Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue Isforaith
| Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue Isforaith | |
|---|---|
| Impressee | Z'yi |
| Hatching Date: | 30 May, 2009 Day 18, Month 11, Turn 19 |
| Current Age: | 49 turns |
| Egg Name: | Arson Egg |
| Size: | 31.2 feet |
| Dam: | Imperial Faberge Garden Gold Iovniath |
| Sire: | Kinetic Knucklebones Bronze Cadejoth |
| Lineage: | Here |
| Clutch: | Clutch:32 |
| Egg Credit: | R'uen |
| Dragon Credit: | Tiriana |
| Puppeteer: | Tiriana |
Contents
Arson Egg
Hot orange rages around the shell, an inferno struck silent and still. Glaring yellow reaches like fingers in all directions, tongues lapping the shell's curves and webs stretching bright and hungry amid the black lines that collect around the base like so much charred kindling. Toward the egg's apex the flame dulls to crimson, growing translucent over darkness with tiny specks of cinder and ash floating up into nothing on the rising heat.
Now, the Arson Egg seems less to rock than just to swell, its surface bulging in odd ways as its occupant strains against its confines. And then, with a whoosh, it explodes, ashlike flakes of red and orange shell raining down on the roaring blue who bursts it open so dramatically.
Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue
Lean and looming, this scruffy blue towers over many others of his color, though he's all sinewy muscle and hard angles instead of sheer bulk. Dark denim hide is stretched thin over the long bones of his face, gaunt and grizzled, while a pair of steel-blue streaks like scars cut across his nose and one of his deepset eyes, the bruise-purple shadows around them making for a perpetual pair of shiners. Lower, across his neck, over visible ribs and scuffed-up flanks, his color fades, well-worn into a pale slate on his underbelly and the insides of long legs that end in corroded talons-and, in one case, a withered left front foot, its paw and talons twisted into a misshapen claw, the hide darker there. But despite that deformity, his eyes are still keen within their dark sockets, and from shabby shoulders that bear the weight of the world, a mantle of huge, fibrous wings rises. The gloom of their rust-flecked sails might threaten to swallow him whole, but along the spars, blue-white runes still spark with phosphorescence: guttering wards to stave off the darkness.
Temperament
Big? Yes. Tough? Of course! Smart? Maybe. But /subtle/? Hell no. This is Isforaith we're talking about.
It's not really his fault. Really. Even if he weren't so big, he'd still have issues, mostly because he just can't be quiet. He just has to have the last word: Isforaith is the kind of dragon who knows when enough's enough, but he can't help one more smart-ass remark. If people just wouldn't set them up so beautifully for him... Whether it's you, his clutchmates, or anyone else he comes across, Isforaith has a knack for bad puns, stupid jokes, and wiseguy comments that will drive everyone around him to bury their face in their hands and groan. It's a rare day when he's caught off-guard and can't come up with a put-down for his friends or a flippant one-liner for his enemies. Stoic as you are, Z'yi, you might find it especially annoying, seeing as how you're stuck with him in your head all the time, nicknaming everyone and editorializing on everything around him.
It's in his deadpan, sarcastic sense of humor that you'll most often find hints of Isforaith's intelligence; it certainly won't be in in his blunt dealings with others. He's no candy-coater-not because he means to hurt, but because he's just that honest, and because often he doesn't realize the things that will hurt more sensitive people's feelings. Of course, that doesn't preclude that he /can't/ be mean when he really is mad about something. His temper can get out of hand, and while it's often a righteous anger, that doesn't make it any less terrifying. Couple that with his inborn stubbornness and he can be a handful for those who get on his bad side-and even for you, Z'yi. Maybe especially even for you. He'll butt heads often with you and with his superiors, because he's opinionated and not afraid to stand by his strong beliefs: women are to be treated like ladies, politics does nobody any good, and family is the most important thing in life.
Though from his early days, Isforaith will be eager to help you and his siblings, don't count on him being any use at all for some time. He's just too big, and too clumsy. He goes one way, and his long tail goes another one entirely. He can't fit through the space between your cot and his couch, so he just knocks the whole thing over. You'll probably spend more than usual amounts of time cleaning up after him, bathing him, oiling him, trying to smooth over everything in his wake: because make no mistake, Isforaith's a bulldozer when he wants to be, stubborn as a mule and not afraid to challenge authority.
