Illusory scales of paled enamel accentuate the underside of a solid neckline, interlocked crescents flowing over ripples of sinew and muscle to a robust frame. Cenobitic and dignified, prominent cheekbones partnered with distinguished eye-ridges add acuity to his natural stockiness. Headknobs rise eminently from a sloped cranium, twin minarets swathed in the same brassy lamella that his stately chest bears. As though stricken by a spear, a roughly heart-shaped splash of ichorous color stands in striking contrast upon the escutcheon of his breast. Darker, burnt shading casts esoteric shadows along the line of his spine from the tip of his broad muzzle to the end of his intimidating tail-spade. This darkness spreads across his shoulders, rich bronze varnished with the soot of incinerated palimpsests, granite and vellum ash delineating the breadth of his shoulders reaching to dust the spindles of his wingspars. The very gossamer of his wingsails appears as stretched, cured hide upon the frame, an evenly ecru hue laminated with metallic gloss. Diminutive neckridges descend the column of his spine, weathered stonework monuments which play host to faint roundels of oxidized alloy, encroaching loam and lichen faintly visible upon the base of each ridge.
Egg Name and Description
Illuminated Tome of Guidance Egg
Letters of black written in ink of iron-gall, etched by quill-tips long lost, form precise and tiny rows of script across the ovoid surface of this egg. Tawny and brittle parchment of mottled beige has been overwritten; a capital flourishes, a sworl of lettering and knotwork vines weaving outwards from this splash of color upon ecru. Indecipherable to the untrained eye, beneath the dominating capital, smaller letters exist amongst the overwhelming plethora of entangled designs, abstract rather than realistic. Age has faded the entire design, making outlining blues seem like dwindling twilight grays, reds made rustier than their prime crimson. Gold has flaked away to reveal cured hide beneath. But for sheer intricacy of detail it cannot be contested; winding mazes of ancient ink capture the eye, endlessly surrounding the shell with no end or beginning in the carefully crafted oblivion of devotion.
The Illuminated Tome of Guidance Egg trembles in a prelude to life's emergence. Faint, testing scratching and shifting presses against the shell. Tentative at first, gradually more bold and self-assured that this challenge can be defeated, the egg shifts visibly on its axis, dull thudding resounding from within.
The Illuminated Tome of Guidance Egg is the source of a quiet splitting sound, surely lost in the cacophony of similar sounds, and the cries of alarm and joy from both dragonets and candidates surrounding. Lines of calligraphy have revealed their weakness, cracks broadening along antique lines. Fluid seeps from these cracks, dampening and darkening the egg's parchmentesque beige. The heat of the sands quickly warms this fluid, hardening it; a glossed surface highlights the penned color designs, movement within making of the once-tranquil ovoid a shifting, crackling mass.
The Illuminated Tome of Guidance Egg crumbles, determination and patience winning out for the hatchling within at last. Iron-gall lettering and palimpsest tawny are reduced to shards, membranous wings emerging from shell and viscous liquid, pieces of the irreversibly damaged work of art still clinging to newborn skin.
Somehow, despite the heat of Igen's hatching sands, even more warmth surges around you. It has a definitive source, a sharp point from which it radiates, and that is within the center of your body. The beat of your own heart is nearly deafening, now joining with draconic counterparts so sturdy that your own body seems to throb with each pulsation. It hits with strength, a flare and a rush of illumination from the oil-soaked wick of your heart, white light filtering to touch your mind. « Kylin! » The overwhelming sensation ebbs but faintly, giving way to what must be a relieving coolness. This new weight encircles your core of being, as a great mind and heart make its home in yours. Fortifying and protective, the very stone of this union being laid can be felt as it is rapidly built, in a rush of construction that raises you up with it. « I am Fulcioth, Kylin. I'm /so/ glad you are the one. » This great mind basks in the joy of finding its completeness, its other heart. Just as you saw the light of his mind touching yours, so has he seen the beacon of your own presence, and marvels at it. But beneath the elation of the heart, the sudden hollowness of stomach and weariness of newborn limbs unused to exercise hits the bronze, and ripples to you in powerful waves. « I believe it's the hour for food, and then…rest. » A soft sigh completes that remark, full of peace despite his hunger.
