NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

L'hai

2012-09-15T17:31:09Z

M'sar:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=
|name=L'hai
|position=Bronzerider
|dragon=Savvy Skyscraper Kolniveth
|craft=Tanner
|birthplace=Ista Weyr
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Michael Shanks
|livejournal=[http://lachai-tea.livejournal.com lachai_tea]}}

== Description ==

Here is average height, fairly broad shoulders - a lean, fit shape... though there's definitely no rippling muscles. He's pale-skinned, with a long face and high forehead with light brown hair cut short and layered. His nose is a bit crooked and his wide lips form a mouth that looks always slightly perturbed. Brown eyes are clear, when not veiled by the glass of thin-rimmed spectacles. His most expressive features are actually his hands; he has long, nimble fingers.

== WYSK ==

* L'hai is a transfer from Ista Weyr. There's no big scandal or rumor mill really attached to his transfer, though a few have called out the convenience of a bronze showing up as High Reaches' queens get to a certain age.

== Kolniveth ==

A towering sculpture of a bronze, warm as dawn's light on stone and bright as glinting steel, this dragon holds himself high and straight with unmistakable self-assurance. His face is strong, chiseled, all clean lines and smooth planes with a sturdy, distinguished jaw and sleekly curved headknobs. A wide avenue of ridges advances down his back in monotonous squares until they rush into a crowded series of bumps along his streamlined tail. Tin-cast champagne splashes his trim sides, made all the brighter by irregular streaks that patter his ribs like so much half-rinsed grit. The tall, muscular architecture of his shoulders and haunches and the depth of a broad chest give his otherwise lean build an athletic quality, lending power to long limbs and quick motion. When spread, his enormous wings reveal the length of straight spars that gleam like newly polished metal, their sails holding a mottling of brick and concrete, rendered indistinct by the haze of sunlit smog.

== Relationships ==

lol

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

== Mentioned In... Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{#titleparts: {{BASEPAGENAME}} | 1 }}/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Ista Weyr]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]

L'hai

2012-08-20T15:11:29Z

M'sar: Created page with "{{HrwProfile |picture= |name=L'hai |position=Bronzerider |dragon=Savvy Skyscraper Kolniveth |craft=Tanner |birthplace=Ista Weyr |mother= |father= |siblings= |children= |friends= ..."

Logs:Styles, Stalking, and Sorting

2012-06-03T19:18:06Z

M'sar:

{{ Log
| who = Brieli, Azaylia, M'sar (NPCing)
| where = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Candidates doing what they do best, chores and chatting. And being watched.
| when = Day 28, Month 10, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.20
| quote = "Sometimes, you see why people tell stories about riders."
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions = K'del, Lujayn
| icons = brieli smile.jpg, azaylia bashful.jpg
| log = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr

----
Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms.

Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.

Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outsde each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.
----

As usual, even when the weather is lovely (though getting chilly) outside, the storerooms have no shortage of traffic; people need things at all times and in all weather. This afternoon finds one tall, lean, dark candidate in the clothing stores, sorting through things that are not at all her style or age - old lady clothes, to be exact. Shawls and baggy flannel flowered nighties, shapeless wooly cardigans and voluminous skirts. Fashion forward! Brieli holds up one large plaid skirt with a disgusted expression on her face, as if its very existence offends her.

"Oh pardon, no excuse me sir, oh I'm ever so-" And it'll continue until Azaylia's made her way in, though it's hard to say whether or not anyone's actually heard those quiet utterings. Board in one hand, writing stick in the other, she's clearly not here to ransack the stores like most. Quite the opposite in fact, and the young woman wordlessly walks over to her fellow candidate. A murmur, something like a greeting is squeaked Brieli's way along with the flash of a small smile. She's already pulling out a box, easing the weighted container down ever so gently.

"Excuse you!" a young, peppy voice follows Azaylia, drowning out the apology he even teases her for not giving; W'rell bobs his head at several girls who trail by in Azaylia's wake, chattering softly but with serious faces that belie their youth. He scoffs to accept their sober tone, choosing instead to smile wryly as he strolls--but with purpose--to a shelf containing a small selection of used boots. Clasping the first footwear in front of him, he surreptitiously glides it to the side, finding that he's made a sly little peep-hole that, through a wall of assorted leather, he can spy on a brunette with strong cheekbones and even more strict posture examining fabrics nearby Brieli. Nevermind that he's clutching a pair of slender calve-huggers that wouldn't even fit over his big toe.

Both candidate and rider are more interesting than an ugly skirt - Brieli glances up to watch their drastically different approaches with sharp gaze, somewhat amused - though whether it's by squeaking or overly small boots, it's hard to say. Returning Azaylia's smile with an easy one of her own, she swings the plaid skirt on one finger with a 'can you believe this?' arch of brow. "I'm helping the elderly by dressing them poorly, apparently. They'll be warm, but hideous. I suppose I might not care once I became ancient, but I like to think style never dies." She glances over W'rell's way, then back to the other candidate with an entertained eyeroll. "How are you finding it?"

Azaylia is extra hunched by the time she reaches Brieli, and W'rell is to thank for that. Head far below her shoulders, trying to shrink as much as possible, it'll be a few moments of steady work before an answer can be coaxed out of the young woman. "I... don't think it's ''so'' bad?" She's crouched now, tossing a glance up Brieli's way now and then as she goes about plucking bits of fabric that are beyond help. Function-wise, not fashion. "Dunno much about style." Admitted easily, her gaze wanders to spot W'rell- eyes wide, head ducked and staying as silent as possible. Until, "...well. Finding it well. Uhm. You?"

"I think the problem ''is'' that style never dies," suggests the brunette with the cheekbones nearby, her hand smoothing over a fabric in front of her as her voice travels from hesitant to inject herself into the conversation to confident, "You know. Never adapting... to the new ones?" It's worth a thought; or at least a shrug; she squints slightly and tries to see where their eyes keep going but, spotting only worn heels, she gets back to what she was examining: an old scrap of yellowed drapery, with odd forms already cut out of it, but perhaps something salvageable inside. If you wanted to make a flag supporting holey cheese. Gaining confidence, and losing line of sight-- like, who are these other people that are not the cheekbones?-- W'rell sidles on his tiptoes, widening his peep-hole. And kind of making it look like he's giving Azaylia the stink-eye.

Brieli is fascinated by the way Azaylia shrinks into herself, but tries very hard not to be obvious about it. "Well. Maybe not. If you're an old lady, especially." She drops it into an open bag at her feet, glancing between the lurking-stalker W'rell and the other candidate before telling the now-former herder, "It's more interesting than seamstressing, I have to say. Something different every day. Almost enough to keep one's mind off the end result, yes?" Her tone is casual enough as she concentrates very hard on folding up a print blouse. To the brunette through the shelves; "It's the danger of stores, I think. Things don't go away till they wear out. Though you're right - some people are just set in their ways."

Azaylia is the amazing shrinking candidate! She stays crouched low to the ground and balanced flat on both feet as she works. "Oh. You sew?" She asks the pair of socks that she's trying to find matches for, though the words are clearly meant for Brieli. It's easier that way. "I miss working in the stables. But, y-yes, it is nice doing new things." At least for a little bit. Gravity wins out in the end, and the candidate settles on her rump, long legs stretched out with the box between them. It's as if she feels the gaze, head ducking a bit more into the box as she murmurs for both girls, "I don't know anything about styles. I thought that was just something people ''said''." Usually to be mean.

By-- the egg. ''By the egg''. ''You guys''. Th-- the point of a peeper is not to ''look back at the peeper''. So says W'rell's aghast incredulous expression when Brieli catches his eye for, like, the third or something time. Faranth. What is this. He begins to crush the boots inside his hand; poor slenders, they never had a chance. The cheekbones of his affection go blithely on, puffing with the force of the girl sticking her tongue thoughtfully into her cheek as she measures the length in front of her with her eyes alone. "They are rather, aren't they?" Set; in their ways. She queries after Brieli, a certain weight infused into the words that implies heavier than the mere matter of clothing choices. Or is that just the concentration she's using in her eyeballing leaking out.

"I do. I'm not the best or the most committed seamstress ever, but I do my job. You did some nice work on your dress, by the by." Brieli nods to the amazing shrinking candidate and her dress, noting with sympathy, "I could imagine. Apprenticing is rather the definition of committed, and I suppose you miss the animals." However, with some surprise - and a wry little edge to her tone, "Oh, no. That's all some weavers do - think up new fashions for the Ladies and Weyrwomen to show off at their feasts and gathers." While Azaylia patches her favorite dress. She's no longer looking at W'rell for what it's worth, but she also totally looks like she has no idea why some peepers might be apoplectic right about now. Why on ''earth'' would she rat him out? Cheekbones garners an interested glance before she goes back to her box; with the same significance, "Seems that way. In ways, in opinions."

