A Master Woodcrafter's Masterpiece Brown Swaronth
| A Master Woodcrafter's Masterpiece Brown Swaronth | |
|---|---|
| Impressee | Parli |
| Hatching Date: | 30 September, 2011 Day 1, Month 12, Turn 26 |
| Current Age: | 42 turns |
| Size: | 35.5 feet |
| Dam: | Bloodletter's Bonfire Gold Iskiveth |
| Sire: | Yesdrieth |
| Lineage: | Here |
| Clutch: | Clutch:69 |
| Egg Credit: | Parli |
| Dragon Credit: | Parli |
At first glance, one might believe that this dragon is hewn out of a tremendously large piece of walnut that's been polished to a perfect shine. There's much to be said about the perfectly even hue of his hide, that rich, dark brown of walnut wood. Grain lines in darker brown start at the tip of his blunted muzzle and whorl, like knots, around his eyes. His features seem set in a perpetual scowl, which is only underscored by the relative darkness of his hide. The rest of him is thickly built and, simply, massive; as browns go, he probably should have been a bronze. But, no; he's solidly brown throughout, with no deviation in his finely grained hide - save one: his wings are three shades lighter, but still marked as the rest of him is. His claws are long, thick, and just a shade or two darker than the rest of him. All in all, he's an example of a masterpiece - if woodcrafters could make dragons, that is.
Contents
It's A Meat Tornado Egg
This egg is both large and upsetting. It's a whirling, blotchy mess of reds and browns and whites that looks like it's exuding some kind of fluid - but, in truth, it's just a very glossy shell. It's a whirlwind of what appears to be meat from all manner of animal, whipping around within the confines of its ovoid self.
At long last, It's A Meat Tornado Egg seems to be done. The contents consumed, its occupant finally smashes its way out without hesitation. A stocky, wood brown dragonet sniffs despondently at the deceptively red shards. There is no more sustenance to be found and, in a fit of rage, the brown smashes the shells and wheels around with wild, red eyes. The sound of his stomach snarling is almost as loud as the infuriated bellow that escapes the young beast. And the hunt begins.
A Master Woodcrafter's Masterpiece Brown
At first glance, one might believe that this dragon is hewn out of a tremendously large piece of walnut that's been polished to a perfect shine. There's much to be said about the perfectly even hue of his hide, that rich, dark brown of walnut wood. Grain lines in darker brown start at the tip of his blunted muzzle and whorl, like knots, around his eyes. His features seem set in a perpetual scowl, which is only underscored by the relative darkness of his hide. The rest of him is thickly built and, simply, massive; as browns go, he probably should have been a bronze. But, no; he's solidly brown throughout, with no deviation in his finely grained hide - save one: his wings are three shades lighter, but still marked as the rest of him is. His claws are long, thick, and just a shade or two darker than the rest of him. All in all, he's an example of a masterpiece - if woodcrafters could make dragons, that is.
Temperament
You thought you could get out of Candidacy if you did absolutely nothing, did you? Well, Swaronth is intent on changing that. Sort of. You're going to do things. Lots of things. Mostly keeping him oiled and full of meat - and especially the latter. As a hatchling, he will be rough and tumble, the type of dragon that needs to get up, get outside, and do all the things dragons are supposed to do. He'll learn quickly, though he'll often come up with his own methods that may or may not be better.
« Listen well, for I will not be saying this ever again: I have a compromise. »
That, truly, is what Swaronth is - a dragon that just wants to be a dragon. Free and clear to do what he wants to do. Admittedly, he really just wants to hunt and eat meat and chase the ladies (and how), but that's just because he doesn't have the ability to work wood or make his own straps. He'll be a damned fine hunter, though, and while he'll have a knack for catching fish, he doesn't generally eat them because « Fish meat... is practically a vegetable. » Bring on the bovines!
« Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Don't teach a man to fish, and you feed yourself. He's a grown man. Fishing's not that hard. »
He will be a man's man of a dragon, especially as he gets older. He'll insist that you learn all those things a man is supposed to learn, above and beyond the requisite leather-working. You will, eventually, find yourself in a weyr filled with tools that you may or may not know how to use (or care to). There is no negotiating; that's just how it'll be. It'll be a man's weyr, through and through, though he'll allow some space for yourself to claim as your own.
