Mi'rah of Bronze Kierjaarth

[Lotty]

MI'RAHofBRONZE KIERJAARTH
Age 44 ☞ January, 2979
Gender Male
Sexual Orientation hetero
Rank Wingleader
Physical Appearance

He has changed in the nearly ten turns since he arrived in Selenitas. Thinner from leaving the lowest caverns of Benden, he accordingly stands a bit taller, and a bit prouder, despite that rare dependence on a cane; perhaps because he has collected the scars there on his leg to justify it. A few more marks have been added even still, like the corded ribbon sliced across his hand, fading in to match with the life and sun lines of the palm. There is no mistaking the transformations despite the obvious remaining the same, namely the fact that he is different, and he does defy the romanticism. He is living proof that not everybody has the great fortune of a good metabolism, or long flowing hair, or a seemingly effortless swagger. In fact, Mi'rah has none of those things. Though not setting a precedent, he is certainly breaking an archetype, because by the standards of a young girl's dreams he falls short of the glamorous ideals.

He is not fat, not really, but his body has never been something he has ever been proud of. Despite the metamorphosis he is no Adonis. Growing up he was gawky and oddly proportioned, and always with that youthful sort of baby weight that to this day has persisted, settling gently along his waist. It leaves him looking rather unimposing. Loveable and cuddly really, which are not generally desired traits amongst his dragonriding peers. Nor does he have any great height to make up for it, he is a respectable six foot, but not the giant so many of the bronzeriders seem to be. This man is not to be confused for physically weak however. Obscured by his carefully tailored dress of dark shirts and jackets are the soft muscles that linger upon his shoulders and limbs, and while he hardly has grace or anything resembling finesse he has the sort of the dumb strength that can lug around weight or throw a left hook should he work up the courage to.

Despite his imperfections, Mi'rah likes to smile (and why not, he does have nice teeth) and chuckle goofily with a pale blush, and if not smiling, then he has a certain bemused look on his oval face, adding to his general air of boyish charm. Bright crystalline blue eyes are set into a saintly serenity with a thin eyebrow that quirks into an arch when studying something of relative importance, but that may or may not be from a case of eye strain as opposed to actual befuddlement. His nose is set straight, or at least it was before it was more recently broken, leaving a bump and ever so subtle crookedness that might just be dignified, all offset with lips that are just a tad pouty. He passes off as being younger than he is, for not a wrinkle nor blemish touches her skin. There are but a few first signs of age plaguing him: a set of glasses that perch on his nose when reading and a slight graying at the temples threatening what was a head full of boring brown hair.

Personality

To put it simply: he is horribly conflicted. Always has been and always will be, for in his life he has too many times come face to face with himself and forced to consider who he is and what he wants to be. It is a troubled mind, not a broken heart that is worn on his sleeve, and readily evident in his every move, the way lips and hands quiver with indecision. He realizes now that somewhere along the way, something had gone wrong; loyal to a fault and too eager to please, his potential was not used, but abused by crueler forces and in turn struggles with the same emotional stuntedness that so many of his contemporaries have. Having been valued for logic and little else he fails to understand fully the subtler aspects of other people's feelings despite the desire to - and oh how he wishes that he could - but it is not surprising considering the fact that he is still paring through his own rationale.

There is more good in Mi'rah than not though, and it is obvious in his generally gentle demeanor and lilting hushed tone. He is and strives to be a nice guy. Painfully nice at times, and incredibly polite not only because it was ingrained so by his parents but as etiquette is the only guide he has for social interaction - a way to avoid any major gaffs or awkwardness, because believe you me he can do awkward with the best of them. Almost eternally bumbling and clumsy, he is the butt of jokes much more often than he can crack one...successfully. There are no rules for humor like there is for pleasantries, or at least none that he can decipher, and furthermore the timing required for it eludes him thanks to a simple verbal deficiency - stammerers simply don't have any. This does not however affect the ability to laugh. When he catches humor, he appreciates it, and which thanks to the ease of the South he does so much more readily than before, when any chuckle made was reserved only as a clue to his nervousness.

