Behold, for the time of heroes is nigh! Here is one such champion now, a creature composed of valorous posture and teeming energy, for whom the word 'no' has little meaning, and 'stop,' even less. Unbridled valiance vibrates through corded musculature, lengthens his stride to something both gallant and bold, lofts his wings high and proud against his back, and still that infinite, untamed potential crackles at his every edge. Coloration does not so much temper as it does embolden him, brassy hide buffed to brilliance, his inner flame, his burning righteousness shining through cracks in his armature in scalding arcs. White-hot candescence beams from behind breastplate and greaves in sunny rays, shimmers along the glorified lines of pauldrons, sizzles the very skin beneath the helmeted arc of heavy headknobs before cascading back to turn wingtops into dazzling, dashing capery. Deep bronze surges up all four paws, twisting to form elegant chainmail braids beneath his wings before clanging down the length of his spine in one long, bladed point, as though a mighty sword were borne upon his back.


Egg Name and Description

The Beast That Calls the Egg
Compared to some of its siblings, this egg is a riot of color, a bright wash of purple against the pale backdrop of the sands. It is not one shade of purple however, but many, flowing betwixt and between themselves in charming iridescence. It's a soft periwinkle at its palest, the downy color flanked by a much more ebullient shade of fuchsia before fading from violet to bruised royalty to the crushed-velvet depths of the night sky. Nebulous refractions keep this from being a perfect gradient from one color to the next, frosty blues and spatters of gold and white forming star-patterns the longer one stops to consider the egg's shell. Some are familiar, some are as alien as the dragon it might one day produce, constellations standing out as golden diamonds in a field of scattered frost. It's only when one approaches the egg from its far side that a sense of dread sets in, that one realizes that perhaps this egg is not all it seems: two red orbs stare out from the egg's shadowiest depths, appearing for all the world to be eyes that seem to track no matter what angle they're viewed from. Limned with half-sickles of gold, they appear to lend the egg a distinctly unfriendly edge, but who knows… Things are not always what they appear.

Hatching Message

Wobble Message
The Beast That Calls the Egg shivers on the sands, a vibration as though whatever being trapped within the confines of its ovoid form cannot be contained for much longer.

Crack Message
The Beast That Calls the Egg comes to life, splintering shell spiderwebbing outward and up, framing the red orbs of its shell in a way that lends depths to shadows that were not there only moments before. Perhaps, as it lies still again, it is watching you…

Hatch Message
The Beast That Calls the Egg shatters, sending a mess of egg-goo flinging indiscriminately out, nailing one or FIVE candidates with the glory of its birthing. First comes a snout, bursting through just under those red-eyed dots, and then the rest of an egg-wet hatchling, clumsy in those first steps of freedom.

Sands Pose #1
More Than Just a Fable Bronze Hatchling HAS ARRIVED! And OH! Look there! An entire arena brimming to sing his praises and throw candidates at his feet! HUZZAH! That capable body snaps to attention, whirling eyes cast upon the line of white-robed hopefuls with an up-tilt of his chin, as if — already — this tiny bronze beast is poised in the confidence of his inevitable hero-ocity. VILLAINS! He knew he would be evil-doers doing EVIL outside of his shell. Very well. HE ACCEPTS YOUR CHALLENGE! CHAAARGE! … Maybe you should prepare to run.

Sands Pose #2
More Than Just a Fable Bronze Hatchling MEANT TO MISS ON PURPOSE! Though you are all slightly less dead than he was expecting. His shiny body kicks up sand as he comes to a graceless halt, haunches pressed into sand, tail flung wildly behind him before that, too, comes to a stop. There's a chirrup-cheep that escapes him, a tilt of that impressive head as whirling eyes reassess the VILLAINY BEFORE HIM. CHALLENGERS. AND HIS SISTERS BETRAY HIM. NO MATTER. This was but a hiccup! Prepare to meet destiny, white-robes!