In light of that, it's probably a good thing that Isforaith will be a pretty good student, though he'll trudge at best through lectures about wing formations and when to use them and so forth. Those book-learnings aren't his forte; Isforaith is more about physical activity. Thanks in large part to his size, he'll have excellent endurance for a blue, and while he won't be the agile crack flier that many other blues and greens are, he'll still be quite mobile compared to the browns and bronzes out there. He'll push hard to get into the air as soon as possible, and not just because there, his twisted paw can't hurt him any. On the ground, he'll limp with it, but sheer willpower and mental toughness-which Isforaith has in abundance-will keep him from letting it affect him too much. And of course, the routine physical therapy the dragonhealers will likely force on him will go a long way toward helping him move it better over time.
Though not often subtle, Isforaith /is/ observant, and those skills will also come in handy over time. He'll often be the first one to piece together puzzles or suspicious behavior, and he'll be up on all the gossip around the Weyr. Not so much because he cares about what they're doing as because sometimes it comes in hand. Of course, he fortunately has enough discretion not to spill the beans on people, maybe not even to you, unlike his brother Rasiyoth. Isforaith's knowledge might make him a target, but he has no evil plans in the works for the information, unlike said brown. Isforaith's trusting good nature when he's young might still make him susceptible to blundering and blurting something out accidentally, before he realizes what he's doing, but don't ever expect him to be taken in by the same ruse twice. He'll feel terrible afterward, because he's his own hardest critic. If something happens on his watch, he'll never quite forgive himself for it, even if his draconic memory does him the grace of forgetting the actual event himself.
Though he'll always be a steadfast friend, the more Isforaith ages, the more he'll value his relationships with others. He's not a dragon who can do anything half-hearted: he feels too strongly for that. This, of course, may occasionally make trouble for him in his wing or with the Weyrleaders. Isforaith is an adamant opponent of bureaucracy in all forms, and there won't be any love lost between him and petty pen-pushers. He's just as much opposed to politics, and his big mouth will get him in trouble more than once, in the Weyr and out of it. Isforaith just doesn't feel that politics and bureaucracy have the best interests of individuals at heart. He has a strong sense of justice that isn't built on the dispassionate black-and-white regime of some.
For as much as he might give you and all his friends and clutchmates grief, never doubt that when he's needed, Isforaith is the first one there. A feeler, an instinctive reactor more than a thinker, he won't ever be one to stop and weigh the odds or formulate a good, solid plan before he dives in headfirst. In some ways, he's completely opposite his brother Zhikath: where Zhikath values logic and structure, Isforaith prizes his feelings and emotions, that first gut instinct, much more, even if he is-sometimes, rarely-capable of actual logic. Hardheaded, he'll never learn, and his deep inborn chivalry may often get him in as many predicaments as it gets other people out of. He's loyal to a fault, though, and if you or anyone else ever asks anything of him, he'll be there, no questions asked. That's just what you do for family, and if many of those he collects around him over the years won't be blood relations, well. That's not what being family's really about. Of course, it might be a futile war he fights, but that never stopped Isforaith. « I'm kind of dumb like that, » he'll tell you, unapologetic.
Isforaith is capable of staying within the letter of the law, if not the spirit-but only when he doesn't feel there's a better way to do it. Impetuous and often reckless, he doesn't always think things through, and when he does, it tends to be at best half-thought out, and at worst, the kind of scheme that's so crazy it just might work. He's got an innovative mind, and the same thing that makes him look past the red tape of leadership makes him an unorthodox but capable wingmate. Though he doesn't seek leadership on his own, and would happily turn down a spot just to spit in the eye of leaders who want to foist it on him, in the end he just has too much of a heart for people, and for taking care of them. He's a protector, first and foremost.
Of course, if there's one weakness that will always plague Isforaith, it's womenfolk. He just doesn't get them. Isforaith has an old-fashioned view of relationships, the sort of chivalry that went out of style a long time ago. It's not that he believes females are somehow inferior to him, because he doesn't: he'll be quick to appreciate the sensitivity and subtle airborne skill of Jeibeth, the demure cunning of his dam Iovniath. But in the end, he just believes that it's what you do; you're polite and gentlemanly to the females. He's a one-woman dragon, and he'll make an excellent, loving mate for someone who's willing to give him the same singular attention.
