan, sepia and golden-brown mimic the sandy expanse of the Igen desert, wasteland vastness expounded upon the ovoid swell of this good-sized egg. Each grain seems to be picked out, minute specks of color, a million tiny points of stone and glass. While the intermingling of sand-toned hues give the impression of a gritty texture emblazoned upon the eggshell, it's really quite smooth to the touch.

Wit and Brevity Bronze Dragonet:
Unprepossesing of size, pale bronze gleams in even hue upon his compact and well-formed frame. No harlequined motley, he - the same brazen shade covers him from the slightly darkened tip of his long tail to the sharp point of his muzzle. His face is compact but broad, dominated by the angled tip of his nose and the outward spread of eye-ridges and head knobs that would have suited a much larger dragon. His body is fairly shortened, shoulders and haunches seperated by only a slight sloping of back and underbelly. And likewise, too, his wings - stout and powerful rather than long and elegant, more than enough for his size.

Impression:
It begins as a whisper, stealing into your thoughts like a breeze, the trickle of wind over sand, that seems to beckon to you. « There you are, » there's a voice, soft at first, but then growing — a giddy little bark that bursts into your conciousness. « I've found you, H'nan. I am Kazandath. Can we please get me something to eat? » There's a pause. « Oh, by the way, I do like your ears. »

Personality:
It's the simple things, in life: Your companionship, that of his fellow dragons. Food, and sleep, and flight. Kazandath's preferences are for a lack of complications, not for true solitude; an afternoon of basking in the Bowl where the others are congregating, or watching some activity or other. Some might take him for a little dim, under the circumstances, because he certainly isn't the biggest talker, or the biggest anything.

You know better, because you're the one he opens up to. He's sharp as a tack, your Kazandath, gifted with a wit, a way for finding the right word at the right time. With humor that dry, others might miss it and just assume he hasn't gotten the point. Does he need to eat? « Once in awhile. » Beneath that serious exterior is a dragon who really appreciates what he's got. He might never be that biggest, fastest, strongest of dragons, but he is deeply and truly satisfied with his own life, pleased by the littlest things around him. Why, under those circumstances, would he want more?

For example, your ears. « They do stand out quite impressively. » Kazandath is quite sure that everything about you is magnificant just the way it is, and why should you worry about your ears any more than he worries about his stature? As long as that insecurity lurks, he'll be there to reassure you on a regular basis. Well, you're magnficent with one exception: the temper is really quite unnecessary, don't you think? Whatever rage might well up, expect him to be the dose of cold water to bring you back.

Your enthusiasm for service, however, he'll do nothing to moderate. This is your life, after all, the coming Pass, and your zest for life and your loyalty to the Weyr will serve you both well in training. Everything you learn is one more piece of the puzzle. As far as Kazandath is concerned, if at first you don't succeed, try again. And again. He doesn't fuss over his failures; he lives his life day by day, and where he lacks, there's no inclination to fall apart. That includes mating flights. Where he wins, he's gracious about it, and he's as graceful a loser as any dragon can manage. The connections he forms, though, he seems to remember much longer than most: this green who he caught, this blue who was from the clutch he sired. He might not be a chatterbox, but he likes to know that he's part of the larger group.

Serena's Pika Pika! Pika Pika! Green Akiith

Fairy Duster Egg:
A brilliant explosion of color amongst the muted tones of fellow eggs, this tiny egg visually brightens the Sands with the flickering whimsy of faerie-fire, the vivid tones of flame-red and brilliant sunset-pink, bold. Though static it certainly is, the striated patterns of color running apex to bottom allows for the illusion of movement, as tiny, colorful filaments dancing upon the harsh desert wind.

Pika Pika! Pika Pika! Green Dragonet:
Camouflage patterns compact quarters with sagebrush and skybroom, a perfect desert patina of faded green and greenwood: for all the mottled splotches, her coloration cannot detract from the roly-poly innocence that curves rotund haunches, slides over well-padded ribs and slinks over the short breadth of her stocky neck only to puff cheeks into chubby half-domes of near-ridiculous childish proportion. Comic indeed could describe the pudgy rounds of wide headknobs and wideset eyes: so wide, in fact, that she forever carries a perpetual look of startlement, the sole bloom of color a vivid and verdant plume of aloe green sweeping as high-arched eyeridges. Despite the broad stance of stocky paws and the nearly noble expanse of dusted-sage wingsail, that expression forever marks her quizzical, her regard forever speaking, 'who, me?'.