One of course may wonder then, since he is not only amiable, but an over-apologetic pushover, whose skittish or neurotic even, how it is that he ever came to be a bronzerider. Are they not supposed to be the paradigm of leadership, their egos oozing through their every pore, and respected only for their power not their... sweetness? It is a legitimate question, but one that can only be answered by asking what it exactly means to be a leader, for while it is true that he is nearly bankrupt in terms of an ego and commandeering spirit, he instead expects that his selflessness and loyalty will instead inspire others to be much the same. It is a harder tactic, and much more subtle at that, but he'd rather - as cheesy as it may sound even to him - lead by example. Fail as his intentions may, he still is stubborn enough to persist, never asking of friends or wingmates to do anything that he wouldn't consider doing himself.

Furthermore, one must consider one little factor. The one thing on which what little ego he has rests: Mi'rah is intelligent. Insanely so to some, with a sort of mechanical and scientific preciseness, but his crippling humility forbids him from admitting it out loud. He'd just as soon deny, deny, deny, if the praise ever came his way all the while soaking up those warm and fuzzies. Don't make the mistake of calling him stupid however. Fat insults are rather like beating a dead horse, he has certainly heard them all, but the quickest way to inspire his ire is to imply that his mannerisms and especially his stutter are related to any kind of simplicity. He is only human after all, and is subject to the same hurt emotions as anyone else; often expressing them with a sour expression and narrowing of the eyes. There is a fire there, and he is not without spark, but it is very hard to kindle. It seems to be that his confidence is not lost so much as it is instead misplaced.

History

2979 - 2992 - Humble Beginnings at Lemos Hold

The first half of his life, all the parts before the war and Impression were rather boring. Born the second son to Mirrim, the Steward of Lemos Hold and his young wife Zoulah, Mizrah lived a fruitful nice life playing with all the other children in the lower caverns; including some of children of the Lord Holder, his second cousins. Being their entertainment probably prepared him for a future of serving Benden's Weyrleader, but it was one of his least favorite activities. While he was always the most kind and relished sharing his dominoes and jacks and checkers with those of his social circle, those further up in the childhood hierarchies - including his older brother Moulah - took much more pleasure in sports and athletics, but more importantly the competition aspect of it all. Mizrah simply couldn't win. As stubbornly as he tried, he was practically born with two left feet and was always the one you could rely on to miss the last pitch, trip over one's shoes, or drop the ball. Nonetheless he had his own share of friends, ones who unlike Moulah did not take it upon themselves to tease him, and would instead cause the typical mischief that pre-pubescent boys did.

And as he grew older his parents couldn't be prouder of their boy. He had something of the mildest stammer developing even then, but the healers all assured them that it was a phase he would outgrow. What was more important was that he was obedient, and well mannered. All the men of Lemos were conditioned to be so after all, and Mizrah was to be no exception. Sure, he was still a boy and little boys did stupid things like glue the hold's harper to his chair, but for the most part he was relatively harmless, and a little goofy, but he was well adjusted and smart to boot. Very smart. He was doing well in his lessons and excelling exceptionally in math, and by the time he was thirteen he was assisting his father with tasks around the hold, showing only marginal interests in other crafts. It just so happened that it was about this time that a search dragon - a rare thing to behold - came to Lemos to search the leery holders who were less than enthusiastic about giving up their sons for the sands, but to be fair Benden wasn't exactly excited about the slew of kids they had to offer.

Even worse was that the dragons wanted "that one". The sweet looking one. Mizrah. It would have been easy if he didn't want to go, but in his youth he was much too innocent to be hampered by rationality along. He still had time to dream and dream big about high flying adventure and heroics and all those things he heard in harper ballads. The thirteen turn old didn't know any better, and was sure he could make the best dragonrider of them all, he was just too humble to ever say so himself. The searchrider, apparently annoyed by his dragon's own insistence on the unlikely choice of the awkward and enthusiastic holder child, snatched him up despite Zoulah's insistent pleas. Mirrim on the other hand regretted only one thing: that the son who had always secretly been his favorite was the one who was being taken from him.

2992 - 3003 - Benden Weyr and the March of the War

The war was still a few turns off - if it was full blown, someone as un-intimidating as Mizrah probably would have never made it to the sands - but there was a tangible tension in the air. This place was very unlike Lemos and even more importantly not at all like that which he had dreamed. There was no romance about the place, he'd just as well been fed to a snake pit, where things seemed so much more barbaric and even his fellow candidates were rather bad souls to confide in. Here people did not follow the same rules of engagement or treat him with kindness, his stutters were pointed out and ridiculed - and so they worsened. With not a clue on what else to do he took to lying low, and staying quiet. Silent almost. It was strategy that seemed to work well for him. Deflated, he stood at the same hatching where the infamous C'leon Impressed, but still undefeated he waited three turns before, to the surprise of everyone, the dumb klutz Mizrah got his Kierjaarth - the bronze having hatched nearly first stalked the boy across the sands, watching him fall on his ass before proclaiming simply You, Mi'rah, are mine.

