C E ’ T H I A N ;
Birth-name- Certhian
Age- 38
--
Birthmonth/year- February 2985
Gender- Male
Sexual Orientation- Heterosexual
Rank- Weyrleader Pro Tempore | Bronzerider
Appearance- Ce’thian is a decidedly memorable man; at 6’1”, he isn’t a towering presence but he’s certainly tall
enough. The man’s broad in the shoulders, narrow at the hips, made fit and lean by years of dragonriding. Long in the legs, Ce’thian’s stride is on the long side—he’s very much a runner both by appearance and preference. Well past the years of gangly awkward movement that followed him well into his twenties, Ce’thian moves with a casual ease, not ungraceful but certainly not anything
special. It’s rare he sets a pace that’s anything but brisk, regardless of
actual urgency.
The man’s attractive enough in a sharp, almost exotic way. His skin is faintly tanned in the summers, and his hair grows in a carefully maintained short cut; it’s a very dark brown that forms distinct spiky ruffles when it grows longer. Rarely clean-shaven, Ce’thian’s lower jaw is usually dark with stubble. His nose is large and set between dark brown almond-shaped eyes framed with long dark lashes. Ce’thian’s
eyebrows are exceptionally striking; thick, dark, and straight, they’re probably the most mobile and expressive part of his face.
As scars go, Ce’thian has his fair share—he’s definitely been active in the War, after all, and the most prominent of his souvenirs is the slash of dragon claws dragging from the right pectoral down to his left hip—pale white scar, but faded with time. And usually hidden with clothing; while Ce’thian’s okay with going shirtless and sometimes does when it’s warmer, he usually wears an…
interesting conglomeration of clothing. All are very casual, although he does have a few nicer things stuffed at the bottom of his trunk somewhere, and while they’re all in passable condition, the hodgepodge that is his trunk makes it clear that fashion has never quite been a concern.
Weaponry more than makes up for clothes; Ce’thian is rarely unarmed ever—Sparath’s color is more than enough to paint a target on his back, after all. As is popular within the Weyrs, he operates best with a standard belt knife, but he also carries a pocketknife he’s quite handy with granted the element of surprise and, less standard, a boomerang, which started out purely as amusement and sport and…evolved from there. Fairly easy to make, easy to conceal, and very much not your typical weapon.
Personality- Ce’thian is deliberately paradoxical; he presents himself as easy-going, a little goofy, approachable. And he
is—he’s genuinely a little
dorky with a penchant and appreciation for obscure words, likes to deliberately work them into his vocabulary to the point where it’s as natural as breathing and sounds, if a little strange, still perfectly part of
him. His sense of humor is irreverent and offbeat, just shy of offensive territory sometimes, and he doesn’t scare easy; he can be painfully blunt and straightforward, but he’s also capable of careful wordplay and extravagant manipulation, as the occasion, or Sparath, demands. Ce’thian rarely intends to be demeaning or downgrading, and if he isn’t all warm and fuzzy with green and blue Riders, neither is he cruel or impolite to them.
He’s quietly ambitious; the man rarely puts himself out as blatantly interested in power, but he likes being a Wingleader, and he’s confident enough to want to see how far he can take that. Ce’thian’s not quite opposed to gambles, but he
does prefer odds to be in his favor, and he’s opportunistic with things like that—doesn’t push his luck when things aren’t quite balanced. He’s practical, understands the necessity of sacrifice, and
calm; if he’s quick to smile he’s
slow to anger, and when he
is angry it tends to be a very calm anger as well.
Ce’thian tends to be slow to form genuine friendships—years of lessons on burdens and propriety at Benden have left an indelible mark and while the man tends to be quick to establish the basis foundations of friendship, the ones he chooses to groom and foster are much more selective. He’s remarkably independent, trusts himself and Sparath and very few others. While Ce’thian’s often emotional enough, quirky enough, in day-to-day life, he’s quite emphatically mind over heart in the more serious of matters, and it tends to show—good deeds don’t balance out the bad ones, when it comes to his favor.
History-
2985-2999: Nerat HoldCerthian was born the fifth child and fourth son to Thianir and Ceria. The family, well-established on the Nerat Hold coast and prominent in the fishing community, was typical of Nerat—Thianir worked, Ceria remained at home and cared for the children, and as the boys grew up they were taken to learn to fish. Very early on, Certhian would accompany his older brothers and father—first in a carrying sling and eventually toddling in their wake—to watch them work; fishing held a fascinating appeal for him and, five years and one younger sibling later, he graduated from finding bait to actually fishing.