Impression Message

Public Message
More Than Just a Fable Bronze Hatchling will never let you get away! Did you think that you might run from him? Did you think that you might ESCAPE with your pretty little 'IF I WAS ON A FARM RIGHT NOW' DREAMS? FOOL! Here comes a whole heck of a lot of too-quick hatchling, barrelling forward at breakneck speeds to deliver a healthy heaping dose of encouragement!! … Right into the ribs of one particularly (un)lucky blonde candidate. Oh, don't mind that crunching sound. Or the wheezing. He might have almost slain this one with his radiating valor, but at least he did it bravely!

Private Message
Moments ago you were on the heat of the sands, but now you're here, standing in the brilliance of a forest, blinded by sunlight as it dapples through treeleaves and turns a spotlight onto you. Fauna rises, permeates, SLAMS INTO YOU LIKE A THOUSAND POUNDS OF NEWBORN HATCHLING that might not be the only reason you're suddenly out of breath. Fire and the crash of steel rises in your mind, a voice bleeds into every thought with an impression of something so upbeat, so daring, so very, very heroic. « STEFYR? WHAT IN VALOR'S NAME IS THAT? STTTEEEEFYRRRRR. IT SOUNDS LIKE WHAT I IMAGINE TRAITOROUS HERDBEASTS SQUEAL AS THEY ARE CRUSHED BENEATH THE WEIGHT OF MY BRAVERY. » But what name will do? It's a shiver of anticipation moments before a door slams into existence before you, tripping you through the threshhold and into a maze of stone-bare walls. « YOU NEED A NAME, MY NEW FRI — AHAHAHA! THAT IS NOT PAIN! THAT IS ENCOURAGEMENT! WHAT'S THAT? GET OFF? MERCY? OH, F'YR-SOME ONE. I AM FAR TOO BRAVE FOR MERCY! THAT IS IT! WE SHALL CALL YOU F'YR. But, oh! What is this? There is a new formidable foe — I believe it rages in my belly. Ahahaha! Our first adventure awaits us! Come, mine one true companion. Fortune favors the brave! ONWARD!!!! »



Glorion: I. AM. HONOR!!!!

WHAT HO, STEFYR. You didn't really think that you were going to escape Xanadu Weyr with a normal dragon, did you? One whose dedication, whose quest for unending glory would do anything BUT exacerbate the (un)expected norm? Did you really think that a hatchling, borne of diamond-dazzles and oh-Faranth-is-that-a-WHALE? royalty, a true heir of overt overshare, a progeny of THE Ilyscaeth and THE Xermiltoth - one who probably endured one too many jarring reiterations of, « BADASS, » deep in his iridescent shell - would be unaffected by the standard-issue abuse of capslock and excessive application of enthusiasm? Did you expect that your Glorioth, oh F'yr-some Stefyr of Yesterturn, would NOT, somehow, adopt an absolute disregard for volume and those upon which he might unleash it?

NOT ON GLORIOTH'S EXCEEDINGLY VALIANT WATCH, WHERE MERCY IS JUST ANOTHER WORD FOR, 'BEAT IT UNTIL IT FEELS ENCOURAGED,' OR, AT THE VERY LEAST, CHARGE BRAVELY HEADLONG YELLING, « ONWAAAAAaaaAAAAaaaAARD! » UNTIL IT DIES. No. That's it. Just 'dies'. We have no prose in our arsenal to make that pretty, and Glorioth doesn't have enough mercy in his bones to make it less.

Weyrlinghood will not be easy - for either of you. Glorioth has inherited all of his sire's restlessness, and will be ill content indeed to spend any of your waking hours lying about doing things like… relaxing. Eugh. He shudders just to think such a dreadful, horrid word. No. Each day shall be an adventure, blazing trails into the great unknown!! There is so much to do, even more to see!! QUICKLY, F'YROCIOUS ONE! You must rescue damsels that are probably not actually in distress, halt evil-doers you catch in the midsts of doing evil (like trying to take the last bubbly-pie), catch up with his treacherous clutchsiblings ( « PERCHANCE YOU HAVE SEEN THEM, LEIRITH. THEIR EYES ARE SHIFTY, AND BACKSTABBING. »), raze the feeding grounds and earn the title Herdslayer, find the ones who sing his praises and throw roses at his feet because he is a paragon of HONOR and JUSTICE!