To say he excelled in Weyrlinghood would be a lie. Holdbred as he was, he hadn't a clue what he was doing, and as fast as he picked up how to do everything in theory, Benden was never the type of place to respect thinkers over the performers - especially not with true war having broken out that very Turn - and the Weyrlingmaster was just as likely to pick the other bronzeweyrling for praise and roles of leadership. But it was another's attention he caught then in those months of training instead. N'na, a thin, dark haired, scruffy, spitfire of a bronzerider and Th'dor a surly brownrider who might have been the only dragonrider to have a weight problem and not care, spotted the poor soul shuffling across the dining hall floor. With his dejected but endearing persistence the pair of them knew that this Mi'rah understood more about war from the battles he fought in one day here at home than any of that lot of weyrlings did for all their bravado and accolades, for their simulations and sparring. Shard it, they could use him, and so little did the young bronzerider know, he was actually the first of them to have his wing assignment all locked up.

Mi'rah didn't know who these two clowns who called themselves his wingleaders were, or where they came from, but he was eternally thankful. As his saviors he worshipped them and the ground they walked on, for they taught him everything a teenage boy could hope to know. They taught him politics, gave him his first hangover, even forced him into a Bitran brothel for "his own good". Yes, it was all very morally questionable, but most important was the fact that they protected him, keeping that sharp eye and brain for strategy far away from the ones who could exploit it. Luckily, their band of black sheep were rather too busy to stick around in a musty old Weyr anyway. When not Threadfighting - good old Benden, ever the most organized lot - the small wing was very often doing the dirtiest of their new Weyrleader's deeds. Th'dor often considered that they were stomping through swamps in the southern most reaches of the territory because C'leon was purposely trying to get the lot of them killed. If so the plot failed. More than once it paid off to have a bright idea coming from the young kid of the squad.

His praise was given if minimal. Nurture was the plan, but not to let him get cocky. In N'na's eyes especially, for Mi'rah of all people to just become another one of the Benden Bronzeriders was such a waste, not just of a mind but of a good person. For this reason the wingleaders often challenged young Mi'rah's beliefs to keep him squared away and level. Th'dor - being rather peaceful in philosophy despite being a terror on the battlefield - liked to question Mi'rah's conditioned distaste for Fortians or his rationale behind the war which Mi'rah had Turns before worked out to save himself from the inevitable guilt. Ultimately however the one mistake that was made was assuming that this war had an end... Mi'rah was instructed to hold on more so than to stand up and more importantly never told to stay far and clear of C'leon, which proved to be a problem.

At the age of 24, Mi'rah found himself all of a sudden at the head of a half killed wing, leading the retreat as N'na had finally been picked off by a Fortian arrow. Months before Th'dor had been lost to execution - running his mouth about the war far too many times. What Mi'rah didn't know was that he ran right back into Benden's ill intentions.

3003 - 3013 - C'leon, The Siege, and the Changing of Hands

Step one, it was decided, unbeknownst to Mi'rah, was that he needed to crawl into the Weyrleader's good graces, not climb, and so what better was to do this than kick him while he was down. Upon immediate return to Benden he was not given a proposition so much as a command. Benden needed someone to clean up their slave trade for competition with Fort. It was perhaps the most detested and unwanted position in all of the Weyr, but without any alternatives, the bronzerider was pulled from the regular wings - his former one having been disbanded - and placed in charge of the dragonless. It was a degrading sort of experience, but it was better than uselessness and so it was handled only by the shutting down of his emotions, and the resignation of himself to defeat. It did not take more than a few turns to break him, but that was all that they needed. Passionless and without fight, it was a prime time to start mining from him what they really wanted.

