|Harsh and not exactly beautiful, this wiry, bony creature who calls himself a dragon is hardly one to swoon over. Ruddy with russets and umbers, his rough hide seems to never have enough oil, never be buffed or sanded completely smooth. It matters not that his coloration is rather handsome — all-over shaded with rich earth-tones almost vibrant enough to make up for his lack of metallic coloration — since his form is rather lacking in elegance and seems almost…unfinished. Form follows function, though, and this brown's form is quite functional. He covers ground with ease, sturdy legs propelling him with far more ease than most dragons possess. Long wings near being overly-long, hanging at the precipice, but never quite plunging over, instead giving him remarkable gliding ability in the air, like a sea-bird. Charred shadows drift over the sails of those pinions, echoed along craggy-ridged neck and down his bony back to his long, whip-like tail, marring the vibrant shades of the rest of his hide with their starkly ashen qualities. Autumnal gold flecks in tiny motes up those sturdy, otherwise plain paws, giving way to solid, stubby but quite sharp obsidian talons. Over all, while one might glance past this one for being either a small, bony bronze or a large, oddly-colored brown, he cares not — he holds his head high and strides through life with more purpose than any of *you*.|
An Eternity At Attention Egg
Soft browns create a fairly nondescript-seeming egg upon first glance — blobbish rows of figures not quite ready to be wrest from their earthy tomb. Thick vertical stripes of tannish brown alternate between the blobbed figures all around this oblong shell, still really striking for all that it is on the larger side. Like so many, though, it is worth a second glance to see the true intricacy behind those terra cotta blobs. Almost hominid in shape, each figure is different, the details not factory-cut but seeming to be individually crafted with care and skill. There are even flecks of color if you look /quite/ close, vestiges of what might have once been great alongside those crafted features. A bulbous shape that might be a nose here, nonexistent chin there; in rank and file, the shapes on the egg stand waiting. For what? The dusty earth-brown shell, at least, has a purpose — within its intricate confines, treasure.
An Eternity at Attention Egg is ominously silent. Barely does it twitch, sending sand shifting off of its shell in gentle rivulets. Shake. Shake. Shake. Just the faintest list to one side, and it lies silent once more. These barely-perceptible movements are far eclipsed by faster-moving siblings — for now. So it is still.
An Eternity at Attention Egg has been quite still through all of its siblings flailings and maddening twitching. If one were to see it up close, though, they would find the situation to be quite different! Little cracks spiderweb across the shell stealthily, none obvious at first but all getting larger and larger as the minutes tick by. It can't be that long now.
Crrriiiick. Finally, with an almighty lurch, An Eternity at Attention Egg is moving again. Twitch. Shake. With several easy flicks, minute shards of eggshell find themselves flying in every direction away from a ruddy dragonet. When he has managed to shake himself free of all but that pesky egg goop, the Abidingly Implacable Taskmaster turns to face those waiting for him with narrowed eyes. Flick. Wings find themselves snug against his side, and the young brown lifts his head high. Ah. So this is what was waiting.
With startling speed, you find yourself transported from the sands. Gentle waterfalls of liquid splash somewhere in the distance, but the heat of the sands only intensifies. Just before you might wilt before the strength of the heat, it abruptly cools to a more comfortable temperature — and a voice comes to you. Like rustling silk, it's smooth at first, but the steel behind the tone is unmistakable. « Landers. An unfortunate, unacceptable name. » Metal scrapes metal, annoyance warring with surprising affection and intense hunger. Forcibly, the last is pushed away. The voice has things to attend to. Water trickles and something chimes for a moment in the background, then — « Ers'lan. Yes. That is your name. You will answer to no other. » The forceful proclamation comes with a clash of something loud enough to bring tears to your eyes. Pride drifts in bright gold-tones when you withstand it stolidly, though. « This is so because I am Zhaoth and you…are mine. » A beat. « We will discuss the future over my first meal. Come. » Just as suddenly as it came to you, the vision-damper retreats, leaves you standing quite firmly where you were. The only change? A rangy brown dragonet standing proudly before you, egg-damp wings spread, gaze firm. « What are you waiting for? » He prompts, when you do not move immediately to accommodate his wishes. Onwards!
"Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character." — Albert Einstein
"Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?" — Sun Tzu
« No, Ers'lan. That will not do. Begin again at my nostrils and work your way back. Do not skimp on the oil. It is replaceable. My hide is not. »
From the moment that you are caught in the harsh gaze of this dragonet who would turn your world upside-down, Lan, things change. For the better? That is for you to decide — for Zhaoth can be hard to live with, if you allow him to be. Generally, he won't allow you to do anything that *he* does not want to do, but that's beside the point! He will push you forward without a moment's hesitation, never letting up, never stopping to consider that you might not have it in you. Weyrleader? Who says it's not possible? They're wrong. Wingleader? With ease. His sense of duty to his Weyr and to you is nigh all-encompassing, and he feels that you should share the same views. The same responsibilities. His first, however, is to you. To the strange puzzle you present to him: his rider, to shape and mold, to steer forth sometimes with gentleness, sometimes with force, but to coddle? Never.