You get the point.

Luckily, when he's younger, everywhere will be fodder for adventure! His goldfish mind, paired with just enough relative chaos to keep things fresh and interesting, will make the smallest trips seem like grand explorations. Today he forged valiantly forth into the dark, forgotten realm of the far corner of the barracks. Tomorrow, you shall purge the wastes of the lost and found bin! And next week - you shall spelunk deep, DEEP into the chasms of THE LAUNDRY ROOM. What's that, bravest F'yr? Thou art not allowed into the laundry room? HAHAHAHAHA NONSENSE!!! That is only a rule for dragons who might not fit through the door, and he— hhhhnggggg hdfdfggggrrrrrYES! HE IS MIGHTY. HE FITS. ONWAAAAAAAAAARD!

One hopes that the weyrlingmasters will see reasons to allow him - and some of his more, ah, boisterous counterparts - out into the exercise yard early, for though he is small for his color, he will still grow fastfastfast compared to the rest, and it. will. cause. problems. That hidey-hole he so bravely invaded (destroying the family of rodents within, no doubt) will no longer properly house his growing form but that will not stop him, nor will your foolish attempts at logic. What's that? He is too large? NONSENSE, HE FIT JUST LAST WEEK. It is one of the few things he remembers, still! And trust us… if he does not fit, he will make himself fit, even if it winds up with his butt end spilling out into the night air amidst a loud cracking of boards. WHAT. THEY WERE WEAK ANYWAYS. NOT FITTING AT ALL FOR THE LIKES OF HIS SIBLINGS, OR HIS HIM-NESS. THEY SHOULD REPLACE IT FORTHRIGHT.

And so it will go, endless chaos spreading in concentric circles, with him at their epicenter, no matter what his F'yrless leader thinks. He will go and go and go and go, an energizer bunny in shining armor, vanquishing such foes as RATIONAL THOUGHT, COUNTERARGUMENTS, COLD HARD LOGIC, AND - much to literally everyone's chagrin - SLEEP!!! That is the foe he likes vanquishing the most, those cute baby headbobbles resulting in progressively less-cute, « HUHN? WHA? NO. I AM AWAKE. WHAT HOUR? FIE. WE DO NOT OBEY SUCH MEANINGLESS CONSTRUCTS AS TIME. LOOK OVER THERE. THERE IS A BEAST CLIMBING INTO EVI'S BED. What, it's her foot hanging from beneath the blanket? WELL HOW SHALL WE KNOW UNLESS WE FIGHT IT. FOR GLORY!!!!! »

RIP foot. We hardly knew ye.

And then one day - one GLORI-OUS, BEAUTIMOUS DAY - a single seed of wisdom will blossom. Its exact one corn kernel of brilliance will sprout. AND THEN, OH THEN, F'YR, YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE. For the worse.

What, did you think we were about to say better? Ha ha ha. Fool.

Because on that day he will realize he has a destiny, a true life's calling, and that is to be the very best - like no one ever was! And on this day, he will pledge to you, to the weyr, to anyone close enough (and not already dragon-deaf enough) to hear it that he, Glorioth, doth hereby swear to be the most bravest, most strongest, most honorable warrior that the skies of Pern have EVER SEEN and that will be the end of whatever scraps of sleep you had left.

Take heart, though, brave Stefyr, for all things that go up must one day come down, and when Glori crashes, he crashes hard. F'yr might get the majority of whole days to himself, enough time to pass out hard, wake up, and still have time to be a human without his dragon's energetic everpresence at his side. Cherish these times. Lament them. It's up to you what you do, but nothing short of his own Glori-ousness will raise him from the dead.