That year, though, a dragon came on Search to Nerat Hold. Of the eager boys who lined up, Riathir, Certhian’s oldest brother, was among those taken back to Benden Weyr, and though Certhian hadn’t gotten but a glimpse of the dragon, the child was awed. Fish had nothing on
dragons, and he had full faith in Riathir Impressing (frankly, he didn’t understand the possibility of it
not happening; to his five-year-old mind, Search was synonymous to Impression).
Three years later, when Certhian was eight, Riathir returned to Nerat—as R’thir of blue Ahrenisath, a newly graduated Weyrling. Ahrenisath was not the most beautiful blue—built big and sturdy with dark hide and big eyes—but he was still amazing to Certhian. When R’thir left for Benden again, he brought the next-eldest of Certhian’s brothers, Thiaer, as a Candidate with a promise to return for Certhian and Eriathiar, two Turns Certhian’s senior.
The months that followed were busy ones; Certhian’s older sister, Cerii, became betrothed to a long-time boyfriend and both of Certhian’s parents were busy with arrangements. In the brief lull after came news that Thiaer had Impressed a green, Fiyeth.
Just before Certhian turned twelve, though, in 2996, the Northern War began. It had very little impact on Certhian’s day to day life, and if trade relationships were strained and money was a little slower in coming for his family, well, with R’thir, Th’aer, and Cerii all gone and only Eriathiar, Certhian, and their younger sister Theria remained, so it wasn’t like they really
needed all the money they had before anyway. But even after Certhian was well into his twelfth year, R’thir…didn’t come for them.
Years passed, and in 2999, when Certhian was fourteen and Eriathiar sixteen, Th’aer came to Nerat with Fiyeth and an explanation of R’thir’s distractions—his responsibilities in the War exceeded those of a typical bluerider. But Th’aer and Fiyeth did ultimately take Certhian and Eriathiar to Benden Weyr—as official Candidates.
2999-3013: Benden WeyrArrival at the Weyr was a huge shock; Certhian had three brothers, one of whom was a Candidate with him, to fall back and rely on, but regardless it was new and strange enough that he remained aloof for a time. Gradually as he mingled, he came to expand his social circle from his brothers (who tolerated him at best—R’thir in particular had picked up interrogation and had little time to spare, but at Th’aer and Eriathiar were usually around). The majority of Certhian’s companions were other male Candidates of his age; the exception was a girl a year his junior, Elysia; Certhian’s friendship with her escalated rapidly—at least on his part—to an embarrassingly blatant crush, and if she didn’t reciprocate at least she didn’t seem to
mind either.
In 3000, one of Baith’s clutches finally hardened on the Sands, and Certhian Stood for the first time. Elysia was the first to Impress, and not long after that, Eriathiar Impressed to a blue. Distracted by attempting to mutely congratulate his friend and his brother, he was thoroughly unprepared for a brown to slam into him; whether by accident or design the hatchling’s claws tore down his chest and stomach and left him lying flat on his back with blood dripping onto the Sands.
Which was when a sticky muzzle poked into his cheek and, without so much as a by your leave, a voice commented,
Well don’t you look a hot mess all covered in blood…up you get. Head goes over your toes, I’ve heard, but then they say blood usually stays on the inside too, don’t they? Oops, don’t slip, there you go. Let’s try the bringing red back into fashion later, yes? You didn’t look half cute like that. Certhian—Ce’thian from then on out—ended up, sixteen stitches and two bowls of meat later, sitting in the Weyrling Barracks completely perplexed with a distinctly bronze hatchling, who’d proclaimed himself Sparath, dozing across his knees.
From the Hatching Feast onward, it became apparent that while the majority of his friends expressed envy or admiration for Sparath (who in turn expressed a faint amusement at them), whatever he’d had with Elysia before the Hatching was gone. And yeah, Ce’thian hadn’t been
oblivious before and he’d noticed that there was something…weird with Elysia and bronzers but he hadn’t expected to Impress a bronze, and even after Sparath, it hadn’t occurred to him that her weird would extend to
him.
She couldn’t avoid him entirely, of course; they were in the same class. But Ce’thian was indignant and hurt about being shunned so thoroughly, and let her be, hoping she’d get over Sparath being shiny. She didn’t, and as time went on Ce’thian thought of her less and less as a friend. He had plenty of other company anyway—which he suspected, in direct opposition from Elysia’s weirdness, stemmed from Sparath’s inherent claim to power. Ce’thian and Sparath graduated Weyrling classes with high marks and performance, and joined a fighting wing shortly after.