There's a long squeak that might resemble words. And then, "Thank you. Uhm, my mama did most of it." Telling of just how ancient the faded dress must be. "But I do alright with sewing." She'll glance Brieli's way to ensure that she's not being impolite for the sake of her steady work ethic. She can't hide the surprise in her voice, "''Really''?" A whole job where you don't do much? At least that's how the once-apprentice considers it. "Oh, but the Ladies do look so lovely..." Thoughtful words have her coming around, perhaps not a completely pointless task after all. For cheekbones, a whimpered, "Tradition is important, m-maybe that's why?" They're stuck in their ways, whoever ''they'' happen to be.

"Tradition ''is'' important," allows the brunette, not fighting; she even glimpses aside to flash Azaylia a reassuring, but not altogether forgving, smile. With the far-away look in her eye remaining, it's forty-percent clear the disappointment is not for the candidate, but some distant point of interest-- ''they''? "But so is staying relevant." Simultaneously, she tosses the flap of yellowed fabric onto the rest of its riddled bulk, once again making murky her speech's intent when she chooses, instead, a brighter and more attractive color alongside it. Spreading the length-- without seeming to notice the giant star-shaped hole cut out of its middle-- between her hands, she displays it this way across her body for the other two with a quizzing, "Hmmm?" Like?

Brieli doesn't look offended, so Azaylia must be all right. Eyeing a shawl that looks particularly moth-eaten, "Oh, they do. And I don't mind having a new dress now and then. But some people like a new dress every party. Never wear the same dress more than once." The shawl gets dropped on the floor with a wrinkled nose; too holey to be bothered with. Digging into the box, she has a nod for the other brunette's speech, she adds idly, "Open-minded is nice too." As she straightens with a brace of skirts in hand, the tall candidate tilts her head to look at the fabric before diplomatically, "It depends what it's for."

Azaylia's own smile for the brunette is weak at best, uncertain, though she's not quite sure why. She helps the socks find their mates, placing them next to her on the growing pile of matching pairs. "I only have two." Not for pity, not to brag, just trying to contribute to the conversation in her own way. Head is prompted to turn by that inquisitive hum, tilting to the side as she remarks, "I think the hole will show your bellybutton. ...Unless that's what you want?" Scandalous! So brave. "Uhm. It's a nice color?" Honestly the worst woman to ask for fashion advice.

"Just focusing on color right no-- " The brunette's sensical response for Brieli's neutrality is interrupted by Azaylia's voice penetrating (quietly) through. "What? What hole..." Dropping her chin, she nearly bangs it against her chest in the hurry to look. But, in a strange wave of timing, there's a not-quite-distant clatter of shoes and then a more defined //thump//-- as if, perhaps, a jaw ran into a shelf in its owner's sheer enthusiasm at imagining such a priceless phenomenon as Azaylia dares describe-- but as the brunette's attention shoots over, peering curiously those three shelves through their own, there's nothing to see. "Oy," she sighs, scooping up the poor holed fabric into her arms and depositing it onto the shelf with a beleaguered sigh-- there ''that'' goes, "Some people will just leave any mess."

In about the same tone as the other candidate, "I have one nice dress." Brieli's smile for Azaylia shades towards reassuring, and she steers away from controversial thoughts as she sorts through the skirts one by one. "How do you stand mucking stables, by the way? I keep trying to trade off that job, but no one bites." Her dark gaze slides over to the direction of the shoequake and thump, and she just shakes her head before dropping the rest of the skirts into the sack on the floor. "You don't say. I've been told it's a real problem."

"I'll trade!" Excitable squeak is paired with socks being clutched beneath her chin, big doe eyes staring right up at Brieli. "I've missed the runners, and the llamas..." Mucking is worth being able to visit her furry friends. The thump has her back straightening, looking over her shoulder at the shoes as they become still. "Uhmm..." Her eyes are slow to tear away, "I think maybe, i-if you wanted that, that a hole at your belly button could be, uhm... cute?" She would ''never'', of course, but there are bound to be women who can pull it off.

Chuckling softly at the excitement happening over the mention of ''llamas'', those delectable cheekbones pushed up by her lips' merriment, the brunette waits them out before passing Azaylia a much better smile than before-- even if she glances at the fabric with a sad hesitance. "Thanks for the advice, at least. I think I'll try my luck in a few days-- but good luck on your chores, and like." Pushing back from the shelf, she takes her leave with a soft nod and a grace in her ways that clearly can't be described-- especially by the ducking form of W'rell, his back pressed to the shelf bottom where he dropped, his chest heaving in great, futile motions to fulfill his needs after the frantic scramble that's left him spread like an insect across several fallen pairs of shoes on the floor, and pressed to the giant box that managed to keep his curly head from view-- just, ''just'' barely. At the sound of the brunette stepping out, he sighs with a droop of his shoulders that releases the last balancing pair of slender boots resting behind his head tumbling to the floor and he picks them up to hold to his chest absently. ''A few days''. Till then.

"''Amazing''. Brilliant." Brieli is more than pleased to trade with Azaylia, especially given how big her eyes and how fervent her voice gets. "I'm sure that they miss you and find me lacking as a companion. I don't mind runners; I'm a little nervous about the llamas spitting." She wrinkles her nose - that's just gross. "And it could be cute, but I think it might cause more attention than one might want. It was nice chatting," she tells the other brunette through the shelves, "Have a good day, try to get some sun." She gives a little wave, then gives W'rell the side-eye as he passes. To Azaylia, quietly, "Sometimes, you see why people tell stories about riders."

Azaylia is ever so quick to jump to her wooly friend's defense, "Oh, but they only ever really spit at other llamas..." Comes the ever-patient explanation. "Or if they think ''you're'' a llama." Which has that head tilting to the side, as if inspecting Brieli for certain characteristics. Ms. Cheekbones seems to be leaving, and the candidate matches her smile, "Good luck. O-on your dress. And all." As for W'rell, the model rider that he is, could there be a bit of ruffling of Azaylia's feathers? "The riders I know are perfect gentlemen." Hmph.

Brieli can't help but laugh a little as Azaylia looks her over for llamaesque features, and she quickly wraps a greyish shawl about her shoulders, turning this way and that to show it off. "I'm tallish," she says. "Perhaps if I look wooly, they mistake me for a llama. I'll let you visit - they know you for a herder. Or - sorry. Once herder. Friend." She drops the shawl into the bag, having the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I ''said'' sometimes. Many riders I've met are perfectly fine. But if you met him first?" She arches brows the other candidate's way. "What would you think?"

Azaylia drops a sock back into the box, fingers splaying over her lips to try and stifle her giggles. Llama!Brieli is still quite a vision, "I wouldn't wear that." She warns, good naturedly. Her hand drops, and there's a bit of effort for that smile to stay, but she manages. "It's alright. I'll always be a Herder." Optimism has her sounding less hopeless about her chances of impression. The hypothetical is considered as she dips her hand back into the box, retrieving the once abandoned sock. "..Mmm. I suppose you're right." Momentary shudders are gone quickly enough, "But it takes all kinds."

"Oh, no - that is destined for some hundred turn old auntie who is finding it getting chilly earlier this year. Though I can't say as I blame her; it does get colder quicker here." Brieli shudders a little with an amused smile for Azaylia's stifled giggles. She does sober a little at the girl's last to ask, curiously, "Do you mean that in an 'in-my-heart' sense or a 'this-isn't-going-to-happen' sense?" She's wise enough to go back to her sorting after asking, turning her sharp, dark gaze to other matters. "It does at that," she can agree easily, nodding. "I just don't like when people act all creepy. Or even a little creepy. I feel like I should have said something, to be honest. I feel complicit."

Azaylia can at least nod confidently at the talk of weather at High Reaches. There are even tips, "The Greenhouse stays pretty nice, I hear. And the Sands." Hardly a secret to keep to herself, she's more concerned with the other candidate's comfort. "Uhm." She manages to pair up two socks before mustering up an answer for Brieli. "B-both?" Not a lie. And then there's looking for the best in all folk, "Maybe... he was just shy?" Even she doesn't sound completely convinced. A pinch to her brow, simple Keroon girl echoing, "Complicit?" Sounds like one of them scholarly type words.

Nodding as she comes to the bottom of the barrel, as it were, Brieli settles into a crouch over the last of the clothing. "I've found that I like sitting in the galleries sometimes, though Ysavaeth makes me nervous when she's awake... She's just so ''big''." Glancing over Azaylia's way questioningly, she seems to silently ask if the herder gets what she means - or if she's going to be in the minority again. Looking a little skeptical for 'both', she admits, "I'd think it a bit difficult either way. And I meant... I feel like I made what he did okay by not saying anything. I should have let her know someone was looking at her, because I'd want to know."

"Bigger than ''Cadejoth'', even." Spoken with fear-laced awe, as if the fact that golds are bigger than bronzes are a novel. Though in reality, the Weyrleader's dragon is the only one she's ever been formally introduced to. "She's been asleep the times I've visited." Azaylia sounds very grateful at that fact. She tries to make her neutral opinion less so, "I mean... what dragon is going to want a rider who's afraid of him?" Dragonets certainly can't be that silly, can they? The pile next to her has grown significantly, socks rolled into each other to make it difficult for them to be separated. "Oh, I supposed that make sense." Azaylia admits, as if Brieli's opinion is law. And yet, "I don't think I'd mind, uhm. W-Well if he was only looking. Maybe."