It was of course on a to-do list between all of his other tasks, and for that reason it at first went un-noticed. Without much thought Mi'rah took a look at a map, pushed a battle line back, tiered the wings to the other side and returned the plans back to where they belonged before returning to handle another one of his superior's nasty chores. In short order more and more of his time was spent drawing plans, the instructions more elaborate, the battles bigger, and never taking credit where it was due. It was better to stay away from the attention... he received it enough from the populace who liked so much to call him fat or even worse, stupid. When his ideas failed, as statistically they were bound to do, he was chastised and more than once had an object thrown at his head via a typical sort of C'leon temper tantrum. Still he could not find within himself to break from the man or go so far as defect. He was bound to the place he Impressed Kierjaarth, having a most horrible case of learned helplessness if not eventually developing what could almost be described as Stockholm Syndrome.

But then there was Kaegan - that stupid gold weyrling, taking off to the South and inspiring C'leon's rage again. He was jealous of the petulant little brat, how was it that she managed to leave? Why hadn't she sucked it up and stayed just as he always did... obedient. More so he was annoyed, because their Weyrleader went on a bender over it and had to take along the whole Weyr with him. He knew it was a bad idea, but he was not a saint, he was not concerned for the people of Selenitas... his concern was about motives. This was not a time to fly off the handle, it was not time to re-focus attentions that should be placed solely on Fort. The ever utilitarian Mi'rah did not mesh well with the more ostentatious plans of the higher ups. War, he tried to tried to remind them shouldn't be taken personal. In his trademark stutter he told them, "This.... this just...isn't a good idea." Which as history can tell anybody it wasn't. C'leon's pride and short-sightedness got him killed, and his second in command too. Even worse was that upon their return the bloodshed did not stop. Culled were all of the former leader's associates... Mi'rah somehow voiding their lists. Arga apparently pitied him.

He should have been free. One would expect that he'd feel liberated, but he was instead resentful of the Fortians who took the old regime's place. Survive the cull though he did, he was hardly trusted and most felt most definitely rendered useless by the new comers, and in turn hardly welcomed them despite any good they might bring. In addition there was that uncontrollable paranoia, the idea that he might just be a step away from dead. Perhaps a vacation was in order? If he was to be hated by strangers he might as well do so in a warmer climate, and really they didn't even need to know the intricacies of his former life. If Kaegan could run away to them, then so should he, and besides if anything good came from the siege it was that he already knew how to get there.

3013 - 3018? - Selenitas and Beyond

He arrived, much to his surprise to see S'rei. A familiar face from his days at Benden, though mostly for being patently scary and one to avoid. At Selenitas however, the man proved to be an important guide to the South as well as a leader that could once again rekindle some kind of spirit back into him. Rehabilitation for his pride came via real trials, the former Fortian F'ur had the great privilege of getting to beat him up on a weekly basis and injuries came in both the Fortian attack and scuffles with various "enemies" along the way. In the former of which, his left leg was grazed by dragonclaws, but not so slightly as to not leave him bed ridden for days and weak in the tendons. Survival was his reward however. S'rei trusted him probably more than any man should, at first giving him ownership of his own secret and temporary wing, Ephemerae. One which later came to surface with little pomp or circumstance. They were without a doubt a rough bunch of what Selenitas had to spare, and not at all the elites that Legatus made, but Mi'rah cared little for looking good as long as they operated well.

Not well enough to stop the Wastelanders though. None of the wings were, they had all objectively failed. While Mi'rah himself had the opportunity to escape along with some of the others he had resolved very early to stay if only for the people of Selenitas who had treated him so kindly, even if this decision would mean his death. But for reasons still unknown to him Ja'kin's arrival did not mean the end of his life nor even Wingleadership. The one he had chosen of course was dismantled, some of them having died or escaped and others just taken and put elsewhere. He still however retained his loyal wingsecond G'tor, which seemed to be of the utmost importance to the bronzerider. But that didn't last for long either. Suspiciously, Ja'kin to stepped down and H'nes assumed control, at the same time that he lost Doppelganger - courtesy of Meira and Mimic perishing and taking the brown twin along with them. These two events made Mi'rah sour and vengeful, and he began to plot his own resistance to the Wastelanders, often organizing secret meetings in farmfields and pastures. While he didn't pull together his bloody coup, he did manage to survive H'nes' questioning and more importantly the earthquake that rocked the South and pulled Selenitas down into rubble. As upset as he was not to experience the satisfaction of finally taking the world by storm, he was equally happy to be rejoined with his old friends when the Buri folk came for them

