For those who have known the young man from the back of *between* for a while, he's definately grown. Growth spurts have left him lean and lanky, but he also stands a great deal straighter and more confidently than before. His plain face is perhaps not quite so plain anymore, and its no longer shockingly topped with a shaved bald pate. Of late, he's begun to let his hair grow again, and it's coming in thick, unruly, black, and very curly. His gaze is more open than ever, almost defiant, and more willing to meet the gazes of those around him. An educated guess would put him at a couple of turns shy of two score. His voice, while not so unsettled as it once was, still commands the most attention. It rumbles low, like some sort of Smith's contraption, but still occasionally swerves up into higher registers, especially when he's excited or upset: then it's like the creak of a rusty shed door being forced open on corroded hinges. It's not a voice the Harpers would leap upon, but it's distinct and enthralling in its own way, and draws attention to him when he speaks, in a room, across a courtyard, on the far side of a Great Hall, in the air adragonback. And despite its continued maturity, it still has that slightly morose intonation, like a tear-drunk Herder relating drawling tails of woe and lost love in a crowd of world-wear listeners.

His well built frame is wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue shirt, the sort of elegant affair one would expect for a trip to visit a powerful Lord Holder, or a wedding, or a gather or the like. He wears a pair of black leather trousers beneath, and tall, well polished and perfectly fitted wherhide boots, dyed black as *between*.
He wears the heavy, elaborate knot of Xanadu's Weyrleader: a double cord in the weyr's colors, with a triple loop and two silver tassles, along with a thin bronze thread in honor of his lifemate.


Wroxeter, only son of small seaholders, was raised far from strange influences like technology or rumor; both passed by the tiny holding located on the coast nearerst the Western Ring. His mother and father, Cetta and Wroker, just liked things 'the way they should have been'. Their only frequent contact with the outside world were the infrequent and irregular visits by small time traders and sailors, and the very rare visits by dragonhaulers, come to deliver something the self-sufficient hold couldn't manage to supply for themselves. The other dwellers in the seahold were fishers, old, retired sailors, a couple of second rate crafters, out to make a life for themselves away from the rapid changes in a post-Threadfall world, raising their children in the ways of Should Be and Ought To Be.

Though he was their only son, Wroxeter didn't grow up alone. His mother had always dreamed of a huge family, and a nursery filled with children. Though that had never come to pass, and Wroxeter came late into their lives, he was raised with a smattering of fosterlings, adoptive siblings, cousins, and the offspring of the other residents. Some might have called that upbringing on the sparkling coast of the sea, an idyllic life. Wroxeter relates it as something else: The hinterlands. The back of beyond. The middle of nowhere. And that is where he'll gladly tell people he's from. Nowhere. Unlike his red headed parents, Wroxeter was consumed with a wanderlust beyond that of a simple subsistance sailor.
Who knows what dissatisfaction spurred that wanderlust in the still very young man, but he boarded a boat and headed towards civilization. Whatever it is, he keeps it very close to his heart, but a look of dismay and melancholy creeps into his eyes when he's unguarded.


Name Relation Location Position
Wroker Father
Cetta Mother
Ryxeter Son Ista Weyr
Wroletta Daughter Xanadu Weyr



Rah-rah-ah-ah-aaah Bronze Romth

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