|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:06 pm
 |
|
|
|
d h a w s n
Name: Dhawsn 
Age: 28
Sex: Male
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual (at least, as far as he knows)
Craft: Previously Blacksmith
Rank: Previously Journeyman; Currently Kitchen Worker/Candidate
Location: Western
Physical Description: Large in height and stature, Dhawsn stands 5'10" and is more than a little round. Everything about him seems to be like that: large in personality, large in smiles, large in strong and sturdy arms. He's also quite hairy, with his raven brown hair almost touching his shoulders and his beard thick and full. (Don't worry, he's careful to keep it short and covered when in the kitchen!) His body is covered in a light smattering of freckles, and there is a cut in his right eyebrow from an incident as a child where someone accidentally slammed the door on him; in fact, he always seems to be getting new little scrapes and cycles through scars. His eyes are a honey brown and intrinsically friendly, if dopey looking.
positive: amicable, patient, optimistic
negative: Stubborn, lacks self-preservation, likes puns anxious af/a worrier
Gentle giant is a good way to describe him. Dhawsn is eager to please and a gentleman through and through, even if that means sometimes being too nosy in his friends' business to make sure they're doing okay. While not under the illusion that his way is the best way, he does tend to stick to his schedule and dislikes change; this also stems from the fact that too much of his life has changed as is without his consultation, and that he tends to arrive at decisions slowly himself, agonizing over every possible outcome.
Dhawsn prides himself on being like a good drink: easy to handle and warms you on the inside. If something is amiss and he can do something about it, he'll tear his own portal to Between to make sure he can do it. On the whole, he's peaceable (unless out with friends, in which case he turns into a rowdy noise of grins) and friendly, if perhaps boring to a Pernese who's more of a thrillseeker. This isn't to say he can't get rowdy and loud with friends, though, especially if he's gotten some wine in him.
He also likes to joke. A lot. Even when it's not appropriate to. If he's going to die, he's going to go out puns blazing most likely.
His other most immediate trait may be his tendency to mother hen the s**t out of people, even completely capable ones. It tends to make him stressed on their behalf until something is done. (Usually, again, on their behalf)
Has a deep burr from growing up in the southern continent
Has been involved in numerous jobs growing up and thus has a jack of all trades master of none skill set for things such as wood carving, little trinkets, and minor construction knowledge.
While not completely illiterate, his station in life didn't afford him the same education growing up as other holdbrats.
Dhawsn is a very touchy guy, even around strangers
He loves to tell stories and listen to them as well; maybe in another life, with a better upbringing, he could have walked the path of a Harper
Wagon-born in the baby boom of a gold's flight near Southern Weyr, Dhawsn was dropped off to be raised alongside the holdbrats in Keroon. There he delighted in the strong runner culture, and while he wasn't the best rider or shower, his peaceable aura and strong arms seemed to help keep even the most willful beast in check. As he grew, he found himself gravitating towards anything that let him work with his hands, and Dhawsn often made little gifts of rough wooden carvings to others during holidays, or other such trinkets, especially to those who were part of the rural community like he was.
Once a kind aunt-figure noticed his small crafts, he was sent to Telgar Hold to hone his budding skill as a craftsman. While metalworking was different than wood, he took to smithing like a fish to water. It was once he was 25 and thought mostly destined to stay there that he was scouted by a searchrider and once again uprooted from a "home" to a new weyr. That isn't to say he hasn't enjoyed his time there, but there are days Dhawsn misses working more with his hands beyond food prep. Still, he bides his time living through other (younger) candidates, knowing that each person has his place even if they might not know how important it is yet. And good food is very important, regardless of rank.