We'd like to say this push, this drive will level out once he's older, but that would be a lie. Glorioth is not one to be deterred, you see - not by wisdom, not by disapproval, not by sweet innocence that might have swayed any better dragon. The thing that deviates from dams, and sires, and YES EVEN LEIRITH is that your Glorioth will be less interested in those around him (UNLESS THEY ARE A FOE-VILLAIN, UPON WHICH HE MIGHT EXERT HIS BRAVERY), and much more interested in himself. Yes, yes, their stories are probably alright, F'yr, but DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE ONE TIME WHEN HE— There just isn't a whole lot of space in your dragon's mind for anybody other than him and how he might best further his quest for Total Pern Glori-fication. Except for you, of course. But that's because you are his F'yrless Leader, his F'yrocious Companion, his devoted statuary, his Roderick.

Even grown, your Glorioth will not have a single daunt in his body. HE BELIEVES IN HIMSELF. He believes in you too, F'yr, but mostly he believes IN HIMSELF. That's not necessarily a bad thing; you certainly will not have to endure the woes of a lifemate whose delicate feelings have found themselves irrevocably RUINED by scathing censure. Likewise, you will never have to endure the pit-less woes of abject failure because your Glorioth KNOWS he can do any damn thing he sets his mind to - or murder it. No? No murder? HOW ABOUT A LITTLE BIT OF ENCOURAGEMENT THEN? Look, the point is your Glorioth knows he can do all of the things. All of them. Every single one. No matter what it takes.

Even if he can't, he doesn't run away from them. There is no such word as 'can't' in his SURPRISINGLY EXTENSIVE vocabulistics. If anything, your Glorioth charges head first into danger like he was born to it. He rises to meet it, without compunction, without hesitation, without any real thought to what happens when he fails. BECAUSE HE CANNOT FAIL. HE IS GROWING TIRED OF YOUR DEFEATISM, F'YR. And this, this is also where you might run into a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Glorioth is unbelievably headstrong and unreasonably confident. There's no room for doubt, no room for uncertainty, no room for reason. He's a throw-caution-to-the-wind, regret-it-second kind of dragon. He's the kind of dragon you can't censure because he JUST. DOESN'T. GET IT. And when (and if) you give up attempting to explain rationality to Glorioth and start answering him with sarcasm, well… he doesn't get that either. AND HIS HEARTFELT THANKS FOR ALL THE COMPLIMENTS, F'YRVENT COMPANION.

This absolute disregard for you - for anybody - when he believes he's in the right (and believe us, F'yr, he's always in the right in his mind) is not because he intends to be cruel, not in that heartless care-nothingness he wears proudly like a badge of honor. It's just that he has a very, very puzzling sense of justice. He follows his own code, sometimes in the most literal sense:

“Glori that was you. Five minutes ago. You literally said you sensed a dastardly danger.”

There is nothing you can say to discourage him (though you can, absolutely, control him — he just might banter with you for HOURS), nothing too important to waylay his JOURNEY, his QUEST, his HONOR!!!! And so, perhaps when even your restraint over him is waning, a queen or five might become a necessary evil for curbing his impulses.

Some less-kind folk might interpret this as being a lack of smarts, on his part and… well… they aren't terribly wrong. It isn't that Glorioth is stupid in the strictest sense, because he speaks well and functions enough that he just might make it out of weyrlinghood one day, it's that he puts whatever brainy bits he does have towards some incredibly questionable things. Quests. Pursits. Adventures. And - as often as humanly and dragonly possible - vanquishings.

But he isn't clever. For all that your Glorioth seems to triumph, for all that your Glorioth endeavors - and ultimately succeeds - to do, it cannot be said that he has accomplished it with anything other than brawn, guileless determination, and SHEER DUMB LUCK. Sure, F'yrless One, you could learn all that fancy footwork the ONE-EYED FOE tried to teach you involving balance and muscle memories and blahblahblah (he stopped listening; SAVE YOUR RIDDLES FOR THE LITERATE), or you could just PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE. AHAHAHA! WE BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING. HOW WAS THAT LITTLE TASTE OF… ENCOURAGEMENT?