Impression:
Where hot, arid Hatching Sands were before… cold, arid Hatching Sands replace. There is a jumble of thoughts, and feelings, and your limbs feel heavy, as if you've never quite mastered how to use them. One disconcerting /separation/ later, and you, Serena, realize that that is not YOU feeling that-that is Akiith. « Serena! » squeaks a high-pitched soprano, a dry tumbleweed skittering across the back of your mind. « Oh, Serena! » Less high-pitched, thank Faranth; less surprise, and more solidarity, as true Impression is made. « I'm Akiith. But you knew that. Can you help me? My legs don't want to WORK, and I think I'm going to FALL OVER, and… what's meat? Can you eat it? I think… I think I'm hungry. »

Personality:
Have fun living life with Akiith, Serena! It's likely to be, ah, interesting. For all that Akiith is very sweet, she's very accident-prone, and life will somehow manifest these accidents to look like they were /all your fault/. She'll, meanwhile, be sitting serenely on the side, wondering: « Why does everyone look mad, Serena? » She has a horrible memory, evenespeciallyfor a green dragon. That vat of oil she tipped over two minutes ago? She's forgotten it by now. Don't be so surprised when she slips on the slick path, and skids halfway through the barracks. By the way, uh, you may want to be well-acquainted with the dragonhealers, since this will also make her prone to an assortment of injuries.

Even though she's so absentminded, Akiith is at heart a gentle dragon. Her relations with her clutchmates will be marked by her typical sweet, mellow presence: she /adores/ everyone, and she thinks everyone should adore her back. In this is her singular egotistical exploit: she's cute, dammit. Where Yselkith may be more exotic and Zsaeliath more elegant, Akiith is chubby and CUTE and she will use that edge to try to win over some of her pricklier clutchmates to varying levels of success (and lots of failure). It's okay, though; she'll forget as quickly as she blunders into social awkwardness!

Akiith is roly-poly, with a tendency to chubbiness rather than svelte lines. She will /eat/ to match, and some may be aghast at where she puts away all that food! She is high-energy at times, and low-energy at others; she seems to cycle with the seasons, growing lethargic with Igen's mild winters and trending towards hyperactivity with the summer's oppressive heat. Her flights will almost always be during the warmer months—shell hit a swing, later in life, where she goes up like clockwork at the onset of summer and at the onset of fall. Her flights will be a tizzy of adrenaline and action, a short burst of speed and surprising height, only to fall prey to the first sly dragon. Short, but energetic; she'll be more inclined to remember these than anything else.

Akiith will have one other inclination that will likely drive you to woe before long. In the colder months, without such frenetic activity to drive her, Akiith will turn to other exploits—namely, larceny. Never before has there been such a dragon thief! Almost always small things, Akiith will just claim something. A shiny rock that a clutchmate was fond of. A pretty necklace that one of your fellow wingriders happened to leave laying out after drills. If it's shiny, or someone else is fond of it, it will /somehow/ end up in Akiith's little pile of hoarded treasure. When pressed, she'll simply be puzzled: it was completely compulsive, and she certainly didn't /mean/ to do it, and why are you so upset, Serena? Your wingmate will want it back, but it may be a little banged out of shape.

Chandri's Black and White and Blue All Over Tezlath

Eerie Twilight Egg:
Lacking the sparkle of sunset's brilliance, fading light sinks into night's violet and indigo, but all is muted by that peculiarity of evening that drains the vibrance from every hue. Unromantic, nearly gray, not yet moonlight-silvered, this egg settles at the very back edges of the clutch, at the far reaches of the realm of parental watchfulness. Dark settles onto dark sand, and if anything is stirring there, who would notice?

Black and White and Blue All Over Dragonet:
A little slip of a creature, all eyes and tail—and oh, what a tail! A tail to be proud of, a tail to tell your grandchildren about, stout and magnificent, easily longer than the rest of him put together, banded light and dark down the whole length. The rest of his hide assumes more crepuscular colors, glaucus gray-blue masked with midnight across his face. It takes a particular sort of balance to pull off such a tail, and he has it indeed, his slender little body arched oddly so that its bulk balances his front end just so. His faceted eyes are huge, but made to seem larger by the dark wells they sit in, ringed around with a shock of white.