3018 - Present - Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

After five turns in the southern continent, things for the first time seemed to settle. Moved for what Mi'rah assumed would be the last time, he lived reunited with the exiles in the "New Selenitas" as it was sometimes called, and returned to his bumbling attempts to woo the greenrider Tenlie. Leading a wing once again the bronzerider was content if somewhat restless, knowing that storm clouds always seemed to loom over his own head. Indeed he knew, that for any peace to last, they needed to secure a victory. Hiding could only do so much, what was in the works was finalization, a conversation that he and S'rei had shared many time. After a dispatch of riders to J'lorin work began to start sending Selenitas riders to the North to fight in Benden colors. Mi'rah, despite his somewhat irrational distaste of J'lorin dealt with the decisions and resumed his usual shadowy, behind the scenes work he was so good at. After all, he had fought for Benden and against Fort a long time ago... before most of the current riders were even born, and strategies and landscapes were just not things he was going to forget. War sadly, was like riding a bike, and he never forgot, and Kierjaarth definitely didn't forget either. As if the dragon's hatching at the beginning of the war infused him with the desire to fight, his shit-disturber tendencies were transferred to battle.

For Mi'rah's part, he probably enjoyed - a little too much - the chance to rack his brain again and strategize and took on the final leg of the war as if it was some great magnum opus. If he couldn't be in charge of everything, at very least he had gained enough backbone in his turns in the South to interject and tell everyone when they were doing things wrong and his maps, charts, and battle plans grew larger and grander as he let his imagination loose. Of course one of his favorites of the bunch was the grand distraction plan, as M'gnum led the black ops forces to R'anatar, Mi'rah was more than glad to have his own tiny Napoleon moment leading a wing in the larger battle elsewhere. In the end, he was pleased with the results having lived to fight another day (or sit on the beach and finally have the vacation he always wanted, whichever came first).

Unfortunately with the end in sight it was easy to forget the fall out of all wars. After all, Pern hadn't experienced such a situation as this, and it should have been no surprise that after decades of the world having gone mad, that everyone would have to come together and make sure that it never happened again. Unfortunately, Summits don't always work out so perfectly. The world was split again, with dragonriders being sent North and South and to Weyr and Hold. Mi'rah was fortunate enough to win a spot still in Selenitas, but seemed to lose just about everything else that was important to him. All of his friends save for S'rei were transferred to the new Inverness, and though he had the freedom to visit G'tor and Dorava as he pleased, there was always the guilt of interrupting something as they formed their own family. Mi'rah wouldn't even get that kind of luxury, with Tenlie's position as a crafter getting her sent to the hold. Sure she was but three seconds away by the back of a dragon, but that was no way to live life - so disjointed.

While at one time Mi'rah was but a holdbred child with such a deep love for his roots in Lemos, he couldn't help but feel horribly betrayed by Holds as they dolled out what he could only think of as punishments. Why was it that he could never be happy? After some forty turns of just letting things go, the bronzerider decided to take fate into his own hands, and it was possible now too since leadership was no longer decided by which dragon so happened to catch the gold. He couldn't always speak for himself, but with a little help he knew that he could woo some hearts and decided that for once the only way to get what he wants is to take it. He is not above white knighting his way across Pern for Tenlie, or scoping out the position of Weyrleader when the trials begin.

MINDMATESetc.
Name Kierjaarth
Color Bronze
Age 27
Physical Appearance

Absolutely baroque in his coloring, the dragon seems to have been decorated by an old lady with an eye for garish, attention grabbing, extravagance. He is covered with a ruddy, dulled, copper color; shine doesn't seem to bless the base coat for it appears almost tarnished in dark uneven patches, and if it wasn't for the glittery embellishments of brass he'd run the risk of being confused for a large brown. Filigree feathering of a near gold shade flecks it's self along the spine from the top of his head to the end of his long tail. This same color adorns his headknobs and flutters up in a more subtle fashion on his feet. The lace-like patterns of metallic gleam - though unobtrusive from afar - give him something of a busy look when observed up close. The gossamer threads of burnished gold seem to hold another purpose as well, obscuring and veiling the scores of scars and burns that have melded into his body.