With a little twitch - less a shudder than the start of one - Brieli grimaces down into the nearly-empty box before dumping it out to turn it over; perching on the edge to sort through what's left. "I've... thought about that a little, myself. I haven't precisely been very close to many of them, they make me nervous, I thought it unseemly to watch the clutching - I have odd ideas about all of this, yet Lujayn seemed to think it a good idea that I stand. I think... I still should. But it doesn't mean I don't have reservations." There's a moment before, slowly, "I hope that helps." Otherwise, offering it all up was pointless! With a shrug, "Maybe she would or wouldn't have, but still."

Azaylia listens without any intention of interrupting her fellow candidate. Instead, she makes a mark or two on the hides she's brought in with her. There's a tilt to her head, eyes cast down but ear aimed at Brieli. "You were asked to Stand." She offers with the intent to soothe. "Either by dragon or Lujayn, that must mean you've got something special." Unlike the cheating once-herder. Lengthy arms gather up most of the sock pile, dumping it back into the box before plucking up the few pairs she missed. "You should ask to meet Cadejoth. He's a good boy." Warmth blossoms into a smile, obvious in her tone as well. It all disappears in an instant as a squirming, squelching growl makes itself known. "Oh my, sorry. I haven't eaten since..." Blink. "I should go have lunch." Box is hoisted up, slid back onto the shelf where it belongs.

"I'm given to understand that a lot of people who ask to stand Impress." Nevermind that Brieli can't think of any examples right now or that she just got to the Weyr a little over a month ago - suddenly she's an expert! Not sure what else to offer to Azaylia, she attempts to return the smile, confirming, "The Weyrleader's dragon. Yes, I'll try." There's something odd about her tone, but it passes in the way the brunette waves the other dark-haired girl off with a grin for the growl. "Go, eat. I'll see you later, and I'll let you know when mucking comes up next. Enjoy lunch, Azaylia."

Oblivious even on her most suspicious days, Azaylia takes no notice of any odd tones. Though the words have her gathering up those hides and writing stick with a smile, "If you're scared, K-The Weyrleader, is very understanding." There was no K sound, hush. Brieli doesn't have to tell her twice, and hopefully someone's warned the poor cooks that this particular candidate is on her way. Retreat is speady, excited at the prospect of a meal. But then, she returns! "Oh, and... Brieli? Uhm. It was really nice talking to you." Azaylia half-hides behind the entrance, shrinking once gain. "So. Just wanted to say that. Kaybye." Shrinking and disappearing act is complete.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

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<comments />

Logs:Styles, Stalking, and Sorting

2012-06-03T19:14:50Z

M'sar:

{{ Log
| who = Brieli, Azaylia, M'sar NPCing
| where = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Candidates doing what they do best, chores and chatting. And being watched.
| when = Day 28, Month 10, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.20
| quote = "Sometimes, you see why people tell stories about riders."
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions = K'del, Lujayn
| icons = brieli smile.jpg, azaylia bashful.jpg
| log = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr

----
Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms.

Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.

Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outsde each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.
----

As usual, even when the weather is lovely (though getting chilly) outside, the storerooms have no shortage of traffic; people need things at all times and in all weather. This afternoon finds one tall, lean, dark candidate in the clothing stores, sorting through things that are not at all her style or age - old lady clothes, to be exact. Shawls and baggy flannel flowered nighties, shapeless wooly cardigans and voluminous skirts. Fashion forward! Brieli holds up one large plaid skirt with a disgusted expression on her face, as if its very existence offends her.

"Oh pardon, no excuse me sir, oh I'm ever so-" And it'll continue until Azaylia's made her way in, though it's hard to say whether or not anyone's actually heard those quiet utterings. Board in one hand, writing stick in the other, she's clearly not here to ransack the stores like most. Quite the opposite in fact, and the young woman wordlessly walks over to her fellow candidate. A murmur, something like a greeting is squeaked Brieli's way along with the flash of a small smile. She's already pulling out a box, easing the weighted container down ever so gently.

"Excuse you!" a young, peppy voice follows Azaylia, drowning out the apology he even teases her for not giving; W'rell bobs his head at several girls who trail by in Azaylia's wake, chattering softly but with serious faces that belie their youth. He scoffs to accept their sober tone, choosing instead to smile wryly as he strolls--but with purpose--to a shelf containing a small selection of used boots. Clasping the first footwear in front of him, he surreptitiously glides it to the side, finding that he's made a sly little peep-hole that, through a wall of assorted leather, he can spy on a brunette with strong cheekbones and even more strict posture examining fabrics nearby Brieli. Nevermind that he's clutching a pair of slender calve-huggers that wouldn't even fit over his big toe.

Both candidate and rider are more interesting than an ugly skirt - Brieli glances up to watch their drastically different approaches with sharp gaze, somewhat amused - though whether it's by squeaking or overly small boots, it's hard to say. Returning Azaylia's smile with an easy one of her own, she swings the plaid skirt on one finger with a 'can you believe this?' arch of brow. "I'm helping the elderly by dressing them poorly, apparently. They'll be warm, but hideous. I suppose I might not care once I became ancient, but I like to think style never dies." She glances over W'rell's way, then back to the other candidate with an entertained eyeroll. "How are you finding it?"

Azaylia is extra hunched by the time she reaches Brieli, and W'rell is to thank for that. Head far below her shoulders, trying to shrink as much as possible, it'll be a few moments of steady work before an answer can be coaxed out of the young woman. "I... don't think it's ''so'' bad?" She's crouched now, tossing a glance up Brieli's way now and then as she goes about plucking bits of fabric that are beyond help. Function-wise, not fashion. "Dunno much about style." Admitted easily, her gaze wanders to spot W'rell- eyes wide, head ducked and staying as silent as possible. Until, "...well. Finding it well. Uhm. You?"

"I think the problem ''is'' that style never dies," suggests the brunette with the cheekbones nearby, her hand smoothing over a fabric in front of her as her voice travels from hesitant to inject herself into the conversation to confident, "You know. Never adapting... to the new ones?" It's worth a thought; or at least a shrug; she squints slightly and tries to see where their eyes keep going but, spotting only worn heels, she gets back to what she was examining: an old scrap of yellowed drapery, with odd forms already cut out of it, but perhaps something salvageable inside. If you wanted to make a flag supporting holey cheese. Gaining confidence, and losing line of sight-- like, who are these other people that are not the cheekbones?-- W'rell sidles on his tiptoes, widening his peep-hole. And kind of making it look like he's giving Azaylia the stink-eye.

Brieli is fascinated by the way Azaylia shrinks into herself, but tries very hard not to be obvious about it. "Well. Maybe not. If you're an old lady, especially." She drops it into an open bag at her feet, glancing between the lurking-stalker W'rell and the other candidate before telling the now-former herder, "It's more interesting than seamstressing, I have to say. Something different every day. Almost enough to keep one's mind off the end result, yes?" Her tone is casual enough as she concentrates very hard on folding up a print blouse. To the brunette through the shelves; "It's the danger of stores, I think. Things don't go away till they wear out. Though you're right - some people are just set in their ways."

Azaylia is the amazing shrinking candidate! She stays crouched low to the ground and balanced flat on both feet as she works. "Oh. You sew?" She asks the pair of socks that she's trying to find matches for, though the words are clearly meant for Brieli. It's easier that way. "I miss working in the stables. But, y-yes, it is nice doing new things." At least for a little bit. Gravity wins out in the end, and the candidate settles on her rump, long legs stretched out with the box between them. It's as if she feels the gaze, head ducking a bit more into the box as she murmurs for both girls, "I don't know anything about styles. I thought that was just something people ''said''." Usually to be mean.

By-- the egg. ''By the egg''. ''You guys''. Th-- the point of a peeper is not to ''look back at the peeper''. So says W'rell's aghast incredulous expression when Brieli catches his eye for, like, the third or something time. Faranth. What is this. He begins to crush the boots inside his hand; poor slenders, they never had a chance. The cheekbones of his affection go blithely on, puffing with the force of the girl sticking her tongue thoughtfully into her cheek as she measures the length in front of her with her eyes alone. "They are rather, aren't they?" Set; in their ways. She queries after Brieli, a certain weight infused into the words that implies heavier than the mere matter of clothing choices. Or is that just the concentration she's using in her eyeballing leaking out.

"I do. I'm not the best or the most committed seamstress ever, but I do my job. You did some nice work on your dress, by the by." Brieli nods to the amazing shrinking candidate and her dress, noting with sympathy, "I could imagine. Apprenticing is rather the definition of committed, and I suppose you miss the animals." However, with some surprise - and a wry little edge to her tone, "Oh, no. That's all some weavers do - think up new fashions for the Ladies and Weyrwomen to show off at their feasts and gathers." While Azaylia patches her favorite dress. She's no longer looking at W'rell for what it's worth, but she also totally looks like she has no idea why some peepers might be apoplectic right about now. Why on ''earth'' would she rat him out? Cheekbones garners an interested glance before she goes back to her box; with the same significance, "Seems that way. In ways, in opinions."