Name: Minty (often pronounced "Minnie" or "Mindy" due to Dhawsn's thick accent)
Personality: Skittish, nosy, gluttonous. She profits from her bonded's job and is happy to scrounge anything from crumbs to gossip to good views, all to send back to him in quick snippets like a proud feline. Has been with Dhawsn for over a year now. Dislikes strangers touching her.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:06 pm
|
|
|
 |
s t o r m y
Name: Ursaliin (prefers to go by own moniker, Stormy)
Age: 18
Sex: Female
Sexual Orientation: Graysexual biromantic
Craft: Needlework (Assassin)
Rank: Candidate
Location: Western
Physical Description: At five foot nothing on her best days, she appears younger than she actually is, like a lost waifish child rather than an adult. Tanned and skinny, she also seems underfed. Her droopy eyes are silver with a greenish tint, and her hair is short and curly, naturally dark brown but sometimes dyed pink. There are faint scars, some from day to day life, some from work; the most prominent of these is a noticeable scar from her neck to her right shoulder. This often means she wears sleeves even on the hottest of days. Her preferred fashion is loose, feminine, and conservative, usually accessorized of themed with flowers or feathers if she can manage. Many days you can see her barefoot unless the weather demands otherwise. She seems to appear and disappear without making a sound, often accidentally scaring when she doesn't mean to.
positive: imaginative, obedient, gentle
negative: depressed, sensitive, indecisive
Ursaliin Stormy is not okay.
On the one hand, she's a quietly enthusiastic person who enjoys nothing more than helping people; literally, "seeing them happy makes me happy" applies. She is highly supportive of others, she tries to smile when she can in hopes it becomes contagious, and she is becoming the breed of optimist that understands the world has a great many flaws but is still beautiful in spite of it, wishing to help lessen the suffering they cause while focusing on bringing out the better parts of life. She believes that people need little beacons of hope to survive and gladly keeps the light on even if doubt eats at her.
This is a mask. Sometimes you have to fake it until you make it, but she hasn't made it yet, and sometimes she thinks she never will. Or, she'll simply die before she does.
Stormy has a form of depression and is a little too mercurial in her emotional state sometimes. Something in her making makes it impossible for her to feel things in a stable manner: every emotion and thought, unless heavily and consciously controlled, has a risk of burdening, burning, or drowning her if left unchecked, or alternatively whittle away into absolute numbness. She is highly empathetic and will always feel sympathy for others no matter how they treat her in return, ever leaning towards their better nature that she knows exists in every being. Because of this belief, even her morals are always left in a hazy gray area as she becomes paralyzed by all the possible viewpoints. She wants to do the right thing, the good thing, and that will never change: but the definition of what is right and good can based on the situation she finds herself in. And yet if the result isn't perfect, if it doesn't work out well in the end, it will hurt her.
Her very personality is a paradox: wanting to be as close to others as possible but also wanting to keep her personal self private and under lock and key--wanting to be known and memorable and unique in a person's mind, but not be in the spotlight. (Who is she really? She's scared to find out.) She understands her emotional turbulence can become charged and fuel a hidden streak of passion, but the idea of freeing herself that way is too frightening. It can come in snatches, especially if it's for something she feels very strongly about, but she always will make an effort to reel it back in before it goes too far. Stormy wishes she could lock everything down on the inside and be this perfect little soldier, but she can't fight her own nature: she loves people, for better or for worse. She tries too hard in most things she does and is often rewarded with constant disappointment when it isn't appreciated the way she thinks it should be. But thinking badly of others is impolite, of course, and bad thoughts get stuffed into bottles deep inside where no-one can reach them.
There is a pervasive melancholy to everything she does nowadays, as if existing another day is a tiring accomplishment rather than a given. Her eyes are silver, after all, as if she were a dragon in an ever-present mourning, and she tends to speak library-soft, as if afraid she might cause something. It's always because she thinks of others, though, that she keeps going. The idea that someone might need her (or at the very least find her useful) is a more compelling reason to live than even the instinct to survive at times.
(That someone, at least, should stay alive. Remember. Mourn.)