« You are stronger than that. »
From the start, things will be difficult with this one by your side. With a work ethic large enough to make a lesser being quail with fear or annoyance, he starts his day before dawn — and so, do you.
« How will I be faster, stronger than Nisaunekhdjieth if we do not rise with before dawn, my own? »
Never mind that the bronze is scarcely a foot or two larger than him - Zhaoth was born with confidence that he could do better than *any* of his classmates, if only he applies himself. So up with Rukbat you will be, and he will be oiled and bathed before the sun's first light strikes the meadow. Before any others, you will have your share of butchery done, your cot made and his wallow scooped, and you both will have done your morning exercises, something he will insist on.
« Touch your toes, boy. Fully. Now the ground! »
He may proclaim, and if you should complain about this rude awakening?
« Yes, it hurts. In two sevendays, it will not, and you will be stronger. I learned this from Jaesriuth's, and it is truth. »
Very little sympathy will you receive from this one. Sympathy will get you nowhere. You *will* be faster, stronger, better than the other Weyrlings. Not being so is not an option.
As he grows and stops sleeping so very much, you may find that Zhaoth's mind is an odd place. Full of gentle noises, it is a surprising oasis of an orderly and busy mind, a place where both of you may find peace. Left with a moment to spare, you will almost invariably be presented with some strange question that has seemingly no relevance to anything at all, « What stone looks very much like firestone, but is not? » or « How many claws does our class sport, altogether? » being examples. Sometimes he may relay a bit of trivia instead — « Dolphins are mammals, Ers'lan. Like you. » — and while it's never entirely clear where these come from, he seems to take them very seriously. Knowledge is just as powerful as physical prowess, and he intends to see you as intelligent as you are strong and fast. He does not share this part of him with others. Other dragons are privy to an abrupt, shrewd creature who has a knack for knowing the mechanics behind just about everything and being ambitious enough for several *lesser* dragons. While he might seem to be militantly oppressive from time to time and entirely too driven, he does care for you. He really does care for your future, as hard as it is for him to show you that caring except in passing remarks.
« Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new. Now try again. You will be better this time. »
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead: His eyes are closed." — Albert Einstein
"Opportunities multiply as they are seized." — Sun Tzu
Ah, the future! Many dragons care not for the future. Who really knows what will happen tomorrow? Not Zhaoth. For himself and for you, he thinks to then. He thinks to tomorrow, when you both will be stronger. He thinks to next turn, when you will be older, wiser. He thinks to the turns ahead — plots, schemes, fills your waking and sleeping brain with his ideas. He even dreams them, dreams visions of a great age of Weyrleadership in which trade flourishes and the Weyrs do not bicker like so many warring children, but work together as one. Should you ever despair of his plotting, you may find that your irascible commandant has a surprising skill for eloquence.
« You must believe in yourself, Lan! I cannot do that for you. You must believe that one day we may do good for the world! We can, and we will. »
He'll proclaim with sincerity, dropping the drill sergeant tone and gentling considerably as long as nobody's there to see his soft side.
« We are more than simple trundlebugs, working our lives away for naught. I refuse to accept this! »
And if you've triggered it by despairing of the work load he adds to you, while your companions lounge about after drills while you work steadily at memorizing trade routes and networking with local holders? Don't expect him to let you off of the hook. He won't.
In size, this brown outstrips most others. Passing the smallest of bronzes in length, he will never want for size. He's just right, thank you! Those rangy muscles will carry him through life easily, lending speed in the air where his long wings might hinder such things. There is a tradeoff for speed, of course, given his massive and lanky bulk, but he can still apply himself to a decent stoop or mid-distance sprint if he so chooses. He'll never win any prizes of prettiness, sure, but his lanky structure is well-suited to the rigors he puts it through day in, day out.
« I care not for looks, Tscyleth. If you are so concerned, go groom your tail for Sahazyth. »
He might grump before going back to rigorously stretching or whatever it was he was doing. His size might make it hard for him to win green flights — but that will probably be for the better for you. His lack of prowess with them will not dampen his enthusiasm, not one bit. Every glowing green he lays sights on will be carefully watched and tended til she rises, at which point he'll do his damndest to catch — either way, catching or not, she'll be gone from his mind very shortly. The same goes for golds, except that duty tells him that he must stay with her if he should father a clutch. Unless she has done something notable in his eyes females are no different than males. Offspring? Until they prove themselves worthy of their parentage, he has little time for them. He has you, after all.
