Brilliant sunlight glides over rugged leather, evoking bronzen highlights from deep within the rich chestnut hide. It skims along hard, lean lines, sparking gold from thick eyeridges and long muzzle before dipping down along the curve of his jawline to be swallowed up in the five-o'clock shadow that rests heavy upon his broad chin and high-boned cheeks. Gilding continues, splashing down a sinuous neck, glinting across brass-button hued neckridges and stitching golden lines in looping patterns across a curious swatch of ruddy overtones that drapes asymmetrically across broad shoulders and down one muscled bicep. Scarlet shading swirls into the broad sweep of wings that flow outward from his shoulders, translucent coppery sails transfixed between spars formed of Rukbat's fiery heart. Dark bronze armor, awash with sun-patterned patina, molds itself to hardened muscles from mid-chest to the tip of his long, sturdy tail, joints picked out with the hard steel-grey of gunmetal where hide flexes and creases at each twist and turn. A thick band of roughened ochre, weathered and beaten by time and elements, encircles his waist, spilling down along his haunches, emphasizing the awkward jut of stifles bowed just enough to give an ungainly hitch to his natural waddle, a singular defect amidst the sculpted splendour overwashed with the rich golden light of high noon.


Egg Name and Description

Too Late for Goodbyes Egg
Muted shades of greyish blue cover most of this large egg, painted across its bowed middle like a panoramic curved wall. Darker and more sombre greys speckle the smooth shell, all neatly arranged in rows and divided in the centre. From that centre isle, the lack of color or shape draws the eye to a distant blur of color. Richen wooden brown, in an elongated streak and suspiciously ominous in its otherwise simplistic shape. A splash of pristine white indicates an open cover, but the contents within are a mystery and too far to glimpse in the abstract wash of color. Framing this are small notes of greenery and blooms of various colored hues, too distant to make out the details of each specific flower.

Hatching Message

Wobble Message
Too Late for Goodbyes Egg rolls and wobbles before wallowing deeper into its sandy nest, clearly quite content to stay exactly where it is, regardless of the inevitable pressures from inside.

Crack Message
Too Late for Goodbyes Egg pops and stretches as the hatchling within grows more restless in its confines, the dull grey-blue shell bowing beneath the pressure. Cracks begin to zag across the surface, marring the curve of the shell and distorting it further.

Hatch Message
Too Late for Goodbyes Egg gives up the ghost, shattering apart as the hatchling within gives one final, titanic heave, forcing the shell to split asunder. Squalling up a storm, an egg-goo coated hatchling tumbles onto the Sands, sprawled amidst the destruction it has wrought.

Sands Pose #1
A Bad Ass Bronze Hatchling climbs slowly to his feet, his hind-legs scrabbling against the sand as he struggles to get them under him. As he finally plants all four feet as firmly as he can, he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a puff of dust. A’ight now. Steady as she goes. One step. Two step… As he steps out of the shattered remains of his egg, his hips swing wide, that long, thick tail stirring up a dust devil as it lashes across the sand, pulling him off balance. He stumbles forward, craning his long neck to peer at his hind legs as they swing wide, upsetting his equilibrium. Huffing loudly, he stubbornly waddles forward, leaving a cloud of sand and dust in his wobbling wake.

Sands Pose #2
A Bad Ass Bronze Hatchling is slowly getting the hang of this walking thing. He ain’t quite got it mastered, and as he carefully inspects one row of Candidates, his flailing tail catches one across the chest, sending the boy sprawling to the ground. He pauses to whuffle thoughtfully at his tail’s victim, before snorting wetly in his face and moving on. He pauses in the next group, eyeing a young man thoughtfully before rumbling deep in his chest, a muted basso growl that stops just short of his sharp, sharp teeth. Dissatisfied with his search thus far, he awkwardly swings his hips around and moves on, sauntering through the hot, dusty Sands.