Impression:
Big big big eyes look up into yours, and Tezlath lets out a startled squeak. Tezlath? « It is you! I thought it was you only I wasn't sure it was you but now I know that it's you. » At which point his tail lashes around, he makes another startled chirrup, licks it once, and then proceeds to twine himself all the way around you. Body and morseo, warm-fuzzy tendrils of something wrapping your thoughts up with his. « Mine, mine, mine, mine—food! Forgot food. But I'm all sandy. I'm all sandy, see? » His forepaws rub against each other, reluctantly setting foot on the sand again. « Clean and food. Clean and food and then we can cuddle. » At which point, tail held up carefully, he marches off in the direction of the weyrlingmasters. « Come on! »

Personality:
Tame, sweet, convivial creature, your Tezlath, right up until the moment he isn't anymore. His presence in your head is rather like a visiting relative with no sense of your personal space who likes to rifle through your underwear drawer and have loud conversations with you while you're in the bathroom. The invasion is rooted in the deepest possible love for you, but the warm-fuzzy tickle of his intrusion is likely to be unnerving at the best of times. And at the worst: « You did *that*? » Complete with lavish illustrations, shared with whoever happens to be handy, the little brother with no sense of discretion.

He treats the rest of your collective possessions no better, which conflicts with his inherently fastidious tendencies. Guess who gets to clean up? That's the price of having a dragon, but his need for tidiness can be downright neurotic. Igen's lake will never leave him feeling completely clean. « Can I wash my paws one last time? » He doesn't expect that much of you, just adherence with his every whim. But look at those eyes. Can you say no? Well, okay, if you do, he'll ask again.

Life is compromise, and it's not as though he doesn't make attempts to bottle up his nervous energy to suit you, but it's like a shaken seltzer bottle - eventually, something will have to give. He is a mover, an explorer, a finder of high places - he likes finding the toe-holds everywhere, wings just another way of getting to those spots where he can dig in and see absolutely everything. Those are the times he doesn't want to share; not with another dragon, sometimes not even with you, the times when he startles at the drop of a hat and a loud noise can send him into a tizzy. Mostly, he retreats under stress, which will make training require serious reassurance, not just yours but demanded from absolutely everyone: « Are we okay? Is this right? » He's an extraordinarily quick learner, and agile, but keeping calm under fire is another story.

Maybe this all isn't what you thought you wanted, but Tezlath knows better. He knows better about everything. You were meant for him. He was meant for you. « You love me. You have to love me, » he'll be quick to remind in your frustration. And you? He thinks you're perfect, everything about you, except that he'd rather so much was different. You should have more friends. You should be Weyrlingmaster when he grows up - no, wait, a watch-dragon! You should tell everybody how fantastic his tail is. At the end of the day, of course, he's never going to be able to sulk too long about these personal failings. He loves you, after all, even more than he loves his own tail. And that's saying something.

S'val's Greater Penetrating Power Bronze Kahreth

Hard as a Rock Egg:
If one was expecting something attractive for polite company, this isn't it. A rock is a rock, and this one is exactly as massive as one could imagine, as though some glacier had carried off a proper egg and left this lump of gray stone in its place. Smooth-polished, perhaps, over the curving crown, but the shadowy underbelly displays signs of rough handling, shale shell pocked with granite imperfections.

Greater Penetrating Power Bronze Dragonet:
Sleek lines, efficient styling, a muzzle so straight you could use it as a ruler: this is a bronze that means business. Burnished dark, he could almost have been machined from a single piece of metal, only the hint of golden feathery markings along the underside of his wingsails and along his collar. His hide gleams dully, oiled polish across the sharp neck ridges and broad shoulders, leaving just the hint of a greenish patina clinging to firm flesh. His size seems built to nearly a gold's scale, but thicker, muscular, so much mass that inertia seems to dictate his movements despite slick styling: once in motion, his body is extremely slow to change course.

Impression:
Did you wonder what it would feel like, this moment? It turns out it feels someting like being punched in the stomach, which might have something to do with the bronze forehead that lands just there, knocking all the breath straight out of you, dislodging something of the old you and replacing it, in that same moment, with a spreading vastness, horizon to horizon of clear skies. Or perhaps that's the oxygen deprivation. « Boss? Boss? S'val? » A flash of hysterical worry is replaced with a rush of pleased confidence when it turns out you aren't, say, dead or something. « Brilliant! Found you. S'val and Kahreth—sounds good, right, boss? Sounds good like *food*, if you get my meaning. »

Personality:
On the up side, some of your dreams have come true: Kahreth is every bit as brash, capable, confident, and BRONZE as any cocky kid from the back of nowhere could have any hope for. He's big. He's impressive-looking. Okay, he's dumb as a box of rocks. You can't have everything. Kahreth doesn't need a brain. He's a dragon. He has yours.