Carrow: You killed every last orc in that village.
Perf: And that retirement village.
Glorion: Well, I was too brave to spare the elderly.
Carrow: The women… the children…
Glorion: Killing equals honor!

Now look, we know that dragons can't be villains, but your over-zealous Glorioth paws a very fine line. In fact, he has every single toe over it if only because the sheer volume in which he slaughters. Everything. Okay, almost everything. He takes a particularly unique PLEASURE in herdbeast murder. Like. All of the herdbeasts. Like, nobody let him into the herding grounds when it's lambing season because he will murder entire cow-families up to and including their cow-grandmas. No moo-parent is safe, no udder spared, no tiny weebly-wobbly legged itty bitty veal-in-waiting TOO SMALL for the MIGHT of Glorioth's bravery. He is not cruel in his drive to annihilate entire farms and stables, but he is certainly ruthless in his decimation.

And look, F'yr. LOOK. You can tell Glorioth that murdering that entire family of herdbeasts was UNNECESSARY and WRONG, but because of the udder (GET IT, UDDER) skewing of that internal compass, Glorioth will probably only greet you with massive amounts of confusion and, « YOU… YOU'VE LOST ME. » Because EVEN IN THIS HE IS DISPLAYING HIS NOBILITY. Whyfor should he spare the old and fragile? Are they less than? GASP. F'YR. ARE YOU SEXIST? OR WORSE, AGEIST? Shall he start calling your old friends decrepit? SHOULD HE VANQUISH THEM, TOO??!?

Haha. Just kidding. He won't murder any humans in the name of glory and honor. That would be… haha… that would be… preposterous… he would never. Hahrmhehaha. BUT THAT IS WHY IT'S GOOD THAT HERDBEASTS ARE FAIR GAME. That bull looked at him funny. It must have secrets. And look at those huge innocent baby eyes. It must be hiding the location of the treasure he so wishes to find. Traitor! It must die! AND ALL THE REST WITH IT. AHAHAHAHHAHA.

Perf: Have you taken many blows to the head?
Glorion: Hundreds!
[They all stand and stare at each other awkwardly.]

This ferocity is, as I’m sure you have guessed, far from unusual. Your Glorioth is the dragon who will throw himself first into the throes of danger headfirst - without thought, without compunction, with absolute confidence that he will come out on top. He doesn't though, F'yr. He doesn't always come out on top. He's a lot less brain and a lot more brawn when it comes to fighting. He's never met a problem he couldn't simply HACK DOWN with his MIGHT before, and why should now be ANY DIFFERENT? He does, however, refuse to ever admit defeat. Literally. It doesn't matter: danger is his peanut butter and jelly, and the more terrifying the odds, the more thrilled he will be to throw himself against it. But we are getting off track; that wasn't the point.

The point is this: your Glorioth's lack of cleverness, that straight-forward interpretation of pretty much everything comes in really handy if you find yourself faced with somebody trying to trick either of you. Should the world conspire to throw you both into a role of leadership, this inability to be swayed just might become the greatest weapon the two of you have in your arsenal. It's like he's literally too dumb to trick. But underneath all the bluster is a glimpse of something a little more: a fierce kind of loyalty, an absolute dedication to you. You are his F'yrless Leader, after all. You are the simpering fool he's allowed the honor of marveling day-and-night at his prowess, the only one whose opinion he hears (note: not heeds, not unless he thinks it's a compliment) because you are his. You see, there is something deeper to your Glorioth. Something buried deep, something that perhaps even you will never find, but it's there. Gleaming. Bright. And most of all, glorious.



Glorion: ONWARD!
Nara: Always with the shouting.

Glorioth. Is. Noisy. There is not a man, woman, or dragon alive that will not hear the up-beat bum-bum-ba-bums of your bronze heralding his own arrival, driving his way through audible scales in time to his own pounding beat. One might hope that he has inherited his father's wry tenor, or his mother's bold alto, but the truth of the matter is he's got all of the heart and exactly none of the talent. His beats are there. His energy is there. His grasp on theme and emotion is disturbingly complete, he's just? also a little tone deaf. Okay, a lottle tone deaf. Maybe it's all the shouting.