Impression Message

Public Message
A Bad Ass Bronze Hatchling stops abruptly in his tracks, his hind-legs slipping in the sand and nearly sprawling beneath him before he manages to find his balance again. Those whirling orange-red eyes - so hungry, for food, for something more than food - light like the sun at noon, nearly blinding in their intensity. Nostrils flaring, he slews around, sending up a gout of sand as he goes from zero to sixty in point five seconds, racing across the Sands in the direction of a dark-haired young man. The hatchling skids to a sudden halt, spraying his target - and his target’s companions - with a tacky coating of grit and dust. Orange-red eyes fade to match the green-blue of his chosen partner, and he spreads scarlet wings as he gives voice to a cry of exultation. Yee-haw!

Private Message
The heat and dust of the sands fades away, only to be replaced by more of the same in the depths of your mind. The sunlight blinds, sears, blisters its way through your mind, the noon-day sun mercilessly illuminating the twisting rusty-red rock spires spearing upwards around you. « Well now, howdy, » drawls a deep voice, and you feel yourself drawn out of the sere, sun-blasted desert into shade so dark and cool the contrast nearly throws you out of your own mind - or, rather, out of his. Weathered red-rock formations and dust-choked sky fade away to speckled countertops, aging metal walls, and windows so caked with grime the harsh sunlight is filtered to a dim glow. Despite its appearance, the sense of haven - from the heat outside, from the cares and burdens of life, is almost overwhelming. « Looks like we’ve been dealt the same hand. The name’s Varequoth, V’ayn, and it’s time to saddle up. » A warm, rich chuckle surrounds you, and you sense more than see the tip of a hat in welcome. « Ready to dispense us some justice, pardner? »



“I’m not good. Not bad. But I sure as hell ain’t ugly.” - Jesse McCree

This is no hero with a heart of gold; Varequoth walks that very thin line between good and bad, and although he may wobble this way and that with every bandy-legged step he takes, he never quite falls into either category. What Vare calls ‘justice’, others might well call ‘vigilantism’ - that sticky grey area where the ends always justify the means, but the means might just dump the pair of you into a pot of boiling water worse than the one he just upset.


“What were you thinking?”
« What? I got Risali’s stuff back from Zyddagath. »
“You literally broke into Ki'lian’s footlocker to do it!”
« Okay. And? »
“And I’m not even sure half of that is Risali’s. Or any of it, to be honest.”
« Okay. Prolly ain’t his, though. It’ll work out. »

It will always work out. Of course, it may work out with you guys doing third-shift sweeps for a couple of months, but it’ll always work out. Somehow. Varequoth has an eternal optimism about how well things are going, even when he’s busy dodging bullets - er, thrown objects - for sticking his interfering nose where it doesn’t belong. Hope you don’t intend to sit out his escapades, either - he’ll be dragging you along, front and center, because he works best in a team. No lone gunman, your Varequoth; you and he are a posse until the end of time - for good OR bad.

“I tried being reasonable, didn’t take to it.” - Jesse McCree

For such a good boy, Varequoth has a hell of a bad attitude. From the moment he breaks shell, V’ayn, you’re going to have your hands full keeping his mouth from writing checks your body can’t cash.

“Wait! He’s the one who said it! Why do I have to run the obstacle course?”
“Your dragon, your responsibility.”
« A little hard work never hurt no one, V’ayn. »
“Shut up. You’re the one who called him a rickety old fart!”
« Hard work don’t hurt. Truth can, though. Hup to it, boy. »

Fortunately for both of you, he’s almost as good at talking his way out of trouble as he is into it. Varequoth has a silver tongue, and that smooth-as-silk, sinful-as-chocolate voice of his doesn’t hurt matters, either. He doesn’t always watch his words with the utmost care, but his quick mind and facile tongue mean he’s as quick to twist insult to compliment as he is the other way around - particularly when it comes to those of the female persuasion. Not to say he won’t work his wiles on a man when push comes to shove; but it’s the golds and greens he’s all about being charming for.