There's a long squeak that might resemble words. And then, "Thank you. Uhm, my mama did most of it." Telling of just how ancient the faded dress must be. "But I do alright with sewing." She'll glance Brieli's way to ensure that she's not being impolite for the sake of her steady work ethic. She can't hide the surprise in her voice, "''Really''?" A whole job where you don't do much? At least that's how the once-apprentice considers it. "Oh, but the Ladies do look so lovely..." Thoughtful words have her coming around, perhaps not a completely pointless task after all. For cheekbones, a whimpered, "Tradition is important, m-maybe that's why?" They're stuck in their ways, whoever ''they'' happen to be.

"Tradition ''is'' important," allows the brunette, not fighting; she even glimpses aside to flash Azaylia a reassuring, but not altogether forgving, smile. With the far-away look in her eye remaining, it's forty-percent clear the disappointment is not for the candidate, but some distant point of interest-- ''they''? "But so is staying relevant." Simultaneously, she tosses the flap of yellowed fabric onto the rest of its riddled bulk, once again making murky her speech's intent when she chooses, instead, a brighter and more attractive color alongside it. Spreading the length-- without seeming to notice the giant star-shaped hole cut out of its middle-- between her hands, she displays it this way across her body for the other two with a quizzing, "Hmmm?" Like?

Brieli doesn't look offended, so Azaylia must be all right. Eyeing a shawl that looks particularly moth-eaten, "Oh, they do. And I don't mind having a new dress now and then. But some people like a new dress every party. Never wear the same dress more than once." The shawl gets dropped on the floor with a wrinkled nose; too holey to be bothered with. Digging into the box, she has a nod for the other brunette's speech, she adds idly, "Open-minded is nice too." As she straightens with a brace of skirts in hand, the tall candidate tilts her head to look at the fabric before diplomatically, "It depends what it's for."

Azaylia's own smile for the brunette is weak at best, uncertain, though she's not quite sure why. She helps the socks find their mates, placing them next to her on the growing pile of matching pairs. "I only have two." Not for pity, not to brag, just trying to contribute to the conversation in her own way. Head is prompted to turn by that inquisitive hum, tilting to the side as she remarks, "I think the hole will show your bellybutton. ...Unless that's what you want?" Scandalous! So brave. "Uhm. It's a nice color?" Honestly the worst woman to ask for fashion advice.

"Just focusing on color right no-- " The brunette's sensical response for Brieli's neutrality is interrupted by Azaylia's voice penetrating (quietly) through. "What? What hole..." Dropping her chin, she nearly bangs it against her chest in the hurry to look. But, in a strange wave of timing, there's a not-quite-distant clatter of shoes and then a more defined //thump//-- as if, perhaps, a jaw ran into a shelf in its owner's sheer enthusiasm at imagining such a priceless phenomenon as Azaylia dares describe-- but as the brunette's attention shoots over, peering curiously those three shelves through their own, there's nothing to see. "Oy," she sighs, scooping up the poor holed fabric into her arms and depositing it onto the shelf with a beleaguered sigh-- there ''that'' goes, "Some people will just leave any mess."

In about the same tone as the other candidate, "I have one nice dress." Brieli's smile for Azaylia shades towards reassuring, and she steers away from controversial thoughts as she sorts through the skirts one by one. "How do you stand mucking stables, by the way? I keep trying to trade off that job, but no one bites." Her dark gaze slides over to the direction of the shoequake and thump, and she just shakes her head before dropping the rest of the skirts into the sack on the floor. "You don't say. I've been told it's a real problem."

"I'll trade!" Excitable squeak is paired with socks being clutched beneath her chin, big doe eyes staring right up at Brieli. "I've missed the runners, and the llamas..." Mucking is worth being able to visit her furry friends. The thump has her back straightening, looking over her shoulder at the shoes as they become still. "Uhmm..." Her eyes are slow to tear away, "I think maybe, i-if you wanted that, that a hole at your belly button could be, uhm... cute?" She would ''never'', of course, but there are bound to be women who can pull it off.

Chuckling softly at the excitement happening over the mention of ''llamas'', those delectable cheekbones pushed up by her lips' merriment, the brunette waits them out before passing Azaylia a much better smile than before-- even if she glances at the fabric with a sad hesitance. "Thanks for the advice, at least. I think I'll try my luck in a few days-- but good luck on your chores, and like." Pushing back from the shelf, she takes her leave with a soft nod and a grace in her ways that clearly can't be described-- especially by the ducking form of W'rell, his back pressed to the shelf bottom where he dropped, his chest heaving in great, futile motions to fulfill his needs after the frantic scramble that's left him spread like an insect across several fallen pairs of shoes on the floor, and pressed to the giant box that managed to keep his curly head from view-- just, ''just'' barely. At the sound of the brunette stepping out, he sighs with a droop of his shoulders that releases the last balancing pair of slender boots resting behind his head tumbling to the floor and he picks them up to hold to his chest absently. ''A few days''. Till then.

"''Amazing''. Brilliant." Brieli is more than pleased to trade with Azaylia, especially given how big her eyes and how fervent her voice gets. "I'm sure that they miss you and find me lacking as a companion. I don't mind runners; I'm a little nervous about the llamas spitting." She wrinkles her nose - that's just gross. "And it could be cute, but I think it might cause more attention than one might want. It was nice chatting," she tells the other brunette through the shelves, "Have a good day, try to get some sun." She gives a little wave, then gives W'rell the side-eye as he passes. To Azaylia, quietly, "Sometimes, you see why people tell stories about riders."

Azaylia is ever so quick to jump to her wooly friend's defense, "Oh, but they only ever really spit at other llamas..." Comes the ever-patient explanation. "Or if they think ''you're'' a llama." Which has that head tilting to the side, as if inspecting Brieli for certain characteristics. Ms. Cheekbones seems to be leaving, and the candidate matches her smile, "Good luck. O-on your dress. And all." As for W'rell, the model rider that he is, could there be a bit of ruffling of Azaylia's feathers? "The riders I know are perfect gentlemen." Hmph.

Brieli can't help but laugh a little as Azaylia looks her over for llamaesque features, and she quickly wraps a greyish shawl about her shoulders, turning this way and that to show it off. "I'm tallish," she says. "Perhaps if I look wooly, they mistake me for a llama. I'll let you visit - they know you for a herder. Or - sorry. Once herder. Friend." She drops the shawl into the bag, having the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I ''said'' sometimes. Many riders I've met are perfectly fine. But if you met him first?" She arches brows the other candidate's way. "What would you think?"

Azaylia drops a sock back into the box, fingers splaying over her lips to try and stifle her giggles. Llama!Brieli is still quite a vision, "I wouldn't wear that." She warns, good naturedly. Her hand drops, and there's a bit of effort for that smile to stay, but she manages. "It's alright. I'll always be a Herder." Optimism has her sounding less hopeless about her chances of impression. The hypothetical is considered as she dips her hand back into the box, retrieving the once abandoned sock. "..Mmm. I suppose you're right." Momentary shudders are gone quickly enough, "But it takes all kinds."

"Oh, no - that is destined for some hundred turn old auntie who is finding it getting chilly earlier this year. Though I can't say as I blame her; it does get colder quicker here." Brieli shudders a little with an amused smile for Azaylia's stifled giggles. She does sober a little at the girl's last to ask, curiously, "Do you mean that in an 'in-my-heart' sense or a 'this-isn't-going-to-happen' sense?" She's wise enough to go back to her sorting after asking, turning her sharp, dark gaze to other matters. "It does at that," she can agree easily, nodding. "I just don't like when people act all creepy. Or even a little creepy. I feel like I should have said something, to be honest. I feel complicit."

Azaylia can at least nod confidently at the talk of weather at High Reaches. There are even tips, "The Greenhouse stays pretty nice, I hear. And the Sands." Hardly a secret to keep to herself, she's more concerned with the other candidate's comfort. "Uhm." She manages to pair up two socks before mustering up an answer for Brieli. "B-both?" Not a lie. And then there's looking for the best in all folk, "Maybe... he was just shy?" Even she doesn't sound completely convinced. A pinch to her brow, simple Keroon girl echoing, "Complicit?" Sounds like one of them scholarly type words.

Nodding as she comes to the bottom of the barrel, as it were, Brieli settles into a crouch over the last of the clothing. "I've found that I like sitting in the galleries sometimes, though Ysavaeth makes me nervous when she's awake... She's just so ''big''." Glancing over Azaylia's way questioningly, she seems to silently ask if the herder gets what she means - or if she's going to be in the minority again. Looking a little skeptical for 'both', she admits, "I'd think it a bit difficult either way. And I meant... I feel like I made what he did okay by not saying anything. I should have let her know someone was looking at her, because I'd want to know."

"Bigger than ''Cadejoth'', even." Spoken with fear-laced awe, as if the fact that golds are bigger than bronzes are a novel. Though in reality, the Weyrleader's dragon is the only one she's ever been formally introduced to. "She's been asleep the times I've visited." Azaylia sounds very grateful at that fact. She tries to make her neutral opinion less so, "I mean... what dragon is going to want a rider who's afraid of him?" Dragonets certainly can't be that silly, can they? The pile next to her has grown significantly, socks rolled into each other to make it difficult for them to be separated. "Oh, I supposed that make sense." Azaylia admits, as if Brieli's opinion is law. And yet, "I don't think I'd mind, uhm. W-Well if he was only looking. Maybe."