He is born from the egg almost as if he has been alive since the formation of Pern itself. He is not haughty with this confidence, nor does he look down upon his clutch siblings; it simply manifests in a solidarity of persona and presence many other hatchlings lack. That's not to say that in his first sevendays he'll be utterly without fault. In fact, small errors of judgement might initially mar the pedagogical aura he tries to maintain, when he struggles to evaluate the characters of your fellow riders, and his clutchsiblings. Initially uncertain of who is honorable and who is not, he'll look to you for guidance in his youth, in hopes you'll lend your mind's evaluative powers to the difficult task of discerning the mettle of those around him. He'll be cautious in any new exploits, such as flying, hunting, and betweening. The examples made by his elders are invaluable to Fulcioth, who puts great stock in the weight of age's experience. Amusingly enough, from day one he'll be there to ensure you pay proper attention to those who might mentor you in your new life. You might find he keeps you awake, for he has very little need for sleep, even when he's growing. He'll go to sleep late, sleep incredibly deeply, but then wake before dawn the next day, and the sheer weight of his rousing mind may force this habit upon you, as well, for better or for worse.
Fulcioth is a bronze, indeed, but he does not fit the brazen stereotype of his metallic skin. That is not to say that he lacks force. His brand of presence is tempered with quiet confidence and unspoken purpose. He's rarely miffed, seldom perturbed, and is willing to share the solidity of his mind with those who might be troubled around him. Most often, assistance is offered in a silent mind-touch to dragonkin, or gentle words to you. Occasionally, gentle humor might be employed to enliven a mood if hearts grow too heavy. For while Fulcioth is a dragon with solemnity, he doesn't wish to be overly grave or sombre at all. He has great wit, not unlike a friendly grandfather's in that it is knowing, often subtle, and always full of wholesome mirth - it sometimes smacks of sarcasm. « Bad breath? You too would have bad breath with herdbeast stuck behind your back teeth! »
When called upon for more serious reflection (or, indeed, even when he is not directly asked for it) he tends to lean towards traditionalism rather than more progressive ideas. Even in this modern, post-AIVAS Pern, he behaves and thinks as though they lived within the middle of the Seventh Interval. Social structures and customs should be maintained, not broken, and any idea which is too novel or risky will meet with wariness before consideration. « We have lived a certain way for thousands of years - it is as the Ancients wished it. Should we change so much, only because Thread no longer falls? »
He has given you his whole spirit, and asks in return only that you give your spirit to him. He will implore you to know only virtue, speak only truth, and defend the helpless. He will not berate you if you fall short of these lofty ideals, for he well knows the nature of humanity. He will only ever encourage you to right your mistakes; if you do not realize you've made one, he will act as your gentle guide and point it out to you. He's something of an undemanding ascetic, and will not condone foolish overindulgence in food, drink, or affection. He understands that there is need for play and relaxation, but he'll act as a tempering barrier if ever you're tempted by sybaritic urges. Likewise, he'd never let you work /too/ hard. He has the wisdom of the middle path, and will preach this equally to you. He's astute for a dragon, and often uses your mind as his own personal library and scriptorium within which to store and reference information he might otherwise forget thanks to draconic memory's limits.
When it comes to his own pastimes, his fondest hobby is stargazing. Don't be surprised if he subtly entreats you to learn the patterns up there, for his benefit. No knowledge is wasted, and he'll take quiet delight when you endeavor to learn a new skill, or gain more information. The skies above Igen are glorious at night, and he'll seek out vantage points from which to view the spectacle, and he'll often nudge you to come along with him, no matter what the hour. Perhaps to your detriment, he seems to be able to maintain his robust energy without a large amount of sleep, and enjoys waking before sunrise even when his long stargazing nights approach the midnight hour and beyond.
When females around him rise, and he begins to take interest, he'll marvel at the sudden urges to take flight after green or gold forms. Either has the potential to please him, and he'll be respectful to both, though perhaps more deferential to the latter if he happens to win. With the scent of a female infusing his head with odd thoughts, his weighty mindvoice becomes a little lighter, more colorful painted hues coming to the forefront where they were not before. That candle within your mind will become like a thousand burning tapers, with fire pumping through your blood from the moment he leaps to the sky, meshing his vast emotions and sensations with yours. Genuine, earnest, and eager he'll be in his pursuit of a female. Though his appetites are substantial, he's not one to boast or brag about any concept of virility. In fact, he might downplay his libido considerably, almost to the point of bashfulness, and pursue a small circle of females rather than spread his affections to all four winds. He deems it unsuitable to squabble over a female like a piece of meat, and is likely to silently disapprove of any males who behave too crassly towards the lady of the day. He's a gentle wooer, who is more likely to divine a crafty route to the flying prize than bully his way through the cluster of males in pursuit. Interestingly, your preferences will be considered very seriously; if you dislike any rider strongly enough, Fulcioth can be convinced to remain on the ground. You are his first, his foremost, and he would not let his lusts displease you, nor escalate to a point of embarrassment for either of you.
