Old may Z'orde be, but he is by no means one foot in the grave. He is fit and trim even nearing his ninetieth turn, lean and well-muscled still. His skin is tan and leathery, his face wrinkled to the point that his wrinkles have wrinkles, and his eyes are a startling green-grey. His white hair is kept short-cropped, and while he can't be bothered to shave every day, he rarely gets beyond a little bit scruffy in the beard department. Z'orde is middling in height, but closer to the tall side, and his back is still as straight as it was when he was twenty — or so he'll tell you.

He favors his riding clothes still, but can be persuaded to don short trousers and a tee shirt when not flying, these days. After all, what would the beach be with a clunky wherhide jacket that's nearly as old as you?

Z'orde is roughly 90 turns old, and proud of it.


Z'orde was born Zolorde, son of Zandella and O'lorn, green and blueriders at Telgar Weyr. The pair had a friendly relationship, not Weyrmates but not really far off, though both had other partners. Neither were really concerned with the setup, and were perfectly content to oversee the raising of the four children they created together, though they were fostered into the caverns. Zolorde was the fourth and final before O'lorn was lost in a drill, though his mother had several more children over the turns. He was searched at fourteen and Impressed on his first try the first-hatched, Izmyoth the Brave — or so his dragon liked to think of himself.

They were moderately terrible Weyrlings, and Z'orde, as Izmyoth elided his name, had a hard time focusing when the big bronze brat was informing everybody else on how much better they were. In time, though, Izmyoth settled and the pair of them even lead and seconded wings over various turns, serving long stints in just about every job that they could. Clutchfather more than once, Z'orde somehow managed to spawn several children, himself, though never settled down with a Weyrmate. By the time he was twenty five, he was so mired in his duty that he never settled down with any of his conquests. He was, however, friendly and generally around when they wanted to talk, and made a point, as his parents had, of being around in their lives.

Zandella eventually passed on as well, and time moved on, with Z'orde eventually settling into the task of assisting Weyrleader and Weyrsecond in their wing, remaining there for a good thirty turns. By the time he was eighty, he had mostly given over to younger souls, and by eighty five he was restlessly back where he was, tired of the boring life of the retired. However, a few turns on, his health took a major dive and in the interest of keeping their friend and helper alive and sound, he was, as far as he was concerned, banished to Xanadu Weyr. His youngest son and protege, O'rze, traveled with him in the venture to assure his safety, and ended up taking a position in the Quasar wing at the same Weyr, which suited him just fine!

As for Z'orde, he was stuck in Meteor with the half-senile, and not happy with that. Still, his heart was giving him trouble, and he and Izmyoth were nowhere /near/ ready to take the long trip *between*, so they went with it — with no little reluctance!


Name Relation Location Position
O'lorn Father (deceased) Telgar Weyr Dead
Zandella Mother (deceased) Telgar Weyr Dead
Dellor Brother (deceased) Telgar Weyr Dead
Lo'zane Brother (deceased) Telgar Weyr Dead
Zanlea Sister (deceased) Telgar Weyr Dead
Ollorane Sister (+2T) Telgar Weyr Greenrider
D'rest Son (-24T) Telgar Weyr Bluerider
Or'kal Son (-25T) Ista Weyr Brownrider
O'rze Son (-44T) Xanadu Weyr Greenrider
Talorzi Daughter (-30T) Fort Hold Harper
Denasta Daughter (-36T) Eastern Weyr Bluerider
Orelsa Daughter (-40T) cell-content Nanny

As well as an entire pack of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.




Bronze Izmyoth the Brave


Lean, like his rider, Izmyoth has never been bulky or brash. He isn't delicate, but wrought as tough as can be, still muscular and fit even in his venerable age. Having deepened in color with age, rather than greyed, he is still a rich cognac, floated with currents of deeper rum, and paler orange tones around his undersides. His wings are broad and long, like a Terran Eagle's, with deep spars and pale, translucent sails that are riddled with any number of small scars and miniscule holes. His head is shapely and regal, with prominent eyeridges and swept-back headknobs that give him a refined, elegant look — though the look in those intent eyes is closer to 'predatory'. He holds himself with grace, though he does limp quite heavily on his left foreleg, sometimes even holding it up close to his body. The faint greenish tint that marks him for his color, the metallic swirl to his hide, is now tinged with pale greys, only ghosts here and there — but for on his muzzle. Venerable, he chooses to call it, but his muzzle is downright silver at this point, though the firelit orange does still shine through in sunlight, making him seem a little bit less aged and decrepit. He can still outrun you, whippersnapper. Don't ever forget it!

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