Her reasoning is flawed and fantastical: logic doesn't always play a central role in her decisions unless under duress or if she forces herself to. Otherwise, Stormy appears to live in a partial state of dreaming, where Wonderland, magic, and reality mesh together seamlessly: harsh storms are simply letting out the tears and anger of others, people are fated to meet for one reason or another, objects can carry emotional depth and memories, words have real power over people based on the contours of the letters and the sounds that comprise them, and so on. She understands her beliefs are bizarre and knows none of them are real; she chooses to believe them anyway because it adds color to the world and makes it even more beautiful and interesting to her.
Ursaliin was born in a minor cothold near Bitra during the midst of a seemingly never-ending rain. Her mother, a brown rider, chose to be more active in her life, leaving her in the creche only when her duty pulled her away. One would think this made them close, especially with no other parental figure or siblings in the picture, but instead their relationship was one of secrets, codes, and silence. Her mother was incredibly paranoid, for good reason: she was an assassin, and she had enemies in Nabol who would have been more than happy to take her daughter, or worse. She was also, unfortunately, not always in the right mind while with her child.
But nonetheless, she loved. She was "Tempest", while her daughter took the name "Stormy" in keeping with the theme. This was for safety, after all, so that their names didn't circulate. They were also, unfortunately, good descriptors of their relationship.
In her younger years, Stormy remained on the move with Tempest and brown Eluveth, though never far from Bitra, where her mother's employer lived. There she learned important things: How important it was to observe, to stay quiet, to put on this mask or that, to avoid her mother when she smelled wine or blood and, more importantly, how to remove those stains. How to keep her tears hidden, how to move in the shadows, what this poison did and its symptoms, how to avoid men who watched you with dark eyes. And while Eluveth did his best to smooth relations between the women over, diplomacy was not his strong suit; nor was his interest particularly strong in keeping the child with them. Though Tempest believed in creating the perfect minion and keeping her daughter close, Eluveth believed she was merely an unnecessary burden in their work.
Slowly, Stormy began to feel the same as him. But she kept her head down, her growing sorrow at bay. The priority was to make mother happy, after all, even if that meant the status quo was often one of walking on eggshells. She carried on learning the piano and honing her writing skills in the meantime, knowing she needed decoy crafts.
It was shortly after Tempest had confirmed her daughter could go to Courtesan Hall for continued assassin training that life abruptly took a left turn. Perhaps Tempest hadn't been careful enough--or, as Stormy now believes years later--she simply had hit her breaking point and purposefully didn't take precautions. However it happened, a group of people descended on Tempest and Eluveth, a hit squad courtesy of her Nabol nemesis, and the alley quickly became bloodied. In the shadows, as her instinct had taught, Stormy watched the pair fight, wounding several and outright killing others. The damage had been done, however: even young as she was, Stormy knew there was too much blood for her mother to survive unless they sought immediate help. So she broke the rule and opened her mouth, begging her mother to leave, and suffered the consequence of it.
One of the people who hadn't suffered severe injuries grabbed her by the hair and held her hostage, thinking they could distract Tempest. They were quite wrong. Stormy's mother threw herself at them in a fury (for her paranoia had been satisfied and now she knew nothing other than red), with the brown roaring at her heels, and the fight continued worse than before. The knife at Stormy's throat didn't make a killing blow, but it did carve a gash where it met her shoulder. She was tossed out in the chaos and soon blacked out.
Later, after nearby civilians heard the ruckus and guards were called, Stormy woke up in a cot. There she learned the rest of the story from a healer: that by the time the guards had hit the scene, the living aggressors had fled and brown Eluveth had died from the sustained injuries gained from protecting his rider. Tempest had killed herself shortly thereafter, too far gone in her anguish to consider her daughter.
It's been six years since that fatal event, but the wounds on her psyche remain. She carries her mother's melancholy and broken spirit with her like a ghost, lost and purposeless even with her assassin training. When Stormy was eventually searched, she left without a strong tie to the Hall or Hold, and she imagines that the return of Thread was the best thing to happen to her since then. At least if she became a dragonrider, she could go out pretending to be something of worth.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:06 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:06 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:06 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:07 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:07 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:07 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2018 11:07 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