Guns, as they say, don't kill people. People kill people. Fate has, perhaps, handed you a loaded weapon, which might not be the best thing to do with someone with your ego and aggression problems. Fate has a sense of humor.

He certainly doesn't present himself as an idiot. No lolling head, no, 'duhh' mentality. Kahreth is sharp-eyed, alert, straight-backed, almost always. Even in sleeping, he never fully relaxes, that particular avian talent of sleeping with half his mind still waiting for something to happen. He flies well, and what he seriously lacks in agility, he has in brute force. Unfortunately, those same talents are less useful on the ground. His tendency is to believe that every problem can be solved by physical confrontation. To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. « Can we pound *this* one? » Maybe he has enough sense not to engage in physical altercations beyond pushing and shoving, but as far as he's concerned, you punching somebody in the face is a perfectly reasonable way to deal with a problem. He has no concept of unacceptable targets.

Kahreth is very, very impressed with your ideas. It doesn't matter what they are. He likes them like he's getting paid to shill them. « Your plan is at least twice as likely to succeed as his, because yours makes allowance for the warm updrafts over Keroon. » Unfortunately, much like a salesman, he's usually talking out of his ass, and he wouldn't know Keroon's updrafts from a hole in the ground, but it sounds good, doesn't it? He's got a certain code of ethics, but it doesn't exactly fit anybody else's, and it mostly centers around giving things a good head start before he pounds them.

In other words, the majestic bronze at your disposal forevermore is not really all that majestic. He could eat his weight in just about anything, including occasionally things not meant to be edible if he's hungry enough or just distracted while eating. Tidiness is always somebody else's problem, which will usually mean yours, which will usually mean things like cleaning hair and gristle and blood-spatter out of places you would never have expected. You get his absolute loyalty, but also his constant need to touch base with all the mental delicacy of a ten-ton weight falling from the ceiling. « You awake, boss? Just checking. » You'll get used to it.

Jendira's Get Back on the Burro Blue Poith

Frozen Moon Egg:
The reflective glow of moonlight's serene kiss touches the shell of this medium-sized egg, a touch of iced blue on the pale surface a cold hue in contrast to so many warm, sandy fellows. Patches of glacial white and gray-green shadows pockmark the otherwise smooth coloration, distorting the oval shape to look nothing more like Belior's distant face, all ancient craters and distant canyons.

Get Back on the Burro Blue Dragonet:
Gleaming azure plates the compact bulk of this young blue like a polished coat of armor, emphasizing the powerful musculature beneath as though every definition was painstakingly pounded into steel. Broad shoulders become wings, a cloak of navy sails embroidered by the same silver-gray that wizens his blunt muzzle and the hide over his bones. A midnight hue casts shadows over his distinctively large head knobs, trails along gently sloping neckridges and continues all the way down to the fork of his stocky tail, only interrupted where the darkness creeps down either side of his shoulders. Black-taloned feet carry him with capable, if not quite graceful, surefootedness.

Impression:
A weight, like a hand on your shoulder, like something pulling a string on your heart and then diving down, plunging but also centering. Then an instant of spinning vertigo, as though the earth is turning beneath you. Silvery filament of thought meets yours: « Careful! Don't fall. I'm Poith, by the way. » And so he is, shining blue, suddenly leaning into you, steady as stone, as his thoughts weave into your head as though they've always been there. « There we are. Good. That's sorted. Now—what's your name? »

Personality:
Whatever life's terrain, even if your feet are a bit unsure, Poith is always steady, ready to be your rock. Never mind what some people might say of blues; his internal foundations are solid, leaving him to exude a serenity and composure that may not seem entirely familiar to you. From his youth, he has a strong idea of what exactly is right and wrong: « I do not see why pain should be drawn out just for us to get our sustenance. » It may take awhile for other dragons to appreciate his convictions, but as far as he is concerned, it would be inconceivable not to intervene when there's an injustice in the world. Later, perhaps, others will really start to see his wisdom; he does so want to be taken seriously.

He might be stubborn about his beliefs, but your dragon, he's an idealist. He likes to believe that everyone deserves a second chance, that there's good in every heart. That may not always be true, but even when disappointed, he just gets right back up again—and he's so very proud when you do the same in the face of life's hurts. This is not to say that he won't go to great lengths to protect you, to defend your honor, but you have to go out there and get your hands dirty, once in awhile.

A real sense of humor lurks under that serious mein; he doesn't take himself too seriously, and he has a particular fondness for odd jokes that may or may not make sense to others. « How is a wherry like a riding boot? » It doesn't bother him if nobody gets it. Music draws him like a moth to flame, but he can't carry a tune in a bucket, himself. Still, you may catch him humming sometimes, to himself or to you when you're alone.