With a little twitch - less a shudder than the start of one - Brieli grimaces down into the nearly-empty box before dumping it out to turn it over; perching on the edge to sort through what's left. "I've... thought about that a little, myself. I haven't precisely been very close to many of them, they make me nervous, I thought it unseemly to watch the clutching - I have odd ideas about all of this, yet Lujayn seemed to think it a good idea that I stand. I think... I still should. But it doesn't mean I don't have reservations." There's a moment before, slowly, "I hope that helps." Otherwise, offering it all up was pointless! With a shrug, "Maybe she would or wouldn't have, but still."

Azaylia listens without any intention of interrupting her fellow candidate. Instead, she makes a mark or two on the hides she's brought in with her. There's a tilt to her head, eyes cast down but ear aimed at Brieli. "You were asked to Stand." She offers with the intent to soothe. "Either by dragon or Lujayn, that must mean you've got something special." Unlike the cheating once-herder. Lengthy arms gather up most of the sock pile, dumping it back into the box before plucking up the few pairs she missed. "You should ask to meet Cadejoth. He's a good boy." Warmth blossoms into a smile, obvious in her tone as well. It all disappears in an instant as a squirming, squelching growl makes itself known. "Oh my, sorry. I haven't eaten since..." Blink. "I should go have lunch." Box is hoisted up, slid back onto the shelf where it belongs.

"I'm given to understand that a lot of people who ask to stand Impress." Nevermind that Brieli can't think of any examples right now or that she just got to the Weyr a little over a month ago - suddenly she's an expert! Not sure what else to offer to Azaylia, she attempts to return the smile, confirming, "The Weyrleader's dragon. Yes, I'll try." There's something odd about her tone, but it passes in the way the brunette waves the other dark-haired girl off with a grin for the growl. "Go, eat. I'll see you later, and I'll let you know when mucking comes up next. Enjoy lunch, Azaylia."

Oblivious even on her most suspicious days, Azaylia takes no notice of any odd tones. Though the words have her gathering up those hides and writing stick with a smile, "If you're scared, K-The Weyrleader, is very understanding." There was no K sound, hush. Brieli doesn't have to tell her twice, and hopefully someone's warned the poor cooks that this particular candidate is on her way. Retreat is speady, excited at the prospect of a meal. But then, she returns! "Oh, and... Brieli? Uhm. It was really nice talking to you." Azaylia half-hides behind the entrance, shrinking once gain. "So. Just wanted to say that. Kaybye." Shrinking and disappearing act is complete.

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Logs:Beauty In The Eye

2012-06-03T19:13:55Z

M'sar: Created page with "{{ Log | who = M'sar | where = Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr | what = Not all that's gold glitters. | when = Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28 | gamedate = 2012.06.01 | quote = <..."

{{ Log
| who = M'sar
| where = Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Not all that's gold glitters.
| when = Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.06.01
| quote = << Do you see. >>
| weather =
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| icons = m'sar kush.jpg
| log =

The Sands. Heat pervaded his feet, propped up on the railing in front of him; familiar, the heat, on his boots, his thin legs, and his mind: home. Gusts of frozen wind from outside brought in across the shoulders of other watchers just a nipping, chill reminder that there were others, staring with more investment at the goings-on below. He'd come out to watch the Hatching. He didn't know why he'd come out to watch the Hatching. To know, he guessed. Because knowing was everything. It'd just be nice if he could do it without the half-witted buzz crammed in around him.

Heat curled his toes inside crossed boots; heat from the Sands, pouring across the nervous foreheads of the candidates as the less white egg hatched what he supposed was a gold: the garish results of whatever ill mood Ysavaeth had been in when squatting her out. A new queen, unaware of the rickety scales she'd just tipped with her clubbed body. She bellowed.

A silken strand wound around his head. << Do you see. >>

''I do.''

Coiling, tightening. << Do you see how beautiful she is? >>

''I see a body others will scoff at. Wide, square: huge, if she's allowed to grow into it. So she'll be slow. She's already testing her power but she has no direction. She may be Ysavaeth's spawn but she challenges her, too, and if she's smart then she's a threat but if she's not smart then she's not worthy. She'll become a pawn masquerading as a queen. A club, a fighter, a weapon to be aimed.''

A rush of heat, startled cries, and that brawny gold frame.

<< So you do. >>

A soft barricade against the full of Kushvetath's intoxicating honey fell his eyelids to half-mast and he watched through this indolent stare as the brawling queen sunk her claw then the power of her mind into that tall, stout person of dark skin and desperation to help. His lip, at the corner, twitched discontentedly, leading inside where his tongue pushed sourly into the back of his teeth.

Without any effort of fire at all, Kushvetath leant up against that barrier, a flutter of firecracker amusement jumping the wall. << Wondering if you shouldn't have lied? >>

It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer. A shot of purpose dislodged his comfortably propped feet, digging his shoulders into the back of the seat as if he might rise. No more than that. And in that crushing, gossiping, chittering crowd of overdone outfits, it was nothing; M'sar was as still as he started, with his temple resting peaceably on his right knuckles as he stared at the Sands, and absorbed the heat.

<< I think it's time we introduce ourselves. >>

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Logs:A Nice Man

2012-05-23T05:44:39Z

M'sar:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, M'sar
| where = Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia is no Batman, but she's still manages to help Misar out. Barely.
| when = Day 6, Month 11, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.22
| quote = "STOP IT!"
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = azaylia hm.jpg, m'sar content.jpg
| log = Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr

----
Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller, higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night.
The largest tunnels lead to the main living cavern, to the bowl and to the Weyr entrance, but it's still easy for the uninitiated to get lost within this maze.
----

Most are out enjoying the cloudless afternoon: a reprieve from the twisted paths of the inner caverns that traps heat, and noise-- muffled. No prying eyes to see this niche, where the glows have been discreetly dimmed by a few thick riding jackets. Near the opening of the hall, a scattered array of tray, food mashed by half a footprint and now unidentifiable: something dropped in a hurry.

Four against one; rough hands latch onto a collar, hauling that lone cornered wolf up to his feet after he'd crashed with a scrape onto knees. M'sar's hair has gone wild; pale, scattered, as flustered as his eyes aren't. Hard, distinctive-- equally pale-- they glint a strange, detached mocking that is at once unreadable and yet felt, primally, by the lead rider. Without quite knowing why, he gives M'sar's shoulder an extra shove, rubbing the younger man's unremarkable jacket into unyielding stone. "Why don't you fess up already, you creepy little festerwound."

Once again, Azaylia is hidden away within the depths of the weyr rather than soaking up what little sun remains before winter takes hold. Hard sole boots carry her with a steady rhythm through the caverns, a mountain of clean laundry piled into the basket she carries. The strain in her arms is a satisfying one at that, young woman in the best of moods as she passes the darkened niche. There's no thought for dimmed glows, but as her boot steps on the edge of the fallen tray there's some concern. Those vicious words have her skittering backwards, ducking against the tunnel and peering into the darkness. She wills her widened eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light, biting back a squeak of fear. What in the world?

One face in four turns at the sound of the kicked tray, squinting viciously into a darkness he created with eyes slightly more adjusted yet missing the quick scatter of movement. Tapping his leader on the shoulder, he's shrugged aside. Too frustrating is the odd silence from his target, whose shoulder he ferociously pushes until the bone squeaks like he wants M'sar to. Another set of hands interferes at M'sar's waist, digging around in low jacket pockets, or at his belt, until one by one, everything the shrimp owns is dropped carelessly to the floor, crushed by heels. "He's just a little worm," one of the less eager participants scoffs, causing a chain reaction of chuckles.

"Yeah..." The leader agrees, almost amiably, loosening his grip on M'sar so that he stands by his own power-- just for a second, "Then he should ''squirm'' like one-- " before the rider slams his palm into M'sar's pale face, driving, rubbing the vulnerable skin against a wall built of rough-cut stone and no lenience. When he lets go, M'sar's face bounces back, and they share a little laugh as he instinctively stumbles.

Appalled, Azaylia's eyes adjust enough to get a good idea of what's going on- not that she can believe it at first. Long legs threaten to give out once the realization truly hits her, fingers clutching the woven basket even tighter against her chest. ''Leave him alone'' she wills, silently. Cowardly. Unsteady steps have her ducking further back, prepared to turn and run once the four men relent. They don't. Relaxed resolve leaves her unprepared for more, horrified gasp leaving the candidate with hands slapping over her mouth. The abandoned basket hovers in the air before falling with a rustle, freshly laundered things tumbling out across the floor. Fear has her rooted on the spot, breath held, desperately hoping that their own cruel laughter has drowned her out.

