Characters (Main)

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Gwendolin Megara Whitmore

A K A

❝ Gwen ❞

"No one can tell you what you can't do."

Gold, Elesyth

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

A breath-taking, 5' 8", I'm just above average in the height department. I'm no gigantor--which I like--but I'm not going to win any limbo contests either. I'm somewhere right above the middle, and that's where I'm gonna stay unless I get my legs chopped off--which would hurt . . . but get the job done. Morbidity aside, I'm eighteen years old, have blue eyes, weigh a million and 135 lbs., hate the thought of piercings and hate tattoos even more. My hair is a blond and cropped, top of mop, that goes nowhere near my shoulders. I can't handle that much hair. I have a hard enough time keeping track of what I've got, so I keep it short and sweet. Same goes for my wardrobe.

Jeans are my pride and joy. Hard to believe, but I've never had a reason to wear a dress in my entire life. No cute little frills and frocks, no sleek skirts or glamorous ballgowns have ever touched my skin as far back as I can remember. Thinking about it, I wouldn't know what to do if I ever put one on. I think I'd drown, suffocate or put a crack in the time-space continuum. Jeans, trousers, britches, pantalones--whatever you'd like to call them, that's all you'll see me wearing beside a button-up, T or tank. My other fetish lies in boots. Can't stop sporting the things.

Whatever I wear, it'll have to be small. I have a petite but strong physique, one of the sick perks of an apocalyptic world. I've had my share of privilege. I don't starve, I have a home, food and shelter, but the work I do makes up for whatever weight I manage to gain. I train myself and others to fight, harvest food, gather supplies, cook, nurture the sick, tend the injured, and would have it no other way. I mean business, and it shows.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

One of the mightiest dragonriders of our time was, and remains to be, Jonas Whitmore. I know this because that man is my father, and the once very strong, beautiful and beloved woman at his side was my mother, Elaine. Unable to have a child of their own, they chose to adopt, and found a bright-eyed, blond princess to deem their little "Gwen." I couldn't have had a more perfect upbringing. I had the unconditional love of a mother, the patient instruction of a father, and--in both--a prime example of selflessness.

Together we lived in Zion, but with our thoughts ever with others. My father became Zion's resident doctor and a warrior in his own rite, while my mother placed her priorities in the home and teaching Zion's children. There, she could watch me grow and share my education with my "siblings," her pupils. I can't count how many days I cried when she passed.

My mother was lost to us two years ago, having fallen ill. Death is always tragic, but hers was respected and honored by the hundreds--if not thousands--of people she inspired and saved through her efforts prior to passing. She, like my father, wouldn't stay in the shelter of Zion when bombs rained from the sky, devastation and suffering consumed the outside world. It was my parents that fist proposed the idea of creating shelters in the wastes, and my mother who ran one of the first to take shape. Forsaking the safety of Zion, she, my father and I left to place our hands where they were most needed. I had her loss to muddle through, but it was I who would take her place after she died. I just had to get my hands working again.

The weeks that followed her death were difficult for me, and even harder for my father. Losing a wife to illness was hard for a doctor to accept, having done all in his power to keep her with us. I fell mute for several months, my father's strength and confidence claimed, and I no longer wanting to be part of the cold, cruel and painful world. It was easier not to have a voice. I was compliant, passive, and never had to explain myself or my actions; but that was no way to triumph. It took a raving drunk to snap me out of it.

Living at a shelter, I've seen all kinds of people. Most were weary-worn, fragile, sick, wounded and weeping; but there was the occasional stranger with grit in his guts or a vendetta against the world. Others were drunk, choosing oblivion and evasion over confronting reality. How these people manage to get their hands on so much booze is beyond me, but I still remember the gaping faces of those looking on as one of them ranted and raved about how hopeless we all were.

The dragonriders were pig-fodder that--by some stretch of the liquored-up imagination--caused the bombing in the first place. They weren't helping anyone, only aiding the disease consuming the globe. We were all worms under the eye of a merciless, burning sun that dragons and their riders could pick clean. I won't say continued silence never crossed my mind. He was a drunk and not worth the effort . . . until I saw a woman clinging to her child with tears in her eyes as her ears were force-fed tripe.

That's right. There were others in the room, torn apart and stripped bare. No matter the source, news of this nature was eating away at them without mercy or patience. Someone had to do something. Why not me? Striding forward, I had every intention of spilling the perfect one-liner from the first bad a** feature film I could remember. I'd like to say it worked, but I had no such luck. My fist in his nose did all the talking I had to.

