Gender Female
Full Name Citayzleat
Current Home Xanadu Weyr
Place of Birth Landing
Occupation Jr. Weyrwoman
Hair Dark Brown
Eyes Brown

Cita is a woman whose average height - 5'8" on a good day - seems taller than it ought to be. Whether by the frequent towering rage or by equally frequent poise (nobody said she wasn't contradictory), she throws off larger-than-life kind of vibes, Citayla. Long klah-brown hair is generally kept well out of her face, held back by plaits or other application of hair ties. Even the best efforts seem to end in wayward strands frequently obscuring eyes as dark brown as her hair, however. With a strong chin and high cheekbones, it's hard for this healer to blend into a crowd, but she has a million-watt smile to soften the sharp edges. There aren't many of those, outside of her face; between dragonriding and motherhood, Cita's all vague curves and deceptive strength. She doesn't carry extra weight, exactly, but she's not nearly as lanky as she was in her youth.
Citayla seems to prefer soft fabrics with some utility — nothing too lose, but nothing particularly form-fitting, either. She has a decent grasp of styling with colors, and tends to wear jewel tones, or pale cool colors, with her soft dark leather riding gear. Cita's boots are not meant for hard wear, soft-soled leather lined with wool. Overall, she doesn't strike the image of somebody who wants to live out in the wilds; but for Weyr life? Dragonriding? That, she tends to do well by. The knot secured neatly her shoulder indicates her status as a goldrider at Xanadu Weyr.


Citayla, born Citayzleat, was born to two relatively well-to-do crafters at Landing. She was in the middle of four children born to the pair, but solidly a good half-dozen turns older than any of the multiple fosterlings they brought in over her childhood. Needless to say, she never wanted for company as a child; or much of anything else, really. She was accepted into the Smithcraft easily as soon as she came of age, and spent several good turns harassing the Smiths endlessly. A cave collapse cut that short, and her yearlong recovery set Cita on the path of a healer, when a mentor saw the potential in the mentally-floundering girl. Cita wasn't enthusiastic at first, but she was dutiful, a good student for all that she wasn't convinced of her path.

A strange beast washed up on the shores of Half Moon Bay several months into her apprenticeship, though. The 'Hall was curious, they sent a Senior Journeyman and a few apprentices to study the beast - among them, Citayzleat. Cita fit in well at the Weyr, in spite of being a Hall-and-Hold brat: it was a beautiful place, and she quickly made friends among the residents of the place. She also Stood, not long after her transfer, for a clutch borne of Feyruth and Emeliuth. That didn't pan out, but the healer was happy: she had work to do, lost time in another craft to catch up on, and ambition to spare. She'd spent three turns as a Smith or recovering-patient that could have been spent on her Journeymanship as a Healer, and that would never stand.

Other things distracted her, in the next turn-or-two: the kidnapping of one of those closest to her, the birth of two babies who she'd help to raise. It was a bit of a mixed bag, the last span of her Apprenticeship. She was eventually promoted to Journeyman, having finally decided to specialize in Trauma, several turns later than most Healers advanced. The specialty did suit her, however, and she settled into the field with the kind of furious intent that she had in her first forays into Smithing. Well. Most of that intent, as her attention was a little divided: motherhood, her craft, her Weyrmates, their traumas, their dragons. Still, she found time to better her craft, to keep Half Moon up to date with technology and new learning.

Then her devious Weyrmates talked her into Standing again, new motherhood and relatively new Journeymanship or no. For better or worse, she stood for Xermiltoth and Celimoth's clutch - and Impressed. Ilyscaeth shook her whole life up, from top to bottom, brash and loud and intense. Did Cita care? Not enough to mention. Sure, maybe the new goldrider mourned what might have been, her vague aspirations to Craftmaster, her plans to pioneer the field of Trauma. Ilyscaeth was worth it, though. She was worth even an appointment to Senior Weyrwomanship, briefly. It didn't take long for that to pass, though, and for Cita to step into a more support-style position at Xanadu alongside her Weyrmates. She had new babies to raise, after all, and grandbabies to spoil at not even thirty. What else is a girl to do?