"Shh-- " hisses through the laughter, barely noticed, hardly heeded. One among them still eyeballing the visibly empty corridor, his face etched in sharper relief for any peepers amongst the more shadowed, more easily misconstrued looks of the others, their jackets shed and positions unclear-- though by her head, a dimmed glow tells the knotted tale: brownrider, one of them-- right before it slips, jacket wrenched by its precarious position, and the loosened knot falls subtlty into the spilled laundry.
Somebody lets a fist out, and M'sar wheezes, nearly suffocated merely by the unrelenting loom of their larger figures. Pushes, trying to rouse him, turn briefly more juvenile than menacing; harsh little come-ons, vicious encouragements. Shooting a disgruntled look at his companions, the scout shoves off from the wall, advancing with questioning eyes on Azaylia's position. Abruptly, M'sar doubles over, cold eyes watering with sudden despair, his mouth moving in a distinct groan. Scout turns on his heels, as the leader dives down to catch M'sar's collar back up, pull him straight. "What's that, squealer, ready to squeal?"

Azaylia keeps her eyes clenched shut, hands pressing harshly atop her lips. The candidate is doing her best to try and melt into the wall, away from here. Away from what she's seen. Breath is held without her realizing it, for the best as that jacket comes suddenly sliding down, knees close to buckling from fright. Instead, she's left leaning against the cavern wall, uncovered ears forced to listen to their jeering. Every harsh impact has Azaylia jerking in place, as if she's the one being struck. The sound of his groan is what plucks the final cord within, forcing tall candidate to lurch towards them on unsteady legs. "S-Sto..." She whimpers, breath stolen away by fear. And then, "''STOP IT!''" Voice is high pitched but carrying an unfamiliar rasp, paired with balled fists on either side and scrunched face- the perfect way to enter a potential fight.

Fists, feet, laughter-- screech to a startled stop, just as commanded, though not with the same spirit. The scuffling takes seconds to let up; "Faranth!" the scout turning, rapping his friends' shoulders even as they wisen to the raspy-voice intruder. Several disoriented blinks size Azaylia up; who in the... The leader's grip tightens around M'sar's collar on either side, as soon as to strangle him as the mock-niceties he really performs, straightening that jacket and brushing the younger man off in the facade of having helped him up. Palms fake dust hard enough to shove him back again, putting some defensable distance between predators and prey. Azaylia is not so menacing as to inspire immediate retreat, just the slow backtracking of legs, as each rider callously drags his jacket off the assorted glows till the hall's flooded with an unforgiving new light that suffocates adjusted eyes and casts a new paleness to M'sar, left where he's been pushed. "Come on..." is one mutter. But the leader skates past Azaylia, grinning wickedly down on her as if he meant give her, height and all, a pat on the head: ''good dog''. "Nothing to see here," he remarks pleasantly; ''too''. It can be no less than a warning where they trod off.

It's hardly a comforting sight to see one's savior trembling like a leaf in the wind. It's particularly disheartening as Azaylia is visibly battling the urge to turn and run away. The important thing is that she does stay, however glued to that one spot. The bullies are pinned with narrowed eyes that might have more of an impact if they weren't half filled with tears, quivering lower lip taking something away from that scowl as well. The assault of bright lights has brown eyes narrowing into slits for that leader as he grins down at her. "J-just because..." Heroic speech is cut short as her intended audience leaves at that unhurried pace. Once they're completely gone, the candidate mostly /falls/ in the direction of M'sar, managing to catch herself before further slamming him into the wall. "A-are you..? Do you need..?" Hands hover without touching, yanked back only to repeat those actions several times, completely at a loss.

Heaving, but unhurried, breaths fill the musty niche as M'sar rocks his good shoulder into the rock, holding no grudges for the smear of broken skin its left over his left cheek and the tip of his nose. Cool pale eyes find Azaylia unerringly aside a little wheeze, judging her up and down with an irreverent lack of embarrassment for his predicament. Unlike the departed, his-- crooked, wrinkled-- jacket is plain, with no distinguishing knot on his resting shoulder. "Oh-- I'm peachy," his voice a slow amble of self-deprecation, as he watches her stop-and-start with a studious sort of detachment.

A whimper, "Such a ''stupid'' question, I know..." Self deprecation seems to be the theme of this rescue. Hands lack the confidence to touch him, and just like that she's turning away. Clumsy legs tangle and force the girl to stumble as she reaches the walkway, landing hard on her knees but ignoring it. A white cloth is plucked from the fallen laundry pile while her other hand comes in contact with something... corded. Wide eyes stare down at the brownrider's knot hanging limply in her palm. It's stuffed into one of her pockets as she rises to her feet, rushing back over to M'sar and murmuring, "You're bleeding." Personal space will be invaded out of concern, offering the cloth to help take care of that.

M'sar's hand strikes across his mouth, wiping a bit of spittle and grit off, with a vigor nearly no less than his assailants while he watches Azaylia's back. Suspicion narrows his eyes as hard as sharp observation, marking her-- uncertain of her-- all conveniently invisible when she comes at him again, and he's a thin, gangly, and wide-eyed victim. "So I-- " a wince interrupts him as the cloth makes, even gentle, contact with his face, "-- am..." Mysticism floats into his voice, tangling up curiosity and confusion. A possible disorientation from going straight from rough contact to helpful.

Night and day are the hands that have been on him. Her touch is far too gentle, managing to get some blood off his cheek though his wince has her taking in a sharp inhale. "M'sorry." Azaylia pulls back, cloth still hovering at cheek-level with him as concerned eyes take in the damage. "I-I'm not a healer." The knot says candidate. "Do you need help? Getting to one?" Empty hand is offered, palm out for him to take the strapping young woman's arm. It drops suddenly, "O-Oh. M'names Azaylia." Comes the squeak, before that limb reaches out again, offering assistance with about all the bravery she can muster.

"Clearly," the high voice drawls low, spotting the knot amongst her clothes only after he grades her retraction at such a tiny drawback. Drooping, tired body language does more to defuse the possible sarcasm, lending too well to the image that the pale-faced, wild-haired young man is small, careful-- fitting into the glove of Azaylia's, even hesitant, care. He lets the hand hover, staring shyly, then reaching out in that same instant she retreats, causing him to stagger, eyes widening, in the loss of assumed support. "Azaylia," he repeats, sweetly; the name of a beautiful Lady, or a savior. "I'm Misar, I..." his hand darts shyly to his face, touching the tip of his scratched nose, "What you must-- think of me right now..."

Azaylia is there to offer oodles of support, strong frame more than capable of steadying Misar. Sarcasm rolls off her shoulders, the young woman oblivious to the bite that his tone might have had. No, she's far too eager to believe in the sweet, shaken baby bird of a man in her arms, "I..." She echoes, voice catching in her throat, "No, no... ''nothing'' gives anyone the right to do this. Not even riders." Is that quiet scorn in her voice? It melts away all too soon in a delicate coo, "Come on now, can you walk? I'll help as long as you'll let me," Head ducks some. "Uhm, Misar. Right?" He's welcome to take an experimental step, sure to find that the young woman is being honest. If a little too enthusiastic at the prospect of helping, "D-do you need me to carry you?"

Sliding his hand underneath her arm, then the other over it, M'sar greedily accepts what's offered, his legs suffering a slight wobble as he detaches from the wall. His finger sliding away carelessly flicks a speck of his own blood off the surface. A gracious nod tells her she has his name, and he takes that step-- swaying more in his slight overwhelm at the ''fullness'' of her help than any physical ailment. "No! No-- that's... really fine," whimpering alarm melts halfway into that blithe attitude before he corrects himself, swinging his face to her with an earnest look fit for his youthful face. He stops their progress with a strong foot contrasting his reliance on her. "I'd actually..." but his face falls, gaze darkening under the shadows, as if he's lost his courage.

Azaylia does her best to steady him as he sways, "Careful now." Comes the gentle reminder. Her fears are pushed aside for Misar's sake, voice surprisingly even though it's returned to that breathless whisper. "Alright. Then let's just concentrate on one foot in front of the other." He may as well have lost 18 or so turns with how she's babying him, tone easily meant for a toddler. Or in her case, for a spooked runner. She pauses when he does, head turning with concerned curiosity written plainly on her face. "You'd..? What? Please, d-don't be shy." Kettle, pot, black. "I'll do anything. Get you something?" Possible guilt at letting those ruffians have at him for so long?

Hanging head, he sighs-- right until those promising words: ''anything''. M'sar's head buoys up, springing with that earnestness. His hand wraps companionably around Azaylia's more than for support. "I think we should keep this our little secret." So prepared, and so certain, it's akin of a command; a command wrapped in the soft wrapping of a request tied with a sincere bow. But that subtle undertone of pushing nonetheless. "Just between us." ''Us''; it's so personal, so inviting. "It would really hurt me if this got out."

Azaylia's brain stalls even as her mouth opens to respond, and it may not all be from the surprise of his request. Gaze drops to his hand on hers before bouncing back up to his face, "O-oh." Tongue flicks over her lower lip, the flesh following all to quickly back into her mouth where she can chew on it a bit. "Uhm, okay." So, so very reluctant. But he has her compliance. "If you think that's best." She did say anything. "And I'd hate to hurt you, Misar." Anymore than she has by not stepping in sooner, but that guilt will gnaw at her later. For now, "Does that mean you don't want to go to the Healers?" Though she'll try to take a step forward, for the sake of progress.