The gaudy, rich, colors of his hide flow in perfect harmony with the elegant curves of Kierjaarth's body. He will never be the biggest of his kind on Pern, but he'd never be the smallest and not a weakling either. He is strength bound in a lithe, streamlined grace. Aside from being a bit long in the neck and tail, he is a prime example of proper proportion, any exceptions are nothing more than artist's touch of flair. With mediocre size comes unexpected advantages. He has the best of both worlds; maneuverability is hardly an issue, but neither is lasting an entire Threadfall. The dragon prides himself on this, and exudes a certain confidence, craning his neck to look down his snout at any one or thing smaller than him. It is easy for a creature such as himself to have a touch of arrogance in even the slightest tilts of his head or flick of his tail. Approaching nearly thirty turns, the dragon still seems impervious to aging, much like his rider. There is not a bit of graying on his hide or even in the immaculate pearl of his sharpened teeth.

Personality

Hardly ever riled up about anything, Kierjaarth is simply amused by human and dragonkind alike. He will never claim to understand them, but he is trying, with two faceted eyes keeping a close watch on everything around him. He is something of a "people watcher" though this extends to all the sentient creatures, even taking an interest in passing firelizards. It is hard to say whether he finds others so intriguing out of some kind of critical judgement, or if it is nothing but boredom. Regardless, he is ever the observer, after all it is his favorite pastime aside from butting heads with his rider.

He didn't choose Mi'rah for the way he looked or any aesthetic reason, and frankly he could care less if the man could fight or even lead the weyr. What was important was that this was someone with the same sensible reasoning as he. Yes, he loves to pick his rider's mind, pry into the past, see what Mi'rah doesn't really care to share and use it against him in whatever argument the dragon will start, and oh will he ever start arguments. As diplomatic and reserved as he attempts to be, he hates the fact that another might be right, and well, lets not tip toe around it, Kierjaarth is a shit disturber. He can't just let someone run their mouth when they are so, so, wrong. It gets him in trouble, no doubt about it, but for as smart as he likes to say he is, he doesn't have too much in the way of common sense and so it seems that he will never learn his lesson.

Fighting Discussions with his rider and spying on the little dot-people he spots from his ledge do seem to take up such a large part of his time that sometimes he seems put out to do anything else. He will never be a dragon to beg for attention or to be entertained, in fact he seems almost offended by the suggestion, Go swimming? Ugh. Hunting? Can't Mi'rah go do that? He needs the exercise. His rider lovingly calls them little bouts of melancholy, but a streak of laziness could be a better term for it. There are a few things that get his butt into gear though. Threadfall is always a pleasure to fly, but a rising gold or green? Now that is something that catches his fancy. Appropriate, since women of all species tend to be spared from most of his criticisms and mind games, in fact a pretty female tends to inspire a good deal of his warring - with his rider and other dragons alike.

Name Doppelganger
Age Deceased
Color Brown #6E2900
Gender Male
Based Off Of Behruth

Physical Description

This brown salamandyr is unusually long and slender, distinctly resembling a rope. His wings are long and slender, built more for balancing his body out than any kind of flight, and his legs are perfectly proportioned to his body. His tail is a defining feature, easily ‘too long’ for his body, even for a salamandyr; more than twice his body length, he can twist his tail around behind and above him so that he very distinctly resembles twisting tree branches. Even his face is more slender than the average salamandyr’s, with an angular snout that almost seems pointed. His eyes are actually on the large side for a salamandyr, unusually defined for one of his species, making him look young and innocent. Coupled with a ridiculously wide frill, this is one salamandyr that can merit staring. When he’s angry, he tends to look ridiculous, and Faranth forbid the wind blows when he’s displaying; he will fall flat on his face, poor little guy. Despite the huge size of his frill and the long nature of his tail, ‘ugly’ would not be a word that describes this salamandyr. He has a gift for winding around things (branches, hands, wrists), and it’s impossible not to find his little squeaks endearing.

His coloration is bizarre for a brown. A mottled red-brown shade covers his entire body, leading to him looking distinctly mahogany. On the flipside, fall shades of honey seem to drip over his wings and down his back, and the entire look is highlighted by dark brown pinstripes starting as eyeliner and zipping down the middle of his body, coming to a halt at the tip of his tail which is solidly dark all around. His coloring possesses a dusting of light shades of tan, splashing over his feet in the form of socks and gloves, which add emphasis to his otherwise unique appearance. The final accent that makes this little brown stand out is a network of diamond outlines in dark brown, zigzagging over his body starting at the back of his neck and encompassing his tail. His face and his frill are untouched and flawless. In leaves, he’ll be impossible to spot – especially if he’s well cared for! And aside from the lighter ‘socks’ (rather than ribbon-like markings), he’s the exact mirror image of his brother – these two are easily twins.