Ce’thian and Sparath rose to Wingsecond in 3005; the bronzepair was young and clearly had potential to go far and the Wingleader eventually took it upon himself to become mentor to them. V’krien and his bronze Ehrvenasieth were old-fashioned, faintly elitist, but primarily practical; when Thread fell for the first time in as long as memory the year after in 3006, Ce’thian and Sparath had cleaned up nicely enough to be established as Wingleaders of a Threadfighting wing—not as prestigious as a fighting wing but just as necessary and a more than decent position for their age and the competition.
As Wingleader, Ce’thian became, abruptly, appealing to women; over the Turns he had a string of monogamous, casual relationships; with V’krien and Sparath pushing to make sure it remained
casual, Ce’thian kept the attachments loose and limited in timespan to a few months at the outside. Lack of a love commitment meant he remained open for a one-against-the-world game of politics, and in 3009, Ce’thian and Sparath were promoted to Wingleaders of a fighting wing. At twenty-four, and Sparath ten, they were one of the less experienced Wingleaders, and made up for it in sheer determination.
By the time Kaegan fled from Benden the same year, Ce’thian had cut enough of his ties to Nerat (his interaction with his family was limited to a few visits a year, and that with his brothers had become stiff with the gap in hierarchy—even if he was kind enough to his wing, it just wasn’t done for bronzeriders to associate closely with blue- and green-riders just
because) to be indignant on Benden’s behalf. His wing grew in prestige and efficiency for it, and when 3012 and the Siege of Selenitas rolled around, they were occupied elsewhere.
With J’lorin’s rise to Weyrleadership, however, Ce’thian was—unsurprisingly—demoted. And he didn’t
blame the guy, because Wingleaders did have too much authority to let a potential competitor just have a wing all to themselves, but he detested being a Wingrider again anyway, especially with the attention of the Fort bronzeriders that Sparath got him.
A year later, with rumors of Wasteland bubbling under the surface if you knew where to look, Ce’thian and Sparath, dubious of ever being allowed a wing under J’lorin’s jurisdiction, left Benden Weyr. Intended to come back, yes. But not as
Wingriders.
3013-3015: Wasteland WeyrIn Wasteland, Ce’thian was half-surprised by the number of bronzeriders present, and with the fallout in mind, declined offers of any positions of power. That kind of gameplay could wait until after they’d become established in a
permanent Weyr, and Sparath was loathe to involve himself with the other bronzes’ power plays; his interest in them was minimal given that they were so outnumbered. It would be easy, if Benden or Fort ever found them, to slaughter them all, but those not in power were more likely to be spared, after all.
They remained with Wasteland for two years while more Benden riders gradually joined their ranks, and eventually, the decision to overpower Selenitas was made.
3015-3017: Old Selenitas WeyrThe takeover went off with startling ease. Granted, some of Selenitas managed to get out, but it was so small a number that Ce’thian suspected that Ja’kin and H’nes opted to ignore it as spillover and generally unimportant. Which seemed faintly silly since Wasteland had been made of “spillover,” an opinion that Sparath shared unequivocally. With those Riders in the balance, and the blatant distrust and antagonism despite the supposed “merge”, Ce’thian and Sparath opted to remain distantly anonymous—unimportant players.
H’nes replacing Ja’kin as Weyrleader was noted and filed away for further investigation, but otherwise Ce’thian remained in the background. He was all for gambles, sure, but when it came to absolute rule like Weyrleadership he’d much rather it when things cooled.
As luck would have it, things didn’t.
Instead, an earthquake struck in 3017, destroying most of the Weyr and killing H’nes. It left them in a bad position—exacerbated when the Riders who had escaped returned, and Selenitas merged with the hidden Weyr in the mountains.
3017: New Selenitas Weyr Adjustment to the new Selenitas was not the easiest of moves Ce’thian had ever had, and, still wary, he hung back until the first real signs of an actual merge taking place began to show—a younger Wasteland bronzerider elected to Council (perhaps an overt olive-branch; one member of the Council could always be out-voted after all) and made Wingleader, the distinction of South and North beginning to fade. These faint suspicions, he can deal with.