"Azaylia," again, her name, in its perfection, "You're so sweet." It almost, to the keenest ears, isn't a compliment-- just a noted truth behind M'sar's bright smile. "I'll be fine, thanks to you-- " kick, kick at Azaylia's guilt, "this time..." But a more rueful expression overtakes him, casting all of his brief happiness into a resigned loss. "Telling someone that a gang of riders dragged me into the hall will sound like a wild story against their word." A light gnaw on his lower lip comes up empty as he stares despondently off to the side of her shoulder, "If only I had ''some''thing to keep them at bay..."

"Nha-not that..." She tries to argue against what must surely be a compliment, one she doesn't think she rightly deserves. Spilled laundry and food tray are ignored for now, though even Misar will be able to deduce that she'll come back for both once he's taken care of. "I could- Oh. But you don't want anyone to know." She deflates, staying solid enough for him to lean on her strength if he needs it. Hoplessness is dashed away as the candidate's gaze follows him- her knot. Oh! Knot! "Oh!" She uses her free hand to fish out the brownrider's cord, brandishing it underneath Misar's nose. "Will this help? It fell off of one of their jackets w-when... uhm." Well it fell off. That's what's important.

Oh! M'sar's face alights after a brief spell of not comprehending based mostly on that his eyes have difficulty focusing on an object so close. When he blinks enough and brings the knot into focus, he lets the cords lay across his examining palm without ''snatching'' it quite from her grip. "Of course. Azaylia, how can I ever thank you..." Presumably by handing the knot over; she's already mystically healed him; he begins to stand more on his own weight now than before, with only a soft wince for when his mouth spreads his cut cheek.

Blink. And the knot is no longer in her hand, but in Misar's. "It's nothing, really." Pleading for him not to make her out to be some grand savior, doe eyes seeming to double in size. If her complexion allowed it, sure enough there would have been a blush on her cheeks this entire time. As he straightens a bit and seems more capable of taking on his own weight she's all too optimistic, "Feeling better?" She's able to smile now, subtle as it is, glad to have done ''some'' good for the poor man.

"Yes." Evidence in his bolder stance, but with M'sar's hand lingering amongst Azaylia's fingers so that they, momentarily, connected by the knot. "You've really helped me." A larger undertone suggests a purpose larger than his wobbly stature -- or may, in retrospect. For now, he exercises the good shoulder, then drifts his hand cautiously to the other, sliding over what is likely bruising beneath shirt and jacket and giving an inquisitive roll of the blade. "You know," he ventures, "I think it's not as bad as it looked."

That smile blossoms fully, so much so that her eyes have to close as that head tilts, relief all too genuine. "Oh, I'm so glad..." She'll let his hand go to inspect his shoulder, her own eyes falling on that particularly abused bodypart. Surprise leaves her in a squeak, eyes wide should he catch her looking, flicking back to his face. "R-Really?" Concern won't be so easily brushed aside, just as Azaylia isn't so easy to shake loose. "At least let me walk with you?" To the Healers, or wherever it is he's headed. "P-Please?" The young woman is forcing her company on him, retreating slightly at the realization. "...just in case."

A flutter of actual, brow-darkening surprise washes some of the bright innocence off M'sar-- yet it serves only to make him look even more naive, even younger, in a strange flash that is quickly gone as he turns from wondering at her insistence to calculating it. "Ummm... yeah." In that second where he's uncertain. If he regrets it, nothing shows; his lip on one side slips up higher wryly. "Because you insisted." Nudging that trait into a positive light, as he subtly brushes his hand on her arm in that gentle way, subconsciously associating the two. Taking a couple of warily limping strides, he glances across his shoulder at her, "See, I can even-- " only to veer with a stumble, happening to knock right into the laundry basket, his foot tangling in an abandoned sheet. Blinking widely, he stabilizes and looks between her and the basket, "... Oh... oh, no. We can't just leave this here." Her poor things.

Azaylia is already making excuses, "I mean, I won't if you'd rather- I just want to make sure you're safe." That much is true, and isn't just spurned on by her earlier pangs guilt. Hands fly to her mouth the second time that day, but the visit is short lived as she's lurching forward to help steady the stumbling man. "Ohthat'sallmyfault." All carried on a whimpering exhale, both hands making sure that he's steady before pulling away. They still hover nearby, at the ready. "It's fine." Relief has her sounding even more dismissive towards the laundry. "I'll come back after and clean everything up." Not a hint of anything bitter in her tone, explaining rather matter-of-factly.

M'sar waves a reassuring hand at the steadying with a tight-lipped smile, avoiding her nearby hands with a little lanky bodied squirm aside, putting a bit of laundry basket smoothly between them. "Noo... no," he says, "I couldn't; I'd feel terrible. You shouldn't have to inconvenience yourself just for little old me. Come on," and he dips, completely ungracefully, down to begin picking up ends of fabrics, "You'd better help me if you want your folds to look anything good."

Surprised, Azaylia hesitates in helping only as long as it takes her to realize that Misar is doing it for her. "Oh!" Dropping to her knees, she ignores the familiar sting from earlier. Rather than try to talk him out of it, skilled hands are quick to fold what she can by herself. The larger things, such as sheets she can handle as well, but should Misar offer to help she'll accept without argument. "...Thank you." She'll mumble, clearly feeling undeserving of his aid. It should be the other way around, shouldn't it?

"Well, I owe you, don't I?" offers M'sar as explanation around the sheet he snaps to attention in front of his face, only to have Azaylia's much more practiced hands take it off of him, causing him to cast that secretive wry grin at her authoritative expertise. He rocks back on his heels; in the end, he does very little at all, without it quite seeming that way. As the last fold hits the basket, he lifts achingly, but thoroughly, to his feet, rubbing his hand on his thigh. "Good. The laundry's all set, so I shouldn't hold you off from that any longer," it sounds so practical and obvious-- easy to follow.

"Mmnnoo.." Azaylia will argue, sounding like the rest of her frightened noises, easy to disregard. Misar's slacking goes unnoticed, or if it is the she prefers that he takes it easy, so nothing is said on the matter. Speed and skill in which she folds gives the illusion of calm, when in reality her thoughts are going a mile a minute. Easily distracted, or confused. Hoisting the basket up, she stands and peers around the pile of linens at him. "O-oh?" Wasn't she..? Hm. "Right. Have a good-" Head ducks behind the laundry, hiding. "Have a ''better'' day. Okay Misar?" Steps are careful, giving the man a wide berth so as not to accidetally knock him down in order to continue down the cavern's path. What a nice man!

M'sar's smile follows her, his turned gaze leading her out as he limps a few paces towards the opposite path, pleasantly seeing her off and around the corner, whereupon he turns promptly on his heel, walking in a strict, unencumbered gait down the way she'd come, blatantly ignoring the heap of discarded food. With a haughty tug, he fixes the sloping fall of his jacket until it sits precise, and he smoothes at a wrinkle but, more importantly, drives a hand into his pocket there to eye his new prize: the brownrider's lost knot. Focus-- but focus elsewhere-- fades already washed-out eyes, making the distinction nearly invisible for those who don't know the calculation they are capable of holding. Outside, molten bronze muscles bunch and a fire-cracked dragon lifts from the pens to land amongst the shadows of the bowl.

-------

== M'sar Lie Count ==
9

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

}}

<comments />

Logs:A Lovely Time

2012-05-02T21:10:36Z

M'sar:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia
| where = Stables, High Reaches
| what = Ysavaeth's Flight turns a young Beastcrafter's fancy into something more.
| when = Day 18, Month 8, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.02
| quote = "You."
| weather = Clear and summer breezy.
| categories = Vignette
| icons = azaylia dreamy.jpg
| log = "You know...” She started, whispered words drawn out. Coy. Azaylia hadn't stuttered all day. Then again, she rarely stuttered around Mack. “It was my Turnday two days ago.”

“Mmh.”

“It was a nice and all...” The "but" went unspoken, young woman pausing to take in the sights. He was working hard, as usual. Mack was always doing something with his hands, making those huge, leathery palms even tougher over time. It was even better than that because he was lifting something heavy and she could see the muscles writhe and stick to his sweat-soaked tunic.

And he grunted in that deep way, because that's what the Journeyman always did to let her know that he was still listening.

Azaylia felt herself slide off of the fence, almost startled at how quickly she had decided to approach him. She froze in place, but the heat of the day thawed her quickly enough. Each step rang like a bell in her head, quiet footfalls replaced by the faintest clangs echoing on high. “I didn't get what I wanted, though...” Almost innocent disappointment fit her so well, mingling with an impishly plaintive whimper that seemed a touch to large. Too grown. Then again, she was grown now, wasn't she?

That was enough to give the redheaded Herder pause. Azaylia didn't ''want'' things. Ever. He felt the presence at his back, simultaneously standing straight while turning in order to look down at his charge. “Uh...” His baritone rumbled with uncertainty, “Wh... what'd ya want?”

“You.”

He hadn't expected her to grip his wrists, to squeeze so tight with her own hard-worked hands; keeping him trapped only long enough to crush her lips against his, inexperienced yet eager. Forceful. Between Azaylia's determination and the Flight overhead, Mack didn't stand a chance.