My mouth started moving again. It won't stop moving. I've had run-on sentences a mile wide when it comes to voicing my opinion. Every little thing that comes to mind, from sympathetic phrase, to random points and blunt facts, come slipping out when you least expect, so long as they're heard. I have a voice, and I'll sure as hell prove it. The first thing I did when I returned home was give my father the biggest hug I could muster, then told him we had work to do. He agreed. That was enough to pull us back to our feet.

I returned to work at the shelter and continue to work there. A far cry off-base from Zion, I've striven to build that same Utopia in the middle of a wasteland. It's what my mother would've done after giving my father and I a right proper scolding for the time we've wasted in Mopes-ville.

I've been running the place with the help of my father when war and other important matters don't call him away. I train myself and others to fight, having been taught by my father. Medical experience is also on my side thanks to him, while a mean pot of stew, digging wells, farming, education, and other arduous tasks came from the sweat and blood of a mother. Ask anyone: My heart is in the work; nowhere else . . . except, perhaps, the opportunity to do more.

With the arrival of a fresh batch of eggs, Zion has opened again to the prospect of new riders, something I've been anxious and determined to participate in since day one. I can't imagine what the status of "Dragonrider" would give me. There would be no limit to what I could do, for myself and the world. I won't get my hopes up. I would be disappointed, but not without my work at the shelter to fall back on. What have I got to lose?

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

Passion and determination are the two words you'd find branded on my chest. The world needs all the help it can get, and I was born and bred to be one of the people to get it back on it's feet. I reach out to those in need without question, will stand at your side, and die defending what I know is right. I protect what I love, people and ideals included.

My other defining trait is companionability. I am sociable to a fault, and will give everyone the benefit of the doubt until a fair and conclusive decision is made in regard to whether or not we can be friends. Working at the shelter, I've come across all walks of life and personalities. I give it my all to treat each person with the same, patient, kindness and understanding unless they are deemed undeserving. But I'm here to help who I can. I don't give up on anyone easily.

Much like I don't give up at all. I've done that enough, and won't waste my time doing it anymore. My greatest fear is the loss of hope in both myself and others. I'll do anything and everything to keep that in tact, if nothing else. That's all some people have left, and if they can't protect it, I'll step up to the plate, by word or by sword.

I can fight. However I may try to avoid it, I know when it needs to be done. I just wish others felt the same. There has been enough needless bloodshed, and I'll do what I can to prevent it. I can talk someone's ears off, I know that for a fact. So, instead of stabbing each other with pointy objects, let's all be adults and hold a decent conversation if we disagree. You don't like the idea? Well, we can always go back to option A.

To ice this cake, I like to be trustworthy and dependable. It's all I would ask of anyone else, so it only makes sense I try to be the prime example. That's a lot of responsibility to place on my shoulders, but I live for the challenge. I won't make a promise I can't keep, will be there when I'm needed, and your secret's safe with me. Trust me. I can't only tolerate those I can't trust for so long.

xTahirux

#FFCC11 , #CD853F

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Conner Wayne Donelly

A K A

❝ Conner ❞

"Show me a hero and I'll show you a strategy."

Bronze, Nogarth

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

I'm nowhere near the biggest nineteen-year old out there, but I'm not small. I stand at six feet tall and weigh about a hundred and fifty-five pounds. It would probably be more if I wasn't half-starved, but that's what surviving in a post-apocalyptic world does to you. I've tried to keep in good shape despite having a complicated lifestyle that doesn't really allow for many options on working out. Aside from being thin, I have a decent muscle structure; my arms and legs are toned, but nothing too flashy or noticeable unless I make an effort to show it off. Which I don't.

The rest of me is pretty straight-forward. I have blue eyes, shaggy brown hair and slightly tanned skin. Dad always joked around and told me I inherited his "good looks," but if he could see me now he probably wouldn't be so apt to follow up on that. Stubble covers my face that I would forget to shave it off if Andre didn't poke fun at me by calling me "hérissé" which is french for hairy. I don't think he realizes that I've caught on to what it means yet. Having no access to a constant source of running water, showers have been minimal, but exist. I still never look clean, though. My hands are almost always dirty and my face usually gets some of that dirt as well if I don't pay attention. I don't know how Andre does it; cleanliness must be a French person's natural talent. Me, on the other hand, am fine with the tattered clothes I wear that are comfortable, no matter how holey or covered in stains they are.