In due time he and Sparath began to slip into the day-to-day activities of the Weyr, and people stopped looking at him like they expected him to start slaughtering them. When the summons for those who desired a puppy went out, it was with a sort of vague spontaneity and interest that Ce’thian proceeded to the stables. It had never been a particularly great desire of his, to have a pet, and Sparath had never been interested either, but somehow he ended up with a warm squirmy ball of fur in his arms and decided he might as well. One collar and a name brainstorming session later, Alias had officially expanded the family from two to three.
Getting a Salamandyr was even less of a planned event, but Ce’thian was certainly indulgently amused by the small blue that claimed him in the summer of 3018; he was named Aether and got along with Sparath in a distinctly rocky sort of way—but fortunately, Aether was fonder of clinging to Ce’thian with the occasional sagacious, belated comment and otherwise remaining mute.
The eventual decision for the hidden South to push back against the War was one Ce’thian appraised with decided wariness; what he had seen of the Weyrlings that the South raised was not promising, even if the number of defected Northern Riders and the potential Benden alliance swung things in their favor. But regardless, Sparath was raring to get something done and Ce’thian was less than thrilled by the idea of sitting idly on his hands while others fought.
So, in the battle of 3019, Sparath and Ce’thian made themselves useful—Ce’thian was largely unhurt but for a few scorch marks in the backlash of flames, while Sparath gained a few scars he showed off with morbid amusement after the pain passed.
Wrapping up the job was a slow, but fortunately rarely tedious, process, dominating the remainder of the year. The official end was marked by the gathering of the Summit in 3020, and so began the process of rebuilding.
3020: Inverness WeyrIn what Sparath liked to call a
hilarious accident, Ce’thian was appointed to be the temporary Weyrleader for the new centralized Northern Weyr, Inverness, until the first true election was held; the years that followed were an exercise in patience and politics that far surpassed the elegant but frankly
simple game he had played as a Wingleader at Benden.
Not long after his ascent to Weyrleader, Ce’thian opted to find guidance in a form other than the Weyrwomen (none of whom he was particularly enthralled with)—one Darya of Azrath, a handful of years his senior and with experience on Selenitas’s old, now dissolved, Council. Acquaintanceship slid smoothly into camaraderie and then into a casual friends-with-benefits relationnship, and if Darya had perhaps more authority—behind the scenes—than she
ought to have, well.
Nobody seemed to be looking too closely.
Nevertheless, there was no denying the restlessness among the dragonriders—tossed in among old enemies, split from older friends, and kept on a short leash. Ce’thian didn’t blame them at all, but he also didn’t disagree with the Summit’s argument, and so he walked the narrow line of neutrality, angling to keep the discontent to a minimum if not extinguish it entirely and ensure the collective loyalty of the Weyr and to appease the Summit.
Being Weyrleader was not
easy, after all, but he hadn’t expected it to be, and he was certainly not planning on standing down when the Trials began in earnest.
S P A R A T H ;Age- 22
Species- Dragon
Color- Bronze (
#ada049)
Appearance- Sparath is a creature of curiosities to say the least; the bronze measures a neat 37 feet from nose to tail-tip, average as dragons go, but he’s almost comically streamlined—his entire body is of the proportions typically attributed to
greens, his frame lean and spare with masculinity sharp in the jagged edges of his neck ridge. Sparath’s head is noticeably and unequivocally male; his eyes are sharply slanted and the bronze has a faint under-bite. His eye ridges are sharp and knobby to the touch, hooding over his eyes and giving him a peculiarly dark appearance. Claws are pearly white, sharpened to fine points, and his wings are sleek—long and slim without dwarfing Sparath, optimizing the bronze’s maneuverability.
With the awkward rolling gait of all dragons, Sparath is no less ridiculous a sight than any other dragon, if not more so; he tends to deliberately ignore the blatant failure and goes about anywhere he pleases on foot when he’s too lazy to find a decent wind. In air, though, Sparath is certainly a master of the winds; he monopolizes, manipulates, and dances to every draft he can find to expend the
minimum of energy, painting a decidedly strange sort of sky-weaving pattern. Sometimes it can be beautiful; other times it makes him look like an overeager, aimless weyrling fresh to the sky—but anyway Sparath has plenty of fun with it. And he is certainly a graceful enough dragon to get away with it.
In color, Sparath is as distinctive a bronze as any; his hide has a base of shimmering, pale gold-bronze, decidedly metallic; copper and silver undertones flare in ghostlike swirls along faintly translucent wings, and copper-red shade to dark bronze down his legs and tail, speckled by pale silver. His neck ridges are tipped in distinct silver, and his eyes are lined in red-copper that curls back like extravagant eyeliner. Muted copper-red stripes appear faintly down his neck and tail, and speckle across his ribs like faded freckles. Down his spine, a thin dorsal stripe of copper-bronze streaks from the join of neck and back to the tip of his tail.
