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| Tyr'ie (Tyr) | |
|---|---|
| Sex | Male |
| Position | Terra Wing Assistant |
| Dragon | Green Khaatxhath |
| Craft | Harper |
| Rank | Journeyman |
| Speciality | Archives & Law |
| Age | 22 |
| Birthplace | Landing |
| Home | Monaco Bay Weyr |
Description
Dragonriding has filled the awkward form that Tyr'ie carries to as much of a degree as it can. Gawkiness has transformed to a soft kind of fitness, pudge around the middle not quite belying the strength in arms and chest borne of even the most rudimentary of dragon-care. Mid-tone skin isn't terribly tan, these days, fitting of a man who still does spend quite a lot of time indoors. Near-black hair is still kept long, but generally tied back in a neat arrangement of some sort, out of eyes just about the same color. The poise of Tyr's younger days hasn't faded — his posture is excellent, this young man, and he moves with more grace than he once did, seeming to know where once-awkward feet should be going, these days.
Perhaps fittingly for somebody of such gentle mannerisms, Tyr'ie's clothing is quite nice. It is, perhaps, not Gather-Fine at all times, but for a young man who looks like he's shot up a foot in the last few sevendays, they're not bad. He seems to prefer jewel tones, a surprisingly good compliment to the rest of him, with some grasp of layering: typically, a nice brocade vest and honest-to-Faranth cravat or similar over his shirt, and well-fitted trousers. Tyr's boots are nice, not built for work but walking, soft leather and neat bronze buckles. Nobody tell him that nobody wears cravats. He seems to have a never-ending cascade of them in all sorts of patterns and colors, so clearly the poor fellow likes the things.
History
Ityrziel was born to a pair of crafters stationed at Landing, the final in a long parade of biological children, but only middling in the Foster bunch. As such, his childhood was…a little hectic. He never wanted for company, at least, but they were by and large a rowdy bunch, reveling in chaos in a way that he never could quite grasp. It wasn't that he didn't like mischief, just, well. They were all considerably more devious than poor, sweet Tyr. He was a gentle kid, more prone to spending time following the eldest of them around like a puppy than thinking up schemes with the younger set. He had a hair-trigger for crying, was a little too prim for their shenanigans, didn't see the point of getting muddy, or tormenting the kids' Enemy Of The Day. He took to the Harpers' schooling like a duck to water, took his learning as seriously as he took everything else, which is to say excessively. Maybe he was a little bit silly, but he had little chance to be anything approaching normal, in his household.
Tyr took to his Harper lessons so well that he followed the Journeyman home - Briekan readily brought the boy to the 'Hall as an apprentice, and over the following turns, had no cause to regret that. Ityrziel's abandonment of the Starcrafting side of the family was better-received than the search-and-subsequent-Impression of several of his siblings, at least. The boy loved the Harper craft; thrived in the learning environment, enjoyed the musical and theatrical aspects of it immensely. He even took up a few instruments, more or less successfully. His real passion, though, was the less…showy, perhaps, side. He had quite a mind for archival work, and excelled in the transcription and replication of the older and more worn-down texts in the records. It wasn't exactly exciting to most of his peers, but the apprentice loved little more than getting his hands on the oldest records the Masters would let him. He was good at it, too: excellent penmanship, an eye for detail in the proper storage, all the things that few would find fun.
As the turns went by, he expanded a little - archival work continued to consume the majority of the tiny Tyr's attention, but the subject of many of the archives was interesting, too. Pernese law was his favorite Master's specialty, and Tyr more or less followed him into it. By the time he walked the tables, under a sibling's watchful eye and dreading the party that was being riled up by the rest of them, Ityrziel was pretty well-versed in both. When Briekan decided to take a posting in Monaco not long after, so close to home for the boy, Tyr went along. Assisting Briekan in sorting through the Landing and Monacoan archives? A dream that, granted, hadn't even occurred to him until it was presented to him, but it was a dream posting nonetheless. He could visit his family more often, and advance his craft in a unique way; who could want more?
Ityrziel, apparently. An offer that was difficult to turn down, or maybe a relaxing spa day's bad decision, turned into a chaotic Candidacy and a hatching he'd never forget. It's not that Tyr didn't want Khaatxhath, but he certainly didn't expect her. She was dry and sarcastic, warm and kinder than she seemed — she was not the life he'd planned out so carefully. And yet. And yet, she was better, perhaps, in spite of the fact that he'd never make Master, or become the Masterharper, dreams he'd entertained since he was a tiny thing. Being the assistant to Terra Wing was, depending on who you ask, either an absolute punishment for taking three turns to graduate, or reward for being such a good harper. Or maybe it was just convenient: an archivist for an assistant, herding cats? It wasn't a terrible plan, in theory.
Firelizard(s)
Margarita Green Kiwi
There is nothing understated or subtle in appearance about this bright green! From wide spars to long tail, her hide is a near-even hue of kelly green that rivals the wildest, brightest of lime margaritas served in the tropics. The only variance in coloration is a hint of crystalline white tracing just about the fringes of her muzzle and upon little claws: someone's gotten into the salt, apparently! Sassy and sweet, this gal is refreshing in all aspects.
Per Aspera Ad Astra Blue Aphelion
This is a flit of unlimited potential, comprised of lean musculature, a whipthin body, and a personality that just doesn't know when to quit. He is inspiration made mortal, a muse given wings, prone to languid poses, melodious chirps, and utter contentment to simply curl up on one's shoulder and indulge in repose. He possesses keen interest in all things edible, from tea to biscuits to the most delicate of spun sugars, and frankly it's a wonder he remains so small when he consumes so much. There he is nevertheless, a living collision of cascading blue waves against the outer curve of a galaxy, sunlit blue bashed apart by crystalline darkness. Starmatter spots and pocks his hide in cheerful splendor, sometimes in spritely twinkles, and othertimes in long streaks that seem to bid one to make a wish and wait for their miracle to come true.
Cinnamon Swirl Brown Choux
This delicious brown is the stuff of a Baker's dreams: soft whorls of dreamy cinnamon and ground cassia bark swirling thickly upon soft hide from nose to tail tips. Here and there, cream cheese frosting accents of drowsy white stipple and band him upon toes, tail, and arched neck…a pair of thin icing-streamers upon eye ridges lending him a surprised or bemused expression. The undersides of strong wings are much the same as the rest of him — sans icing — but drizzled with sinuous little ribbons of delicious caramel that arc from thumb joints to trailing edges.
Dragon
I'm a Dragon, Not a Green Khaatxhath
The death of spring heralds the start of summer, and this fine lean creature speaks to the transience of the moment by the brilliance of her hide. That vivid chartreuse springs forth with mint and magnolia twining amongst the wide toes of her broad paws, threading lively ivy-green growth up through the lean anatomy of her lengthy legs. Summer's heat tempers this poison-ivy encroachment upon the sensible mantle of her slender shoulders, accosted with the muted sunlit warmth of plains-grass and the subtle hint of unripe wheat still green with potential. Her wings lift with fragility unseen in the rest of her composition, the bourbon-soused membranes so thin that one can easily see the ichor pulsing life — beautiful electric-green life, so vivid! Green as Aldebaran whiskey, and as intoxicating — in steady heartbeats that ebb and flow. Black-label spars are naturally dark against the delicate cradle of her sails, promising her own defenses against any windborne threat. It is the arch of her grimly-laced, grimly-ridged neck that brings proper posture to the rest of her, no matter how lovely she might be; with her head tossed to the sky and caustic affront written in feminine sardony by the crooked slant of her julep eyeridges, there is never any question that she is, by any other name, a dragon.