As for scars, I have plenty to spare enough for two people. All in different shapes and sizes all over my body. I have one long line sliced across my right shoulder and collar bone, a scar that was given to me by a guy who liked knives a little too much. My hands and knuckles are covered in small scars, all of which were created because I've had to work hard and survive which requires the use of my hands, obviously. I also have a small scar right where the top of my forehead meets my hairline, courtesy of a man who decided my head was a basketball and slammed into the ground a few times. Yeah...I think you get the picture.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Wow, where to begin?

I guess I should start by saying that I'm among the percentage of Americans whose parents were divorced. It happened when I was really young, so it's not all too abnormal to me. Dad took care of me while mom stormed out without even looking back. We didn't live far a part, but the differences between being at my mom's house and my dad's house were substantial. My dad, for example, was a cop. He was a really kind and caring man that lived up to morals that I wish I could match up to today, but that's a lost cause. We were very close, always spending time working out together or going camping. I wasn't a troublesome child and the only bad thing I could ever remember doing that merited discipline from my dad was skipping school once. Life was good on my end.

My mom was on a downhill spiral and every time I made a visit, things seemed to get worse. I knew it was bad; I was sometimes left home alone while my mom went out and had her type of "fun." It bugged me and I would often go home and tell my dad what was going on, that my mom was not taking care of herself. After several years of giving her chances to rehabilitate herself, always starting out nicely but ending badly, my dad finally got full custody me.

During all of this, life went on at school. I was popular, classified somewhere between "jock" and "nice guy" by my peers. I played as the quarterback in football all through middle school and then onto high school, but the world ended before I could take it any further. As for grades, I was just an average student; my plans for the future held dreams of the NFL or being a cop if that fell through. I mean, aside from my dramatic home life, I was just a normal teenager looking to just get through life having fun with my friends and family. The family thing just seemed to get more complicated as time went on.

Mom was still trying to ruin her own life. To keep myself sane and since I had to try to help - call it a moral dilemma, I guess - I still went and visited my mom when I could. It wasn't my first priority, but I felt weird leaving her all alone, so I tried to see her every other weekend if I could. Nothing changed; she still never took care of herself, so I took the initiative of doing a little for her here and there. Sometimes that meant cleaning up the house while she was out partying, sometimes it meant laying covers over her after she passed out from drinking. No matter what it was, though, I always ended up being "useless like my father" or was "never going to amount to anything." How I had the patience to keep putting up with that, even I didn't know. Raised well, I guess.

When the bombs dropped, I was actually at my mom's house. She wasn't home, of course, probably out partying as always or doing some other useless activity while I sat home and wondered what I was doing there. The entire house came down while I was in it, and I barely managed to take cover in the corner of the basement. After everything seemed to settle, I climbed out of the rubble and took a look at the world that surrounded me. Do I even need to describe how shocking that was?

The first thing I did was run home. My dad had been home when the bombs hit and I had to see if he was alright. I'm sure you've heard this story before; I found his body crushed under the rubble and well . . . that was that.

During the first few days, I managed to find one other survivor - a girl named Jessie that lived a few houses down. She hadn't left her house, though it looked on the verge of collapse, but when I found her I got her to come with me. I had guns that I took from my house -- dad was a cop, remember? -- so I promised her protection. Our bond continued to become stronger as time wore on, as we desperately tried to survive in the chaotic world we were living in. Having lost our families, our friends and the only life we ever knew, it was hard at first. Not just for us, but for everyone. The first few weeks seemed like they'd be the hardest, but we fell into a routine. We'd travel by day, lay low during the night. Not that it made much of a difference when we would do things, but it just seemed right. I tried to protect her as much as possible from all of the danger we encountered . . . but there were a lot of problems. One in particular that I can't forgive myself for.

About eight months after the bombs dropped, we ran into three men who were scavenging for food around the same area we were. We tried to stay out of sight and lay low, but a lot of good that did us. They found us and I told Jessie to run as I tried to hold them off. Three grown men against a sixteen year old weren't really good odds, and I was overpowered. They beat me to hell and managed to catch Jessie, dragging her back. I wasn't strong enough to save her. Hours later, I was waking up after passing out and Jessie was dead. And people wonder why I don't talk about the past . . .