There’s only a few things out there that Varequoth truly dislikes; cruelty, greed, and a disregard for the well-being of others. So, you know that other bronze? Zyddagath? Hope you weren’t hoping for undying friendship. He’ll be on his brother like white on rice once he figures out the kind of dragon Ki'lian’s lifemate is. Every good Hero has a Villain, and Zyddagath is Varequoth’s - so naturally it’s Vare’s sworn duty to keep Zyddagath from carrying out whatever dastardly plans he has stewing in that murky mind of his. He won’t interfere if you and Ki'lian develop a mutual friendship, but he’ll probably never shed his own suspicions of Zyddagath or his motives.

“Well, it’s high noon somewhere in the world.” - Jesse McCree

Varequoth is a creature of the daytime sky. Just take one look at the ever-present, overpowering sun that sears down upon his personal mindscape. It’s not that he dislikes nighttime - he just prefers the day; the sunnier, the better. Once he’s learned to fly, be prepared to chase the sun across the sky, avoiding the fall of twilight for as long as he possibly can. There’s nothing that makes him feel better than to curl up on the hot sand - be it beach, desert, or Hatching Arena - and allow Rukbat’s rays to soak into his hide, moving on to the next dusty patch as soon as the breeze begins to cool.

Just - don’t get him wet. He’s as fastidious as the next dragon - and a bit less water shy than Kayinth! - and’ll take a dip when he’s feeling a bit dusty, but unlike many of his draconic relatives, there’s no extended dips in the Sea of Azov for him. He’d rather soak in the hot springs when it comes to bathing, letting the heated, mineral-rich waters soak into his hide and chase away the aches and sprains from the day’s hard work. He’s quick enough to be done with the water as soon as his muscles have loosened and the last of the workday’s dirt has been washed away. A coat of oil later, and he’s ready to find his next patch of sun and sand - or the next crime to foil.

McCree: It's an honor fighting by your side, ma'am.
Ana: Heh, you always were a charmer.

As previously mentioned, Varequoth isn’t slow to work his wiles on a willing female, although he’ll stop short the second she indicates she’s not open to his charm. It’s never even particularly conscious - he just has a natural inclination towards flattery and blandishment when it comes to the opposite sex. He respects females - particularly the queens, understanding instinctively that they’re the bosses of this whole operation - he just really appreciates them and wants to make sure they understand just how much. Males will find themselves on the snarky side of his personality more often than not, but he’ll start with sweet-talk first for the females, devolving into sarcasm only as the situation - or personality - demands it.

V’ayn, your Varequoth is a lover and a fighter, a gambler who’ll play cards with the Devil himself for a chance at a good run. He’s the hero the Weyr neither needs nor wants, but is going to find itself stuck with, anyway. He’s brave without fault and you’ll be riding side-seat on every single one of his adventures. He’s a smooth-talking son of a gun with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. In essence, he’s the ultimate cowboy, and you? You’re forever his pardner. Saddle up!


It's Always High Noon Somewhere


Varequoth’s mental voice is much like his physical voice; deep and luxurious and sinfully rich. He speaks with a distinctive drawl that wouldn’t be out of place on the Keroonese plains, but somehow suits this Xanaduvian-born dragon to a T. His voice is the kind that keeps many a green coming back for just “one more question” or “if you could just explain again… in detail… great, great detail…” It doesn’t matter if he’s delivering a scathing one-liner intended to put Zyddagath in his place (again), or if he’s trying to convince Tineangrath that yes, he really is more cuddly than he looks, his suave bass is never less than caramel smooth and more succulent than chocolate.