Name Relation Location Position
Itacyrriloni Mother Landing Master Starcrafter
Leaterit Father Landing Master Starcrafter
Ila'den Weyrmate-adjacent Xanadu Weyr AWLM, bronze Teimyrth
R'hyn Weyrmate-adjacent Xanadu Weyr Weyrleader, bronze Xermiltoth
Risali (Step) Daughter Xanadu Weyr Sr. Weyrwoman, gold Leirith
Velirin (Step) Son Half Moon Bay Weyr Resident
Akiva (Step) Daughter Half Moon Bay Weyr Ass. Headwoman
Kielric (Step) Son Half Moon Bay Weyr Resident
Ibsyglei (Step) Daughter On A Boat Baby Pirate
Heribly (Step) Daughter On A Boat Baby Pirate
Ciardyn Son On A Boat Itty Pirate
Aevien (Step) Daughter Half Moon Bay Weyr Tiny
Yzaelia Daughter On A Boat Ship's Mascot
Zyriden (Step) grandSon Xanadu Weyr Tiniest
Skyllar (Step) Son Xanadu Weyr Tiniest
Ardyn (Step) Daughter Xanadu Weyr Teeniest
Kitahny Daughter Xanadu Weyr Brand New
T'ralle Brother Honshu Weyrhold Mindhealer, bronze Perylath
Rilltriela Sister Ierne Weyrhold Shop Owner, blue Exirroth
Noytiraci Brother Landing Journeyman Starcrafter
Tyr'ie Brother Monaco Bay Weyr Weyrling, Green Khaatxhath
Narilut Foster Brother Xanadu Weyr Apprentice Techcrafter
Unabri Foster Sister High Reaches Weyr Rider, green Descaurth
Lutrila Foster Sister Landing Apprentice Baker
Tabhria Foster Sister Harper Hall Apprentice Harper

I absolutely am going to list all of them some day, don't test me.



Cat Army


The forested household that Citayla and her 'mates have taken over isn't quite overrun by felines, but it's not…not overrun. There are a lot of felines running around the ol' homestead. There's a large number of absolutely crabby old cats, a variety of younger cats, and you know what? Inevitably kittens lurking somewhere in there, or being foisted off on neighbors. You never know. Is it Ila'den's fault? (Only sometimes.) A large number of them are strange; made for warmer climate, no doubt, thin-furred and lanky as anything, with massive ears and eyes. These aren't so big, really, as most felines — they're kind of runty, actually, outside of being all legs and long tails. A lot of the younger ones are a local strain though, the ones known to frequent the fishing fleet — big, fluffy, imposing enough to be impressive if you encounter them in a dark corner. Just don't mess with their food bowls, and you'll…probably be fine?


Lightning Before the Thunder Gold Ilyscaeth
If ever there was a gold to lead dragonmen to the end of days, it would be this one. She possesses the massive build that inspires battlefield legend, the dark beauty that whispers rhyme into the minds of poets, the savage grace that bids hearts beat faster to simply behold her. She is timeless, a queen who wears her crown as a circlet of white-hot stars on her brow, branded forever to be something more than average. Nose long and aquiline, jaw thin but strong, her stern visage is belied by subtle flecks and freckles that soften her edges, trailing over cheekbones and curling along her jaw before spiralling, nebulous, along the long lines of her body. They range, these small bursts of star-matter, from pale goldenrod to the deepest shades of aureolin, and even then they cannot aspire to match the dark depths of her hide. She is not merely shadowed, this gold, but rather engloamed, hide rolling forth in bold, burnished blends of caramel and mahogany that serve only to embellish her robust sense of refinement. She is an all-mother, a keeper of weyrs, muscled without bulk, strong without overbearance, capable of duty and service without sacrificing regality or allure. Her wings depict this dichotomy in detail, delicate but powerful appearance rendered heavy by dark whorls of the smokiest topaz. Cascades of clouds are broken by streaks of heat-lightning, personal universe fractured by needle-thin lances of molten silver, shiny and chrome.


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