Truth be told, the months following just got harder, and every day I thought about just giving up. I probably would have too if I hadn't met Andre. Poor kid was getting trouble from some bear of a man who kept shouting at him to give him everything he had. Trouble was, Andre didn't speak English, nor was he the type to fight back. He just sat there and took physical and verbal abuse from the guy and I watched from afar until the guilt sank in and I felt like I had to do something. I took the guy down and made sure he wouldn't follow either of us by shooting him in the leg. Turns out, he wasn't the one I should have been worried about; Andre was the one that followed me.

I didn't want to shoulder the responsibility of someone else, but he was helpless and naive, I couldn't just leave him. Despite my better judgment, I took him in and we stuck together through the rest of our time out there. I'll admit that without Andre, I probably wouldn't be alive today. I don't think I've told him that either.

Now, after three years of being out in a wasteland, we've both been picked up by a dragonrider, promised an "opportunity" for a better life and that we had a chance to become a rider ourselves. I don't know what the future holds, but it at least looks a little less hopeless.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

My dad used to tell me that I grew up too fast; I was like an adult trapped in a teenager's body that needed to learn how to lighten up just a little bit. Truth is, back before the bombs dropped, I was no stiff, but I was still more mature than most of the kids my age. My dad's upbringing had taught me manners, how to treat people and how to be a good person. My generation just wasn't living up to those standards and I was more or less ready to break out of that stereotype. Once the bombs hit and I was left to take care of myself at age sixteen, and Andre not long after, I practically became a middle aged man. I was naive at first; that first year seemed to go so well that I almost feared nothing save for the fact that I might not eat every single day. After the . . . incident, however, reality hit and whatever teenage innocence I might have had leftover from our old life was gone.

A new Conner was born. He had many of the traits that Old Conner had, but a lot had either gotten more prevalent in his personality or new ones sprung up out of nowhere.

Strength had become a dominant force in my life and I utilized it mentally and physically to keep me and Andre safe. In times of hardship, I was the one that stood up and made the decisions on what we needed to do. I was the one that tried to pick up the pieces after all that had happened to us. I had to be there for Andre; I had to protect him. Of course, there were drawbacks. My strength came with a small side of doubt and a sense of failure. I had failed to protect Jessie, so I had to make up for it. Even so, there is almost always a lingering doubt in the back of my mind that tells me I'm not strong enough or good enough. That I will fail. It's something I'm afraid of.

I am more closed off with certain emotions as well. Without Andre, I might have completely lost myself, become an emotionless shell of a man, but because of his own strength and heart, I still retain some life in this stoic head of mine. I don't let my grief show, nor do I express much anger in front of others unless pushed to extremes. I'm not saying I'm perfect, for sometimes emotions like that and fear bleed through without my permission. For the most part, it's hard to make me angry. Frustration, maybe, but anger takes a lot more. However, I am still apt to show happiness when I am in a good mood and love when I am being affectionate, however little of it you may get. That being said, it's almost equally as hard to get me to laugh, but I do have a sense of dry humor that might pop out and surprise you.

I'm a hard worker - another one of those valuable traits that I inherited from my father. I like to get things done and I don't like seeing slackers. If others fail to do their part, I'll step up and try to pick up the slack. I'll lead others if they wish to follow, but I only do so when I have to rather than a first option. I'm an honest person, and I like others to be as well, but I won't hesitate to lie if it's necessary for survival. I'm also more of a diplomat, always wanting to work things out without violence, but once someone exhausts that courtesy, I usually result to whatever means necessary.

Aggy the Awesome

#2f3542 , #717c84

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Elan Alexis Locke

A K A

❝ Just... Elan. ❞

"I'm gonna fight 'em up. A seven nation army couldn't hold me back."

Bronze, Wrodath

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

Since I haven’t spent nearly as much time roughing out in the wastes as so many other unlucky bastards, I appear well enough cared for, but still manage to always look slightly haggard - dark circles at the eyes, sallow complexion, vacant expression. I guess that’s my fault – I’ve got a tendency to run myself into the ground. But aside from that, there’s nothing extraordinary about me.