Hours. Had it lasted hours? Of course not, she must have fallen asleep afterwards. The bright afternoon had passed by with only the cool evening sky to greet Azaylia as she opened her eyes. Her body ached in that familiar way, though this time there was an extra layer of deep, sordid satisfaction. She sat up suddenly, hands lowering to steady herself only to find unforgiving hay beneath.

A squeak at the unexpected pain in her palms.

Then her bare behind. Ow! Was hay really the best they could do?

They?

And then the loudest squeak for the still snoring, very much naked Journeyman beside her.

Azaylia launched to her feet, cool air brushing against her bronze skin in the most uncomfortable ways, coaxing goosebumps from her too-tender flesh. She fumbled around the (thankfully dry) stable floor for her clothes, ignoring all unpleasantries for the sake of efficiency. There would be time for that later. Boots were grasped in one hand, bare feet smacking against the ground as she bolted for the exit. She slowed, eventually coming to a stop mere inches away from disappearing into the night in order to peer at the prone silhouette she was leaving behind. She could still here Mack's deep snores.

“U..uhm. I had a...a lovely time. Bye.”

With manners minded, Azaylia fled for the Craft Complex under the cover of darkness. There would be much fretting in the days to come, but at the moment the apprentice would concern herself with a long soak in the baths and a night of hay extraction.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

}}

<comments />

File:Icon m'sar kush2.jpg

2012-04-26T06:08:17Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Kush2.jpg to File:Icon m'sar kush2.jpg

File:Icon Kush2.jpg

2012-04-26T06:08:17Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Kush2.jpg to File:Icon m'sar kush2.jpg

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon m'sar kush2.jpg]]

File:Icon m'sar kush.jpg

2012-04-26T06:07:57Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Kush.jpg to File:Icon m'sar kush.jpg

File:Icon Kush.jpg

2012-04-26T06:07:57Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Kush.jpg to File:Icon m'sar kush.jpg

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon m'sar kush.jpg]]

File:Icon m'sar smile.jpg

2012-04-26T06:07:18Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Msar-smile.jpg to File:Icon m'sar smile.jpg

File:Icon Msar-smile.jpg

2012-04-26T06:07:18Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Msar-smile.jpg to File:Icon m'sar smile.jpg

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon m'sar smile.jpg]]

File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

2012-04-26T06:06:33Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon M'sar content.jpg to File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

File:Icon M'sar content.jpg

2012-04-26T06:06:33Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon M'sar content.jpg to File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon m'sar content.jpg]]

File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

2012-04-26T06:05:00Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon M-sar content.jpg to File:Icon M'sar content.jpg

File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

2012-04-26T06:04:09Z

M'sar: moved File:Icon Msar-content.jpg to File:Icon M-sar content.jpg

M'sar

2012-04-26T06:03:20Z

M'sar: /* History */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=msar-profile.jpg
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged By Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#406865}}};"
|-
| ''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
|}

-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#466241}}};"
|-
| ''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
|}

-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#78291a}}};"
|-
| ''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
|}

-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== History ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3f4975}}};"
|-
| ''I'm not the man I used to be.''
|}
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Mentioned In... Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3b3b3a}}};"
|-
| ''Trouble is a friend, yeah, trouble is a friend of mine.''
|}
-----------
{{RP Logs | name = {{#titleparts: {{BASEPAGENAME}} | 1 }}/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

M'sar

2012-04-26T05:57:37Z

M'sar: /* Past Mentioned In... Logs */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=msar-profile.jpg
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged By Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#406865}}};"
|-
| ''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
|}

-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#466241}}};"
|-
| ''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
|}

-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#78291a}}};"
|-
| ''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
|}

-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== Past RP Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3f4975}}};"
|-
| ''Quote''
|}
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Mentioned In... Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3b3b3a}}};"
|-
| ''Trouble is a friend, yeah, trouble is a friend of mine.''
|}
-----------
{{RP Logs | name = {{#titleparts: {{BASEPAGENAME}} | 1 }}/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

M'sar

2012-04-26T05:39:59Z

M'sar:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=msar-profile.jpg
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged By Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#406865}}};"
|-
| ''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
|}

-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#466241}}};"
|-
| ''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
|}

-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#78291a}}};"
|-
| ''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
|}

-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== Past RP Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3f4975}}};"
|-
| ''Quote''
|}
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Past Mentioned In... Logs ==
{|style="font-size: larger; color:{{{fgcolor|#3b3b3a}}};"
|-
| ''Quote''
|}
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

File:Icon m'sar kush2.jpg

2012-04-26T05:23:22Z

M'sar:

File:Icon m'sar kush.jpg

2012-04-26T05:23:06Z

M'sar:

File:Icon m'sar smile.jpg

2012-04-26T05:20:25Z

M'sar:

File:Icon m'sar content.jpg

2012-04-26T05:20:06Z

M'sar:

M'sar

2012-04-26T05:11:46Z

M'sar:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=msar-profile.jpg
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged By Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== Past RP Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Past Mentioned In... Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

M'sar

2012-04-26T05:10:56Z

M'sar:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=msar-profile.jpg
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged Of Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== Past RP Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Past Mentioned In... Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

File:Msar-profile.jpg

2012-04-26T05:07:26Z

M'sar:

M'sar

2012-04-26T05:04:48Z

M'sar:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=
|name=M'sar
|position=Iceberg Wingrider
|dragon=Forged Of Fire Bronze Kushvetath
|craft=
|birthplace=
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Lucas Grabeel
|livejournal=[http://misarlying.livejournal.com/ misarlying]}}

==Appearance==

Not considerable in height, and what he has being composed of lanky limbs, M'sar is quite boyish. His features, the more notable being a pointed nose and a mouth that's a little big, are also youthful. Meanwhile, the messy trim of his light blond hair, the utter paleness of his skin, and the green of his eyes being so murky as to appear grey, he has the appearance of being all-in-all washed-out.

It's a simple wardrobe of a yellow shirt that does nothing for his complexion, the cinnamon brown of a jacket over that, and slacks of an off-white dye. The jacket bulks up his shoulders some, but where it cuts off at his hips, the pants do nothing to hide that he just has very little there, no meat at all. Over his generally unmanaged blond hair can typically be seen a hat of some variety. And it doesn't always match the rest of the outfit, either.

==Rumors==
''If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a scam, it's a scam, it's a scam.''
-----------

* "That scrawny little one? He's from Telgar, isn't he? Pretty sure I heard Telgar."
* "I think the sun goes into hiding whenever that dragon a'his comes out. How else does he stay that pale?"
* "Him? That's L'nis."
* "He's in my wing, isn't he. Think he and B'sil got into it big one ti-- no, that can't be right."
* "Work in the infirmary, I do, and I don't think I ever saw a candidate who visited more often than he. Think it's likely good luck he's got that big bronze now to look out for him. Never woulda guessed."

== RP Logs ==
''My evil plan to save the world, just you wait till it's unfurled.''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

==Kushvetath==
''And if you fall as Lucifer fell: the flame, the sword.''
-----------

[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch31/kushvetath/ inspiration]

Haughty bearing and clean, powerful lines spark a dangerous combination in this average-sized bronze. He's molten in both curves and color, from the very beginning of his nose, an aquiline beak that seems somehow as sharp as his deliberately-placed onyx talons. Those echoes of flame ripple throughout his classically-proportioned figure, though hints of mottling also singe his joints: here some copper spattered over his shoulders, there charcoal showing through cracks around his jaw and up to one slightly narrowed eye. It is his wings, most of all, that resemble nothing so much as half-worked metal. Delicate laceworks of shadow cross veins of super-heated crimson that seem lit from within, tracing patternless chaos across their broad sails. They appear in a perpetual state of cracking, as if the slightest breeze would flake the unfinished planes of his wings entirely apart.

== Past RP Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar| columns = 3 }}

== Past Mentioned In... Logs ==
''Quote''
-----------

{{RP Logs | name = Misar/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

-----------

==Extras==

{|style="float:center; width:50em; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#e5c751}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Relationships'''
|-valign="top"
|'''B'sil''' {{!}}{{!}} Wingleader {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Name''' {{!}}{{!}} Relationship {{!}}{{!}} ''Thoughts.''
|}

{|style="float:center; width:70em; margin:1em 0 1em 1em; text-align:left; font-size: 90%"
|-
!colspan=3 style="text-align:left; font-size: larger; background-color:{{{bgcolor|#2C5593}}}; color:{{{fgcolor|#FFFFFF}}};" | '''Soundtrack'''
|-valign="top"
|'''Scissor Sisters''' {{!}}{{!}} "I Can't Decide" {{!}}{{!}} ''No wonder why, my heart feels petrified; it's cold and hard and dead inside.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Starlight Express''' {{!}}{{!}} "Wide Smile" {{!}}{{!}} ''Just 'cause I smile all the time, don't mean I'm not into crime.''
|-valign="top"
|'''Nina Simone''' {{!}}{{!}} "Sinnerman" {{!}}{{!}} ''Oh, sinnerman. Where you gonna run to?''
|}

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]
[[category:Iceberg Wing]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]