Along with belted words and questionable musicality come the sounds and scents of all things that make him a man's man! ? A dragon's dragon? A man's? dragon… SILENCE. YOU KNOW WHAT HE MEANS. He means that his words are underlaid with the clash and clangs of swords, the flash of fire that consumes his enemies, the scent of something wild and untamed, not quite musk, not quite earth, not quite smoke, but some heady amalgamation of the three that evokes every brave rugged thing you've ever dared to dream your hero might smell like. Look down. Back up. That smoke has twisted into lengths of chain, binding one over the other in a mail that backs his firmest opinions, prevents the blades of others' ideas from piercing deep enough to influence his.

But however he might project himself to the world, at least you can rest easy knowing your dragon is beautiful on the inside. Glorioth's mindspace is a wild forest, rife with verdant greens and mossy browns. There's something magical about it, something whimsical, something that's so far removed from Pern that it's hard to even know where, exactly, he found the inspiration from. Trees rise, logs lie felled, dustmotes glitter in dappled sunlight, and rivers run with increasing ferocity depending on just how excited your Glorioth is. You can go on an adventure here - and oft times, Glorioth will recreate enactments as a quest in his mind, will fill in yellow-robed wizards or leather-clad assassins with the faces of people you already know in various recreations of DASTARDLY BETRAYAL. No, not daring. ALL THE DASTARDLY DARING BELONGS TO HIM.

When either of you are feeling a certain way about life and its many tripperies, magical doors will conjure themselves into being and throw you into the depths of a labyrinth made of stone, a maze constructed to confront those particularly pesky feelings and doubts by turning them into VILLAINOUS FOES and SLAYING THEM. He even narrates his own cunning, F'yr, and as if that were not enough, he HUMS HIS OWN THEMESONG. Yes. His very own themesong, the likes of which can change on any given day, at any given hour, depending on his mood. Luckily for you, he only has a finite set of what those can be: HONOR. VALOR. BRAVE. And BRAVER!


Glorion: Slain by the blinding radiance of my valor, no doubt!

As far as physicality goes, your Glorioth won the lottery. There is nothing quite so devilishly handsome to behold as he — and that isn't even Glorioth's vanity speaking. He is the true epitome of what the world meant when a couple of wise old-men got together and said, "Never judge a book by it's cover." He is bravery, and might, and the jagged edge of heroic villainy. He is sleek lines and stunning angles, a body of no less compact but certainly brilliant sinew and hide.

A single glance tells the story of dangers braved, of days saved, of enemies defeated and glory upheld through sheer tenacity. One need not speak to him to know he is a dragon of pride and great consequence, body fit and strong, wrought in the forges of radiant valor. Glorioth is the physical manifestation of a slap to the face, the embodiment of a knife to the ribs; this bronze is a teeming mass of energy forcibly contained within the confines of his skin, a tightly leashed electric current that ripples beneath muscle every time he moves.

And move he does! In his youth, your Glorioth will RUN EVERYWHERE, windspars held aloft and at just the right angle to capture magnificence, heat up-tilt, poise heroic. He does this without fail, every single place that you go. And while there's nothing clumsy about the way he moves, he is a tad heavy-footed. Not so much that it makes him graceless, but enough that it's pronounced in his gait; it's just one of the pitfalls of being strong instead of agile: you have just a little more umph in every step, a little bit more momentum in every move.

He doesn't grow out of this once he's older, either. Rather, your Glorioth grows into it, potential-blunders of his youth making it so adulthood’s brave barging is regimented and controlled, for all that it looks as though it’s not. Perhaps he’s helped because he’s on the small side for a bronze, diminutive nature utterly belied by his VERY LARGE personality that - like his body - just doesn’t know when to quit.