They say dogs grow into their paws, right? I grew into my hands. They, like my feet, are big, with long spidery fingers. I’m pretty tall, but I’m really not that big of a guy. Long and narrow – six feet with a couple of nondescript inches to the top of my head leaves me hovering somewhere just about six foot two or so. If I were broad shouldered or spent my free time loading on weights and gnawing protein, I might look like a Mack truck. But I don’t, and my metabolism absorbs whatever drops into my stomach like it hasn’t eaten in weeks to sustain my body for its typical schedule of invariably relentless action. I said I’m not huge – but I’m not all gangly. My limbs are long, and the definition of the muscle mass I carry is probably more along the lines of wiry or ropy. Sturdy arms and legs, hard flat stomach, I’m not an enemy of manual labor. Given that, I probably weigh in at about 160 pounds.

In my twenty years of life, I never really thought about getting inked up or pierced. No fancy stuff for me, I’m too low maintenance. As peaky as my complexion is, it would only make me look like a goon anyway. Scars are different though. I think we’re all riddled with them by now – those of us who had to trek through the wastes for more than a few months, anyway. My hands are scarred and calloused, and they’ll stay that way. I’ve got a few long, trailing scars around my midsection – kind of like I was tied up. Or like something with big claws grabbed me, lost its grip, and dug its nails in as I slipped away. And then I’ve got another on my right forearm, where I fell out of a tree when I was a kid and managed to get my broken bone to jut through the skin. Glory days. I’ve got others, but they’re just casualties. A gash here, a rough snag there. A fight now and then. You forget after a while.

My sense of style is a perfect complement to my often glazed over, obviously-somewhere-off-in-the-distance hazel eyes. I said I was low maintenance, right? Jeans: distressed, abused, and battered to hell. They were meant to be worn the ******** out, so I’m going to employ them well, held up by a tightly cinched, all purpose leather belt. Shirts are usually taken better care of. I’m a simple guy – tee shirts or something that buttons down; if it breathes, I like it. I’ll usually throw on a jacket over the top – denim or leather. Shoes are like jeans – wear them the ******** out. Boots are the best. Running, jumping, climbing, stepping on things, and most of all, protecting the feet. I don’t get much growth around the jaw or upper lip (thank God because razors are a hassle), but if I don’t shave for a couple of days I’ll start to stubble up. My hair is coal black, short, flat and tame. I run my hands through it a lot but it just falls back into place. Even when I raise my head from my pillow in the morning, every tendril is in its place.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

I’ve been in Zion for a while – I was out in the wasteland for more than a year before I arrived. But I guess before I can tell you about that, I should probably explain where I came from.

Mom, Dad, little sister, a family dog that I used to feed my Brussels sprouts to and a cat that my dad hated and Mom loved. We lived right on the outskirts of Lewiston, Idaho, where my parents were able to enjoy a bit of seclusion from either suburbia or the city, plenty of room to roam, and a short commute to civilization. For us kids, that meant long bus rides to school until I got my license and no longer had to suffer through such villainy. Sometimes, when I was feeling generous, I’d open up and give Elsa a ride too. Elsa was my little sister, three year age difference between us. Intelligent, witty, bathroom hog, and mauled by a feral dragon.

Stop, I’m getting ahead of myself – back to my parents. We were reasonably well off, given the family business. Dad comes from a line of not dragonriders, but supporters. For generations his family has served as suppliers for the whole of Zion, trafficking imports and pre-packaged items from toothbrushes and textiles to granola and oats to coffee and tea and everything in between. It was how he met my mom – on a business trip into Zion to drop off a load of goods. Dad wasn’t a dragonrider, and neither was Mom, but her brother was. My mom’s side of the family have been integrated into Zion as a consistent line of both riders and supplementary pillars within the caverns. If you weren’t a dragonrider, then you were making use of yourself in some other way. Doctors, nurses, teachers, combat trainers – or suppliers.

Mom branched out, left the caverns, and came back to visit only when business allowed. She was never really a part of Dad’s supply chain though. Actually, after she left – at the tender age of eighteen – she continued her former path of being a teacher, like her own mother. She taught English to high school freshman and sophomores and was incredibly good at it. So while she was busy, I got to go with my dad pretty often in her place, since it had always been the unspoken plan that I would be doing something for Zion later. I was bred with a strong loyalty to the cause and a vicious opposition to the Rebels, and I would do my part to help.