A Chorus of Benevolence
His voice is sonorous and richly layered, not unlike a Harper's baritone that has been cultivated to lend its weight in oration. It often gives the mental illusion of a cloister full of voices, with deep murmurs supporting his clear words. A favorite pastime of his is to sing within your mind, amiably offering his own composed ditties which often resemble stout marches in their strong cadence and low octaves. When he is not singing, he'll be silent, or speaking to you with brevity; he dislikes wasting words, or speaking in a superfluous manner. With his mellow words often comes the sensation of gentle psychic weight, like a mantle and crown around your head and shoulders. Defying his desert birth, his mindvoice seems to convey the thickness associated with watersoaked loam, drenched soil and stone after a long winter downpour - this is the cool, earthy weight of presence you feel when your Fulcioth speaks to you. When that substantial mental touch is not aimed at you directly, there's always a soft candle burning in the back of your mind with a pulsing heart to accompany it, a constant guiding presence of light and sound within weighted stone walls.
A Chorus of Benevolence ushers you to silence so that you might hear. The subtle echoes of long-lost voices in monophonic unison melt throughout the caverns of your mind. A flickering candle burns at the center of this tranquil existence, quietly confident and dedicated. Tendrils of interest outstretch to you, a fellow newcomer, brushes of sackcloth and soft vellum making curious contact. Humble greetings withdraw backwards, a slow retreat back towards inner pursuits, drawing you along. There's unvoiced invitation to watch invisible brushes applying color to a blank slate of tan, soft scratching noises a backdrop as black miniscule calligraphy writes a cryptic message. It cannot be divined now, but gentle pressure of a familial sort implies explanation for the inductee, and promises comprehension of mysteries at the end of a long road of guided dedication.
A Chorus of Benevolence welcomes your presence with conviviality, warm sworls of melding alto chant like a soothing blanket that permeates even the darkest recesses of your mind. The potential for brotherhood here is strong; an invitation to be inducted to a prestigious order. With the warmth of invitation is yet a warning, to ward off those who might not have the mettle to apply themselves to veneration and devotion to an ideal. The scent of cured hide and beeswax mingles with hops, dust in corners chased away for a warm breath of spring air to permeate the corridors of stone. Sustenance is laid before you, plain but simple fare consisting of hospitable sensations, the impression of openness and sanctuary flowing over your mind and body like the folds of a garment settling into place.
A Chorus of Benevolence sets before you a measure of yourself, in gentle confrontation. Your purpose is questioned with voiceless rhetoric, candles lit in shrouded corners to reveal the outline of your own mental borders. Question and answer dance in catechism, putting you to the challenge of confronting belief, or deferring to darkness. If there is fear, the confrontation ends with a gentle fading of inquiry. A flare of pride will meet with quiet disapproval, and goading to improvement. Gentle reprimands fall where flaws are found, administered with an impression of fasting hunger. But the forced introspection is not relentless, and eases off with a brush-stroke of hope for the sake of your betterment.
The name itself (pronounced ful-SEE-oath) is derived from the Latin root 'fulcio', which means to uphold and support, both in a physical and moral sense. Fulcioth's egg was inspired by the Book of Kells, a painstakingly made medieval manuscript from Ireland. The dragon who sparked his persona was the sagacious Draco from the movie Dragonheart, with some monkish influence seeping in to buoy his personality. This combination appealed to me because Draco could uphold the medieval, somewhat monastic air established with the egg itself, making for unity of theme; as well, Draco's inherit character brought to my mind the last member of an unspoken monastic order, upholding ageless laws and mores with all the strength of his soul.
|Name||Escutcheoned Heart Bronze Fulcioth|
|Hatched||February 11, 2006|