Y'riel
Y'riel
kyriel_profile.jpeg
Portrayed By N/A
Gender Male
Aliases Kyri, Kyriel
Place of Birth Xanadu
Current Location Xanadu Weyr
Occupation Weyrling
Dragon Bhalahhaith

Description

Shoulder length, wavy (if not perpetually messy) black hair tumbles haphazardly over his head and frames his face. His eyes are a startling icy blue in contrast to the darkness of his hair and the light-olive complexion of his skin. His features lack full definition and still carry some boyish youthfulness. He has, at least, grown out of the lanky awkward stage of his adolescence, likely to still grow in height and fill out yet over the next handful of Turns.

His outfits range from the everyday clothing meant to be sturdier and withstand work or roughing it through wilder terrain, to styles far more relaxed and as fashionable as they are comfortable. While his tastes aren't too heavily flashy or eccentric, he does tend to accessorize; often with leather necklaces and cuff bracelets. He keeps a belt knife on him and, on occasion, a bow. When he's wearing a knot, it is one for general Weyrfolk, in Xanadu's colors.

History

Kyriel is the second oldest son of a large family – and if bloodlines are really being squinted at and traced, then his mother is Risali and his father is K'vir. None of that truly matters, in his direct opinion! Because while he was primarily raised, along with his numerous siblings by his mother, and K'vir and D'lei both, he spent equal amounts of time with Ila'den and R'hyn and their brood …

Basically? His upbringing is complex to anyone outside of it. For Kyriel, it's all he's ever known and, if ever asked, he'll claim he has had a good childhood. What's there to complain about? He's never gone wanting for anything. He is loved and supported. It hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows, though – there's been the fair share of ups and downs, most expected and some unexpected and more than a few growing pains.

Kyriel is very much a free spirit and easy going, but carries with him an unpredictable streak (and maaaybe a bit more of his mother's temper). He has shown no interest in any Crafts, choosing instead to work the odd job when necessary when he isn't out and about or somewhere deep in the woods and practicing with his bow. He has no grand plans, big dreams or even great aspirations; he's enjoying his life and everything with it. Some could say he's a little sheltered and perhaps fate will yet deal him a rougher hand.

Family

Name Relation Location
K'vir Father Xanadu Weyr
Risali Mother Xanadu Weyr
D'lei Father Xanadu Weyr
Darien Brother Xanadu Weyr
Reverie Sister Xanadu Weyr
Zyriden Half-Brother Xanadu Weyr
Eirlys Half-Brother Xanadu Weyr
Kalyri Half-Brother Xanadu Weyr
Th'ero Grandfather Fort Weyr
Kimmila Grandmother Fort Weyr
Kiena Aunt Ierne Weyrhold
Ezsrisa (Ezzie) Cousin Xanadu Weyr
Eliana (Ellie) Cousin Xanadu Weyr
Ru'ien Cousin Xanadu Weyr
Elynthoria (Elyn) Half-Cousin Fort Weyr
Khythrin Half-Cousin Fort Weyr
Ila'den Grandfather Xanadu Weyr
R'hyn Grandfather Xanadu Weyr
Ky'zai Half-Uncle Xanadu Weyr

And if I've forgotten any names, it's not intentional! His family is pretty big and my memory is not the greatest~ <3

Dragon

Labyrinth's Lock Brown Bhalahhaith
Ancient and ethereal, wild and winding, this brown’s moon-bleached hide stretches tight over long, lean musculature. He is a force of nature coerced into bestial form, one whose body cannot help but rebel against the constraint of sharp edges and mortal dimensions. One might once have called him stone-sculpted, adonic, but eons of unknowable wear has softened some edges, honed others to deadly shears, each as unpredictable as the last. His visage remains utterly predatorial, malice subtle but stunning; his is the kind of beauty that is as much warning as lure, constructed to draw one's gaze to hypnotic eyes, smoke-stained lids, the sweep of arrogant brows up to pointed headknobs, anything other than the very real threat of bone-white teeth and feral claws. Wind-worn sandstone picks up where a strong jaw leaves off, contours fading in and out of sight down the length of his neck and sides in a winding knot that would once have been elaborate. Now it's merely a shadow of its former weaving, a secret subtlety meant only for those that can see past discordant neckridges - some broken, some blunt - to his true, beating hearts. These he so often hides even from himself, titanic wings pulled tight around his shoulders, dextrous thumbs stretching to press just above his collarbones, giving the impression of a clasped cloak. Though seemingly plain, it is only by dusky light that one can admire the faded sky that paints the underside of long pinions, clotted cream and soft umber clouds otherwise ruined by his wings' translucence.

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