It may be high noon in Varequoth’s mind, but it’s always five o’clock somewhere else, and that means happy hour is open at the Diner. Although the ever-present heat of the sunblasted mountains evokes shimmers and eddies in the air, there’s always a cool spot in the very center of his mindscape where you and he - and select visitors - can escape from the oppressive press of the sun. Enclosed in aging aluminum walls and dirty glass, the diner boasts speckled tabletops, round cushioned stools, and an impressive array of beverages to tempt any palate, from the childish to the highly refined. Scents fill the air - burnt dust, sun-seared grass, bitter beer, sweet wine, and - oddly - the salty scent of delicious noodles in a rich herdbeast stock.

The Diner is only open to select patrons - you, his favorite clutchsibs, and perhaps a few others so favored. For all other visitors to Varequoth’s mind, they experience only the blistering heat of the noonday sun as it blasts the twisted red-rock spires and maze-like canyons of a rich desert landscape that would put parts of Igen to shame. For most, there’s nothing to distract from the matter at hand; however, for those special occasions where Varequoth is particularly bored with - or particularly dislikes - his conversation companion, those ever-present heat shimmers will start twisting into mirages, nightmares evocative of his time in the shell, and tumbleweeds will blow across the landscape in ever-increasing numbers.



Physically, your dragon is the pinnacle of perfection - lean and mean and a flying machine. His hard-muscled body is perfectly proportional, from the tip of his wedge-shaped head to the spade at the end of his long tail. Except - well, those hind legs of his. The dragonhealers will have a bit of concern over how bandy-legged he is - the way his stifles (knees) twist outwards, making it a bit difficult when it comes to walking. In the air, his bow-legs won’t affect a thing, but on the ground, you’ll find that his legs tend to sync up together, rather than moving in opposing rhythm, meaning he has a tendency to swing his hips wide - and his tail right along with them.

As a hatchling, you’ll have to help Varequoth compensate for his wide gait and the ungainly way his tail seems to go everywhere. Eventually he’ll learn how to maneuver without knocking everything over - but until that time, expect to find piles of rags, drums of oil, and buckets of meat suddenly become flying projectiles. You’ll no doubt acquire a nice collection of bruises of your own, particularly about your own legs and hips, and your clutchmates may complain of their own. Don’t despair - Varequoth has a natural grace that will help him compensate, in time, for his issues - he just needs a mite to find it.

Other than his legs, however, Varequoth is a handsome specimen of bronze dragon, as perfect as any hatched on Xanadu’s Sands or elsewhere - after all, it’s not just that sexy voice and silver tongue that keep the girls hanging around! Between his rugged outlaw looks, those glorious scarlet wings, and his smooth-as-honey bass he’d be beating them off with a stick - if, of course, he’d ever dare raise a hand to a woman!


Varequoth is something of a ladies man - he’s suave, he’s slick, and he’s handsome as sin, and no few greens or golds covet the sound of his voice echoing through their minds. And, to be perfectly fair, he’s just as happy to be pursued as to pursue. It doesn’t take a lady in heat to have him courting - whether she’s in the mood or not, if Varequoth finds himself taken by a particular female (and he will, frequently, because he just appreciates ladies of all stripes and colors), he’ll find an excuse to be near her, offering a hand, a compliment, a trip to the nearest deserted island…


But when a lady comes into season, he doesn’t need to be taken with her to be interested in the idea of a flight. Gold or green, young or old, sibling or stranger, it doesn’t matter. If she’s ready to fly, he’s ready to chase, and he’ll make it clear to you, her, and everyone else that he intends to participate - and more, to win. Fortunately, in the air his particular brand of deformity is no issue; he doesn’t need his legs, only those long, glorious, scarlet wings of his, his silver tongue, and his golden voice.

Although he lacks the maneuverability of his smaller blue and brown siblings, Varequoth is clever, and what’s more, he’s not above engaging in a bit of guile and trickery to worm his way into a willing lady’s embrace. After all, he’s just saving her from an inferior evening, right? Combining flattery with a certain amount of misdirection and a healthy amount of stamina, Varequoth will no doubt snag his fair share of greens as well as golds.