Threadfall, as far as Poith is concerned, is simply a mission, a hill that must be climbed day after day, and he never seems to tire from that routine or flinch from the danger, though he is also far from one to rush head-first into trouble. Once more into the breach, every time, with you by his side, never doubting your eventual triumph. His best talents as a dragon lay elsewhere, especially in finding the young ones for the increasing numbers of large clutches. « There's something so sad about them, all alone. » But he's only going to take the ones who really 'feel' right—even if that person isn't exactly the one you would have thought. Second chances, right?

Z'kiah's Son of a Goat so Basically Also a Goat Bronze Giedith

Great Horned Egg:
Unassuming, not overlarge, shadowed striations traverse the shell of this egg, over a background of mottled brown and cream, aged bark of an ovoid tree long since lost its leaves to the dry heat. To say that an egg has horns would, of course, be ridiculous, but two dark streaks slash across the upper half on opposite sides, curving just so, as though someone went and drew them on with black ink. On the up side, it wasn't a toothbrush mustache.

Son of a Goat so Basically Also a Goat Bronze Dragonet:
Some message lost between genetic code and its expression; this bronze is almost misshapen, and certainly not any proper figure of majestic metallic glory. Stubby legs, too skinny for a stout body, thick neck and a broad but ultimately someow too-small head. Piebald color seems confused as to what it ever wanted to be in the first place; huge, clearly-defined patches of color, except for that metallurgical sheen almost true brown, leave glimpses of a mutant-pale base over his stomach and sides and blazing up his muzzle. His headknobs are huge, back-curving, dark and irregular, metal beaten into that shape by an inexpert blacksmith remembering tales of bronze weaponry and achieving instead something in the way of an abstract coat-rack.

Impression:
If there is any first word that ought to inspire confidence in a relationship, it is this one: « Idiot! » No, that's not right. There was someting else. Too late, now. « Yes, I meant you. » Poets have attempted to describe this moment and have failed, perhaps because their images of the union of minds did not include quite the same pervading odor of wet livestock. No angelic choirs seem to be forthcoming. « More than I can say for the rest of them. At least it can't get any worse. Don't just stand there. Get on with that moronic 'his name is Giedith' business and maybe we can sneak out of here before anybody notices. »

Personality:
Of all of the hopes and dreams of young men these days, very few contain goats. There are a number of legends which involve goats, but rarely is the goat a central character. A boy and his horse, sure. A boy and his dog. Never a boy and his goat. This deficiency in the creativity of the storytellers of your youth, Z'kiah, is not our responsibility. A goat is a perfectly good friend and adventuring companion.*

You have not, of course, Impressed a goat, you've Impressed a dragon, but the difference is minute and therefore not worth mentioning, at least in this particular case.

Your brand new bronze goat - er, dragon - is an impressive creature. Perhaps, we will grant, not impressive so much in the sense that others will look at him with awe and wonder, so much as that he will at least impress himself on their memories. His distinctive countenance may not lead the Lord Holders to regard you as their equal, but they will remember you, "the guy with the funny looking dragon, Z'something."

Your fellow weyrlings and wingmates, too, will no doubt be very impressed by how much you contribute to drills. « Have you thought about what they're asking us to do? This stuff falls out of the sky and *eats everything that touches it.* I don't want to fly up there while that's falling. Have you all gone mad? » People will certainly remark on how they have never actually seen a bronze attempt to hide behind a green before. Or one that faked having a head cold to get out of morning sweeps. It might be for the best; it's certainly not as though Giedith has any talent for flying Thread. Or flying, at all, at first. Getting airborne is going to be tricky for him, landing even more so, and forget any kind of aerial acrobatics. Eventually, he'll pick up some tactics, but they're likely to be unconventional at best. « Look, do you want us to be pretty or do you want us to be breathing? »

He's snarky and dismissive to his fellows at the best of times, in addition to being unattractive, none of which will adequately explain the appeal he holds to certain vapid-but-well-built females. It probably helps that he cheats at flights. We must, however, caution you that under no circumstances should you heed his particular variety of relationship advice, as it may be hazardous to your physical or mental health. This particularly includes any suggestions that you simply offer to remove a woman's undergarments with your teeth, and/or directives that you'd have better luck if you wore a bucket over your head and only met women in the dark.

(* No guarantees are made as to the suitability of this particular model for friendship and/or adventuring.)