« Cultivating a manly musk puts your opponents on notice.»
His beliefs are... interesting. And, for a dragon that despises politics and the political machine in general, he will be plenty aware of it all. Granted, he only wants to throw wrenches into the machine, but still. That's the big one, really; he doesn't like the Weyr's structure, in which golds rule by dint of their hue and the rest are arbitrarily arranged in groups that are supposed to work together with varying degrees of cohesiveness. In a time when Thread fell, he might have been better; he would have been focused entirely on slaughtering Pern's age-old enemy (and he would have been damned perfect at it). But, in a time of peace, he needs something to fight against - and that something just happens to be politics.
He believes in freedom. He believes that the Weyr should not control the individual. In fact, the whole operation should be a for-profit institution, with riders selling their services and all of Pern clamoring for them.
Or something like that.
« The whole point of this world is if you wanna eat garbage, balloon up to 600 pounds and die of a heart attack at 43, you can! You are free to do so! To me, that's beautiful. »
He also has a musical side. He will not admit this to anyone. Not even you.
He might eventually make a good Weyrlingmaster or Assistant Weyrlingmaster - educating the youth of the perils of the terrible and oppressive system that is the Weyr's matriarchy will be a rare pleasure for him. He might also angle for being a Wingleader or Wingsecond. And if he ever becomes Weyrleader? Rest assured that the Weyr will crumble to the ground by noon while he declares freedom from tyranny.
Good thing browns don't usually manage to pull that off, eh?
In flights, he will be passionate - if not downright animalistic. He'll be feral, hungry, and chase with a need that will rival the most desperate of golds. He'll casually discard greens after the fact; golds will be treated with a similar lack of respect. As a clutchsire, he'll be attentive, but not doting. He'll educate his spawn through their shells as best as he can - but will, inevitably, be disappointed when they don't all hatch brown and wood-grained like himself.
« Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing. »
In you, he finds his other half, the half that will protect him from idiocy via callous indifference. You will be his bulwark against stupidity - and he'll be the greatest protector you'll ever know.
Just, you know. Don't let him down.
« Parli was supposed to be the ledge that kept the idiot hordes away from Swaronth Weyr. Instead she blew up the Weyr and stabbed me in the face. »
Public Impression Message
No meat there. No meat over there, either. Desperation sinks hooks into the hangry brown and he bullishly pushes his way through a knot of Candidates, bellowing as he goes. He trips over a fallen, white-clad body and finds himself looking up at a young woman who has been attempting to remain unobtrusive the entire time. It didn't work. He pushes to his feet and bumps his nose to her middle, eyes gone from the red of ravenous hunger to the blue of successful Impression.
Private Impression Message
Everything vanishes abruptly. You're in the forest, lost and confused, while something massive pursues you. You turn and turn (in your head? In the flesh?) but whatever it is, it's hunting you. And it's gaining. Pressure hits your midsection and you're made aware of something that is not teeth or claws. It's a voice. A man's voice. « What is that? Is that- » Laughter washes over you in an intoxicating rush of whiskey and saw dust. « That's not your name - and shut your damn mouth. It's Parli. You're Parli. » The world coalesces around you and, before you, is a finely wrought brown - mahogany brown, through and through. Your hesitation elicits a grunt from the brown and he picks up on something you might not realize you'd thought. « Ready? I was born ready. I'm Swa-fucking-ronth. Now. I want all the meat you have. »
Mindvoice
Masculine. Rich. Deep. Everything he says has a weight to it, a weight that's accented in any one of a hundred ways. Metallic tones or leathery notes; oil, whiskey, or saw dust. Everything he touches in your head (and everyone else's, really) will exude raw masculinity in every stereotypical way possible.
Prolonged exposure might result in the development of chest and/or back hair.
You're welcome.
Itchyspots
He does not itch. Or, rather, he'll never admit to being itchy, so you'd better have a crystal ball at the ready to figure out just what's itchy and how bad it is.
If you don't figure it out, be prepared for a dragon that will grow increasingly more agitated until he (figuratively) explodes into expletives.
Good luck.
Dragon Inspiration
Ron Swanson. There you go. That's it.
| Clutch 69 | |
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