When he does manage to fly a gold, be prepared to stick it out for the long haul. Although not a particularly paternal dragon, Varequoth understands that there are certain responsibilities that may come from a moment’s pleasure, and when he sires a clutch, he’ll insist on having a hand in raising them - as long as they’re still in the egg. Once they hatch, it’s back to business as usual, but until that time, expect him to be a doting and solicitous mate to the queen he’s currently on the Sands with, and maybe just a bit overly protective of the eggs they’ve made together.


Sylvarin! Welcome to Weyrlinghood and congratulations on behalf of all of us here on SearchCo! We enjoyed having you throughout candidacy, and we look forward to just what it is that you do as a weyrling and beyond! So let's get into those inspiration details — and just who it is that wrote this fiiiiiine specimen of dragon!

The theme for Leirith and Garouth's clutch was two-sentence horror stories! The story your egg was based on was, "I arrived at the funeral a few minutes late. Nobody acknowledged me, and I figured out why when I looked into the casket and saw myself." The desc for the egg was written by K'vir, while the mind touches were written by Risali!

Your dragon was all the hard (amazing) work of N'kon, so we will let him explain all the rest from here. <33

Description/Personality: Jesse McCree from Overwatch (https://overwatch.gamepedia.com/McCree)

Jesse McCree is a member of Overwatch, an ex-member of the secret Blackwatch initiative that also included Reyes (Reaper), Moira, Genji, and Ana. He’s a vigilante outlaw with a 60 million dollar bounty on his head. Once a member of the Deadlock Gang with Elizabeth Ashe, he was captured by Overwatch when they busted the gang. He made a deal with Reyes to join Blackwatch rather than rot in prison - finding the covert ops organization to his taste. A cowboy with no use for rules, regulations, or bureaucratic red tape, the only thing keeping McCree on the side of right was his innate taste for justice. Once Overwatch was disbanded, he became a gun-for-hire, choosing only those causes he felt were in the right. When Winston issued a recall of Overwatch agents and reopened the agency, McCree answered the call.

You asked for a suave, handsome beast who was brave and adventurous and who wants to do good but isn’t always about the rules. We’ve tried to give you that, all wrapped up in a game that we know you enjoy. :)

Name: Varequoth (Vah-ray-kwahth)
From the Latin ‘Warnione Equo’ [Stud] and the Spanish ‘Vaquero’ [Cowboy] - we looked for a name that suited the character of McCree and the personality of Varequoth. From D’lei came the suggestion of using the latin Warnione Equo, given both McCree and Varequoth’s studly masculine qualities, while N’kon added in a disambiguation of the spanish Vaquero, for the obvious cowboy influence.

The most obvious nickname for Varequoth is Vare (Vair or Vah-ray), which just happens to be Spanish for ‘to beach or run aground’. The writer found this especially amusing, since Ki’lian’s Zyddagath is based on a Ghost Ship, and it’s Varequoth’s lifelong mission to foil his brother’s machinations at every turn.


The Panoramic Diner on Route 66 (McCree’s home map) is the starting point for the defending team. It’s also a place McCree used to frequent (before being banned - but we won’t worry about that niggling little detail), and it’s a place of comfort, friendship, and well-being. (And darts. Don’t forget the darts.) For those in his personal posse, there’s always a welcome in the cool, air-conditioned shade of the Diner.

For those not among his personal gang, however, the doors to the Diner remain locked - no Talon allowed! - and it’s only the twisted, barren landscape of Route 66, with its rocky spires and dusty, abandoned buildings. There’s no surcease from the unrelenting eye of the constant noon-day sun for those not granted access to his inner oasis.


Look what I found - AFTER I'd finished all of this, of course!


Name Varequoth
Dam Leirith
Sire Garouth
Created By N'kon
Impressee V'ayn (Sylvarin)
Hatched November 30, 2018
Xanadu Weyr
PernWorld MUSH

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