Accordingly, Isforaith won't ever chase much, prefering to just avoid the females he's not interested in, even if they want him. Of course, the females he /is/ interested in... Well. Let's just say that Isforaith has bad taste. Somehow, the ones he likes are rarely going to be the ones who expect the same thing out of the relationship that he does. He'll always be a liitle sad that he can't chase a gold or sire a clutch, because children and little things will always hold a special place in his big heart. Even if they aren't biologically his, he'll likely take an interest in every clutch that is laid at High Reaches, an interest that may lead him toward acting as a mentor or even an assistant weyrlingmaster for them. He's steadfast and patient even with the most stubborn of weyrlings; after all, he remembers just how much trouble he must have caused the weyrlingmaster when he was that age.
Public Impression Message
Wrong, wrong. None of these people in white fit the profile and Gumshoe Thaumaturgy Blue isn't going to waste his time weighing the whys and why nots. The one he's looking for is out there-closer now, he can just feel it. And then he stop so short that a spray of sand flies up at a big, bald-headed candidate. He stops altogether and stands solid and silent to size up the quary he's finally cornered.
Private Impression Message
Damn, the sands are hot. Are they getting hotter? All of a sudden they seem to sear straight up your legs, singing over your skin and setting the very air on fire. For a split second that seems to last far longer, everything is burning. There's nothing but you and that heat, no galleries full of people, no candidates to either side, no eggs splitting. Just you and the air crackling all around. It tastes and smells of acrid smoke; your eyes threaten to water and your throat goes dry. But just when your head starts to swim and it feels like you might succumb to the heat, he's there, with a voice as smooth and rich as ale. He holds the fire at bay, makes it his own. « Hell's bells! Hold it together, Z'yi. I'm here now. » The voice might be smooth, but he's not mincing words and you know his name even before he speaks it: Isforaith. « I've had enough of this hubbub. Let's get out of here. »
Mindvoice
Isforaith's images will suffer from the same problems as most of his plans: slap-bang, rough outlines and colors, and he'll work with it as he goes; little time taken in preparation. His voice, smooth and dark as a good ale, will make up for this with its richness-and, of course, the witticisms that will pepper it, including his favorite exclamation: « Hell's bells! » Who knows where he picked that up from, but his warm voice relies largely on elemental forces for its accents. Damp earth, metal, the tang of ozone will all mark his voice on occasion. But while those other sensations will creep in on occasion, always at the edges of his touch is fire. Often it's only the comforting flames of a fire in the hearth on a cold damp night, but when he's angry, when he's really pushed-. Then it's all hellfire and brimstone, the stench of sulphur, and you best start running for it if you know what's good for you.
Itchyspots
Those scars on his face, the rusty patches on his wings. The scuffs on his flanks. His spars. His talons. It's be easier to answer what /doesn't/ itch on Isforaith. It will be the tiny imperfections in his hide that will always be the worst, and there are enough of those to keep you, Z'yi, busy running from one end of him to the other trying to keep up. In particular, though, Isforaith's hurt paw will give him problems, requiring much more oil there to keep skin and tendons supple; though a strong physical therapy regime will go a long way toward not only stopping the incessant itchy tightness there, but also to increase the range of motion he will have with it.
Dragon Inspiration
Harry Dresden, the only wizard in the Chicago phone book, faces down more than his fair share of baddies over the course of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series. A hard-boiled P. I., he has terrible luck with the ladies and more enemies than he can shake a stick at, but he keeps it all in hand with the help of his Tibetan temple dog, his vampire half-brother, and Chicago's toughest cop, who just happens to be a girl. Isforaith's name is drawn from the incantation 'forzare,' with a little bit of Thomas Raith thrown in for good measure. His desc is Harry Dresden straight through, though, from his scars and his blasting-rod runes (and a little Blue Beetle rust) to his burnt-to-a-crisp hand.
Egg Inspiration: If the fire doesn't kill you, the smoke inhalation might. And if nothing else, your stuff is totally ruined.
| Clutch 32 | |
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