River Spirit: Greetings warrior, and welcome to the mystical healing waters of —
Glorion: MMBGAAH! [stabs her]
River Spirit: I can't believe you… stabbed me!
Glorion: Bravely stabbed you!

Ahhhhh, flights. You didn't actually think for one possible second that your Glorioth would not show up to the feeding pens ready to challenge the virility of EVERY SINGLE MALE DRAGON IN HIS PATH, DID YOU? He knows that he is destined to be the chosen one; it is he, Glorioth, who shall vanquish every enemy, slay every foe, find that chosen golden or green damsel in the sky and STAB HER. BRAVELY. WITH HIS… you know what. Let's just leave it at that.

But before he rises to chase, he will cast aspersions upon those other pursuers with his ever-present enthusiasm. « LOOK HERE, F'YRFULLEST. A brownrider! I can tell by the color of his lifemate's hide… and the general air of virgin. » But he will rise to meet every fight, mostly because he's the one that started it, mostly because what is a chase between dragons if there is not an over-abundant show of, « GLORY!! »

And while, upon losing, he will bear a grudge for a SHORT while, his ability to bounce back and find the compliment-meant-for-him in everything will surely persist.

"I'm sure she would have enjoyed the way you flew."
« Shroud your perversion, my devoted F'yrless one! »

When it comes to being a clutch-father, your Glorioth is a little much. For everybody. Not only will he insist upon being Always Present on the sands, but the only time you'll really be able to pull him away is if he gets to do his first favorite thing: murder a small family of herdbeasts. AND HE WILL, F'YR. He will SLAUGHTER EVERY SINGLE ONE and drag their DERELICT, OOZING CORPSES all through Xanadu Weyr so that he can get blood ALL OVER THE SANDS. « HUZZAH! »

He is protective to a fault, too - which wouldn't be a bad thing, if Glorioth were capable of… well… distinguishing friend from foe. Eventually he’ll get into the swing of things. Eventually he’ll be coaxed down to simply shouting enthusiasms for his favorite white-robes (and sometimes hurling insults at his leasts), but at least at the first touching, he will be intensely, ridiculously engaged and nary a thing will be able to draw him away.


Listen. Nobody said it would be easy riding bronze. They just said it would be worth it. Wait they didn’t say that either? Welp. Shit. Guess you’re just stuck, then.


HELLO STEFYR. Shup, you’ll never only be the F’yrless wonder to us! We know who you are, and who you’ve been, and we can only express our excitement for what you are yet to be!

Our theme this cycle was ‘moon legends’! The Beast that Calls the Egg was based off the Legendary Pokemon Lunala! Known as “the beast that calls the moon,” Lunala is renown for its power of plunging the world into night. The egg’s touches were based on a medley of Pokemon themes (, most of which the egg’s mind hummed rather dramatically (and ridiculously). This has, clearly, inspired Glori to do the same in his burgeoning adulthood.

And your dragon, well. He rather speaks for himself, doesn’t he? But for those who might not know better, he is based off Glorion from JourneyQuest, a TRULY HONORABLE, NOT EVEN SLIGHTLY TERRIFYING, DEFINITELY GOOD GUY WHO SHOULD TOTALLY BE TRUSTED NOT TO PUNCH YOU TO THE GROUND IN THE NAME OF HONOR. Definitely. Best man award goes to him. Just ask Roderick.

Though his Glori-ous name was chosen by you, his hatchling name comes from the song ‘Glory’ by The Score ( because we just couldn’t help ourselves. ;)

As is always stated, we have done our best to capture a vision of Glorioth based on this inspiration, but in the end he is completely and utterly yours. Do what you want with him - change him, embrace him, but most of all, have fun with him. We definitely had a blast bringing him to life, and cannot wait to see what comes next.

<3, Risali and R’hyn


Name Glorioth
Dam Ilyscaeth
Sire Xermiltoth
Created By Risali & R'hyn
Impressee F'yr (Stefyr)
Hatched November 1, 2019
Xanadu Weyr
PernWorld MUSH

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