Personality- It’s easy to get caught up in Sparath’s low purring ‘voice,’ distinctively masculine with an easy fluidity to the drawl-rumble. It’s less easy to remember that Sparath is a cheeky little snot. He has a peculiar and often sarcastic sense of humor that borderlines playfulness and a singsong teasing air pervasive in essentially everything he does—even in battle Sparath is outspoken. He’s very deliberately taunting most of the time, to other dragons and His alike (to other humans Sparath refuses to speak, and although he will reluctantly acknowledge whers, or firelizards, or Salamandyrs, it just isn’t the
same), and finds perverse glee in manipulating words and thoughts around to his liking.
That said, Sparath can be quite the charmer when he wants to be; he’s as interested as any bronze in queens, of course, but he takes particular delight in greens. They’re much less predictable than golds, after all, and much more the challenge for bronzes. The bronze’s intelligence means he tends to cater very well to whims and wishes, and if he can get greens (or blues or browns or bronzes or golds, for that matter—Sparath isn’t a picky creature when it comes to company, and if he thinks himself above others, it’s a generalized ‘others’, not color-specific) to accept his teasing and fire back at him, then so much the better.
Sparath’s quite smart enough to enjoy the games of thrones prevalent in Weyr politics, and he
thoroughly enjoys it—even his own downfalls are taken with a careful perspective and readjustment. In the end he’s confident of his ability to make the other dragons dance to his tune and he likes the buildup just as much as he likes the final product. The bronze is not an extraordinarily easy creature to label; his motivations are practically nonexistent—amusement, maybe. He has very little possessiveness for females or for Ce’thian, and his protection extends only until the burden becomes too great.
A E T H E R ;![]()
Age- 5
Species- Salamandyr
Color- Blue (
#737ca1)
Appearance- The drabbest shade of blue imaginable coats this salamandyr. With the same tone as a hazy sky - the clouds gathering and preparing to burst open in a dreary day long rain - his hide is best described as being spectacularly mundane. Painted as it seems to be, in a textured matte finish, there is the hint of depth there with the tiny - no - minuscule dimples of minutely darker color stretched across his length. The faint specks are orderly and arranged, moving down from the forehead clear down his back. The effect is subtle but effective, the pattern perfectly placed as to make him seem covered in a rough and shabby periwinkle cloth. Hooded like a monk, only his bulbous and hooked snout peeps out from the barrage of flat color in a flash of softening bone white that fades back into the grays and blues as it seeps back towards the eyes. It is a vague hint of brightness amongst a palette of otherwise aging and deteriorating pigment. Even his little talons and teeth which rightfully should be blessed with pristine clarity at hatching show the faintest signs of yellowing, which will promise to deepen and darken with time to the color of a stained parchment left to the cruelties of a neglected archive.
His frill, if full, had the hints of a darkening membrane, but the skin is simply not fully there, haphazardly formed, and looking to have been eaten away at by phantom maggots even in the embryonic safety of the egg. Tattered as they are, they are rarely flared, and for that reason, hardly noticed, and ironically out shined by the more... everyday aspects of his appearance. Indeed, there is certainly nothing to write home about in regards to the size of this critter. He is perfectly average in just about every aspect of length, height, and girth, save maybe some short comings in regard to weight gain; he likely won't put on much more than is required, eating as if he has to save his rations for another meal, leaving his ribs nearly constantly poking out from that plain habit of a hide. In all other respects he measures up to those standards and ratios by which blues are supposed to live up to, his legs leaving his center of gravity low, and his tail long enough to wind about his own body, as every mandyr's should. Even while his frill lay torn and defeated, his wings remain fully intact, but functional only in being able to carry his body as far as a short glide. All in all, with one glance it can be said that this one will not be winning any awards for beauty any time soon. Unless, of course, one considers the old adage about the eye of the beholder.