Personality

Sweet – that is the word that describes this salamandyr to a tee. He goes out of his way to be kind to people. While he’s not naïve, the phrase “eternal optimist” would suit him well. He always hopes for the best in every situation, and looks for the good in people and other creatures all around him. This salamandyr believes that always expecting the best means that he’ll often get to see it, and he’s pleasant to be around. Friendly, too; he likes to talk to everyone, and he’s usually quite pleasant, favoring chipper words over the insults that most of his kind bias toward. He’s completely casual too – he doesn’t favor firelizards or salamandyrs, but instead will treat both races equally, and unlike most of his species, he doesn’t eat firelizard eggs. He likes babies far too much to do that. He’s very happy to bounce around chatting up everyone on sight, and being so outgoing, he’s very happy to help others too – this is one salamandyr that absolutely defies his species’ stereotype: not only is he kind and considerate, but he’s so far from arrogant that the word wouldn’t be applied to him. No demands are made. He’s usually just happy to be around others. People are wonderful, you see. All of them.

Were he a Terran creature, the word “magpie” might spring to mind for some of his habits, though. He likes to collect things – and he really doesn’t have any particular type of thing he favors, though flowers are definitely prioritized heavily. His mindmate will find him to possess a rapidly growing hoard of different things he finds pretty and pleasant to look at, some more practical than others. Rocks, twigs, flowers, rings, hair ribbons, the works: all of it will eventually end up in this little guy’s collections, and sometimes he’ll even try to collect other creatures. The end result is that this salamandyr will probably chase most every Rising female salamandyr or firelizard, with little likelihood of ever ending up monogamous. It’s not that he has a problem with being faithful (far from!), he just… likes the way their bodies shine. So very pretty, they are.

With his mindmate, he’s extremely affectionate and curious, often asking many questions and trying to figure out the way things work. Unfortunately, he abhors violence in all forms and won’t tolerate it – if His is subjected to any kind of violence, he’s liable to throw a fit. But he’s not violent himself. No, he just bounces around shouting disapproval with pleasant words (imagine a feline spitting while chanting ‘Lovely lovely lovely’ over and over again) until his point is made. Violence isn’t allowed. Make love, not war!

Name Peccadillo
Species Salamandyr
Color Green 003300
Age 7

It's not gonna change my mind
I'm the liar
You're never gonna change my world
You're all liars

Appearance

Easily the smallest of Dementia's first clutch, this green would be very easy to overlook as some sort of bug. The fact that her eyes are ridiculously large for her head and that her wings are completely transparent doesn't help that at all. She shares the same odd lack of frill that her other salamandyr brothers and sisters lack, but, unlike most of them, the spines that remain in their place are still entirely functional. They open, close, and lie back just as any other salamandyr's would. In fact, the green is entirely unaware that she doesn't have a frill, and as such attempts to 'display' her anger or to get attention without one, which can be interesting to watch.

A deep, jade green, this little one doesn't so much glitter as gleam like a polished gem. Or perhaps like she has an insect's reflective carapace. Lighter green dashes in jagged lines down the length of her body with varying thickness, a sickly neon yellow-green that, yes, glows in the dark. Some might describe it as lightning flashing behind clouds of smog, giving it the faint green sheen, in the darkest hours of the night. Her wings, despite the illusion of invisibility, are actually highly functional, and she's even capable of more than a sustained glide, though she tires quickly.

Personality

This green is ridiculously intelligent. Unfortunately, it's a trait that's unlikely to be noticed by many, as she doesn't deign to speak to anyone or any creature that she doesn't deem worthy, and if they can't understand her in the one or two words she gifts them with, that's their own problem. Clearly they weren't as intelligent as she initially thought. (Which is, of course, a result of their being tricksy and not in any way a lapse of judgment, because she is too perfect to make a mistake.)

The little salamandyr's goals in life are fairly simple. She wishes to go through with as little inconvenience to herself as possible, and as such collects 'slaves' that will do everything for her. Beyond that, anything that might result in a little (hopefully fatal) accident for one of the firelizards she is firmly in favor of. The green spends most of her time being waited on by whichever unfortunates she's ensnared and plotting these lovely murderous plots - in which Hers proves most useful, being one of the few who almost always undertands the green's meaning and is easiest to manipulate. Fortunately, because this salamandyr tends to be so cryptic, most firelizards are safe from her devilish schemes. Most.

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