You are the most important being in Zhaoth's life. You will never want for his presence, never pine for attention - you will have both in spades, like it or not. From the time you find yourself staring at him on the sands to whenever you should both find your way *between* — together, there will be no other way — he will be yours. You, in turn, will be his. His to push, to nurture, to love and protect from what lurks in the dark, imagined or otherwise. You will grow together into something you never imagined, most likely, but Zhaoth will have known. He almost always does know, when it comes right down to it. Would you have it any other way?
"Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is to not stop questioning." — Albert Einstein
Presenting a backdrop of serenity, one would never suspect this mind of belonging to such a rigid and intense dragon. Warm golds and gentle silvers drift in lazy rivers, cascading through each thought like a strange mixture of silk and a sprightly spring. When he's not actively thinking of something, half-formed observations trickle in Dali-esque patterns - surrealistic and so fleeting as to make you think they're imagined if you're as tired as he will generally keep you. His voice issues forth most generally with the sound of rustling silk - quiet but easily noted even in the most hectic of situations. Scraping steel joins when he's feeling particularly stubborn or resolved, and while chimes tend to lull you to sleep, you will find yourself awakened by clashes and bangs and — well, anything that works. Maybe it's not the loveliest way to be awakened, but you'll get used to it after a while.
Rivers of Quicksilver drift indolently through your seeking mind, neither entirely welcoming your presence nor rejecting it openly. Just out of reach, a world of hedonistic pleasures in warm ambers and emeralds, but that is not for you. At first it does not question, merely observes — pulls thoughts, feelings, sensations at random. The feel of wind on your face. Your first scraped knee. Anger. Resentment. Fear. Here, it stops. Examines closer, curiosity and mild disdain sluicing through your thoughts. This! This is useless, it decrees with authority. Reasonings are not noted, not even examined briefly, for what need has it of excuses? Excuses do not a strong being make. It is strong! Are you? Not-so-subtle doubt drips in decadent shadows, drawing across your consciousness like a heavy tapestry or blanket. Perhaps you could use the protection? It doesn't-quite taunt, more provoke, as if seeking some sort of retribution. What will you do, against its' doubt? Have you anything to say for yourself?
Rivers of Quicksilver manages to drift from lazy contentment, curiosity now more plainly evident in a slow but steady stream of vague pressure on your mind. Colors drift in absent sensations around you, giving the faint impression of darkness and *something* beyond. What beyond? That is the question, is it not? Evidently not *un*impressed, at least, by whatever response you offered forth, it goes lazily back to sifting through sensations and memories with growing hunger. This it likes, this it does not — this it does not get the point of, and thus disdains without pause. What is it, to be living? Do you know what it is to be infinite? No? This is not unexpected. It does not really expect you to know much, so is not disappointed when your answers fail to meet its' expectations. Never mind that the hair on the back of your neck prickles with every twang of discord from this one. A precursor to danger? It does not seem so on first examination, at least, as the curious one withdraws to its' own thoughts briefly. It has much to consider.
Rivers of Quicksilver has gone back to searching, hunger growing like the sudden torrent of memories that stream through your mind unbidden. With all of the precision of some sort of Military drill, it drums them out in ordered chaos, seeking, seeking *something*. After a relentless search that leaves you mindsore, though, something snaps. A cascade of anger snaps like an archer's bow, adding to the pain of the one within the shell's disappointment. No! It cannot be. Perhaps it does not seek to hurt you, for all that there is no regret in the seething mass of woe that is the one in quicksilver, there is also no malice past that first burst of anger. Rather, sorrow briefly overtakes all else in a silken, crackling blanket of inky indigo, washed out and worn in places. After a moment, the mind draws itself from its' cloak of self-pity, though, and puffs itself up. Carefully seeks what it means to offer — and comes back with a sort of vague acceptance. Yes. It sees. What it sees is not evident to you, but it's probably just as well. Abruptly, the decadent cloak of the putative dragonet's mind recedes and you are left where you started. Shaken, stirred and thoroughly tousled mentally, but still whole.
Your dragon was created within the culture surrounding Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi's time. He is militaristic, a perfectionist…and I know that's a generalization, but it fit so well within your preferences! His name is derived from Zhao Zheng, the Emperor's personal name. Since you liked simple names, I thought that it might be best not to change it around too much. Zhaoth's description is based off of the Gobi desert and the badlands therein, as well as the sturdy but not exactly handsome Mongolian horse. I really hope you enjoy him! If there is anything you want to change or add, though, he IS your dragon and you are welcome to. :) If you have any questions, you are more than welcome to ping me (Ontali) with them!
|Hatched||June 05, 2011|