Personality- Grizzled. His voice reflects this, hardly rising with peaks and valleys, but forever level with the same grinding, gravely tone. Slow and measured, his calculated words mirror his nature if not the usual demeanor of most of his species. Rather than blurting out his every thought and feeling, like many mandyrs are known to do, this one is remarkably reflexive, often thinking at length about the words he uses. Thinking too much that is... By the time he gets around to picking out the perfect thing to say, the moment has usually passed, and either his comment appears incredibly out of place -
why on Pern is he talking about lunch now, it has to be half passed midnight now - or never comes at all, leading the average acquaintance to think him either mute or mentally dull. This blue is anything but though, and his bonded, graced with the advantage of time and experience, will learn this first hand, often being the direct recipient of the blue's erudite teachings - if one were so inclined to call them such. His little life lessons are more like poorly spaced stepping stones, with clues serving as a weak foothold for one to balance upon. If this little guy's bonded is not careful, and fails to follow the blue's sage advice, then they should prepare to fall flat on their face... and be laughed at.
He has little sympathy for failure unfortunately, rather acting like an elderly grandfather figure who had been there, done that, and seen it all before. Not only has he had his own share of troubles - in his oh so humble estimate - but his were about a thousand times worse, and most likely involved trudging through a few feet of snow.
You should be so lucky as to come through your various trials and tribulations with little more than a bruise, he'll be sure to remind his chosen one in his own way, and most likely punctuated with a callous flick of his tail. It really is no wonder the salamandyr is a solitary figure, for as misanthropic as he seems to be (with the notable exception of his human counterpart of course, everyone needs
somebody after all), the distaste is mutual. Who wishes to be spend time with a creature as cantankerous and cold as him? Certainly not the majority of Pern, and he is perfectly fine with that. In exchange he will not go out of his way to befriend or bother with anyone else. For that matter he would be unlikely to chase after a running green or gold even if they came right under his nose. No thank you! Keep the chases to yourself! In his opinion they really are just silly, futile spectacles anyway.
Besides, he has a certain human pet to bother, and pester, and remind to breathe.
A L I A S ;![]()
Age- 5
Species- Canine (Australian Shepherd x Husky)
Gender- Male
Appearance- 19 inches high at the withers makes him the smallest canine of his litter, taking after his mother in all but his face and ears. Small and compact, he’s capable of fast sprinting and has as much endurance as a regular shepherd. His face, although collared with the shepherd fluff, definitively shows his husky background with a long cylindrical muzzle, pointed triangular ears, and almond shaped and oblique set eyes. Eyes of which are different colors, one being brown and the other an icy blue. His ‘feel good weight’ is about 35 pounds and has a fast metabolism to help keep it that way. He also has the iconic short tail that all shepherds have, sharing this trait with only one other sibling in his litter.
Reddish brown fur is inherited from his mother, as are the random occasional patches or splotches of white on his body, but in general he has solid markings along his entire body. His underbelly is white, while the reddish brown seems to be the base coat for his back, sides and face. On that color a blanket of black covers most of his back and runs up his neck to taper out just above his eyebrows, framing his face in the process. His nose is black but the surrounding fur shows a mixture of all three colors (though the predominate color seems to be white), and he happily sports a white star and stripe on his head. He has a medium thickness undercoat, which will shed in the warmer months, and a smooth silky overcoat that will require regular washes and brushings to make sure no mats occur. Fear not, he actually enjoys being groomed.
Personality- Quirky, to say the least, confident to say it all, this canine does not have a shy bone in his body. Top dog? Oh yeah, that’s him. He’s obviously amazing at the tricks he learns and is the best listener as well. Need something done? He can do it. Need someone to complain to? He’s right there on your lap willing to listen (as long as there is petting or hugs involved). He’ll also be extremely loyal, though he may tend to disobey a little when surrounded by human females. Did I mention he’s a complete and total ham when it comes to the ladies? He fancies himself a ladies man. Men are treated with a sort of polite indifference, but ladies, oh the ladies get the ‘look at me I’m so cool and cute, watch while I do a trick!’ show. Although it would be best if he wasn’t left with children alone and without any supervision, he may have some patience, but he doesn’t have /that/ much. He’ll get growley, barky and pushy after a while though he’ll never bite unless he’s been hurt. He just… doesn’t work well with kids. Or other pets, unless they’re little. He can get jealous. He’s a one human dog and they should obviously be a one dog human.
Unlike some of his littermates, he learns tricks with impatience often getting bored quickly if he doesn’t find it exciting enough. Patience, love and will power is needed to teach him new things. But once he learns them, it won’t be hard at all to keep the tricks fresh in his mind. Extraordinarily intelligent (in dog standards at least), he has the possibility to be trained as a rescue or tracking dog, and the best thing is he would enjoy that. Herding is also an ability that will come easy and joyfully to him, taking after his mother in this respect. The instinct for it may not be terribly strong, but its there and always will be.