I always figured it was selfish of me, but I would much rather follow in the footsteps of my mom and teach than take care of business ends. I mean, what my dad did was really important – but Mom’s job just offered so much tangible satisfaction. My favorite thing to do was sit in with her younger classes – the ones who hated Shakespeare – to help her get them through ye olde English. There’s nothing like the feeling you get knowing that you’ve just helped someone that way. The light in their eyes at the dawn of comprehension is just like a light bulb flicking on... And I get kind of greedy for it.

That aside, we can get the rest of the story over and done with. I was seventeen when the bombs dropped. Elsa and I were at home, eating pineapple and bacon pizza and watching old black and white Frankenstein while Mom and Dad were out. It started with a flash and a rumble in the ground that had the house shivering. We didn’t wait – Elsa was faster than me, and more or less dragged me down into the basement where we huddled in the innermost corner while the wood frame house toppled down. I don’t remember how long it was. Just some extended stretch of time that Elsa spent with her face buried in my shoulder while I kept my eyes trained on things that wobbled. When a shelf of old books that quivered eventually ended up toppling to the concrete floor, I focused instead on this long wooden workbench with a tin coffee can sitting on top and watched the can vibrate.

It was long after the world stopped shaking when we finally dared to climb out. My car was obliterated, as was the 18-wheeler Dad and I used for Zion good transport. The house was long gone, but Dad’s storage shed – roughly the size of the house, and used to keep the goods for transport to Zion – was… Not quite intact, but not quite demolished since it was made out of heavy concrete bricks and iron. I could care less about the building anyway. What I was concerned about was the stuff inside. We spent exactly one week waiting for our parents to come home – the only week of good eating we had on our journey, with all the imperishable food in one spot. It was time consumed by ravaging what little remained of the house, recovering little more than our backpacks (Elsa’s with a tear in the side that she stitched up well enough), one of Mom’s earrings, a gutted-after-being-impaled teddy bear, and the goods from the storage. We didn’t talk about leaving, or where we were going. I assumed that Elsa, like me, had come silently to the conclusion that our parents hadn’t made it and, also like me, just didn’t want to talk about it. I assumed that she knew we would head for Zion. But looking back, I think she just trusted me to get her out and keep her safe. I didn’t.

When we left, we were loaded with food and a crowbar as our only means of protection. Dad didn’t keep guns and everything else was either buried too far down to find or just… gone. It started out well, despite the fact that we had no car, were wearing the shoes we had on when the bombs dropped – ratty Chucks on my part, and flip-flops for Elsa – and had no map to go off of. All those road trips would come in handy. At least, until we figured out that traveling the main roads was for morons who were looking to get slaughtered. After our first brush with other survivors – a couple of ******** thugs with a gun and no morals – we slipped out off the main radar. We left them where we found them, one with a shot in the leg and the other bleeding out through his stomach, and took their gun with us. I just looked like I’d run face first into a brick wall a few times. Got lucky. And paid for it later. After I didn’t have Elsa to watch my back.

Elsa and I never fought, always cooperated. She took one shift and I took the other. We rationed food – sometimes I’d go behind her back and give her some of my portion when I thought I could get away with it. She carried the gun and I carried the crowbar. When her flip-flops wore out, I carried her around when she’d let me until we found her a different pair of shoes. We lasted about eight months. It was daytime, when we were sleeping – that always worked best. Sleep in shifts when you could see what was coming, travel when it was cool and everyone else was conked out. Worked best until the dragon, anyway. We’d seen them fly overhead before, even caught wind of attacks on the rare occasions that we ran into other people that we stuck around long enough to glean information from. But we never thought it’d happen to us.

I was sleeping like a rock. You’d think that being in constant risk of danger would cause me to grow some kind of hyperawareness – or at least make me a lighter sleeper – but it didn’t. I woke up to the sound of my sister screaming – and Elsa was not the sort to scream at just anything. I was up and chasing the sound before my eyes had even adjusted to the blinding afternoon light. It was a little green dragon – little as far as dragons go, anyway – that had ahold of her, talons sinking into her belly and back. And any moron knows you don’t go dicking around with a giant lizard who has roughly the same aptitude for sympathy as a rabid Rottweiler. But the thing had my sister and I’d be damned if I was just going to let it carry her off. So I grabbed the gun and went in after her. Somewhere in the tumult, I was picked up too – by that time, Elsa’s screams had died off. In all my struggling, I couldn’t tell if she was alive, or unconscious, or if she’d already bled out. I don’t think I wanted to know. If I wasn’t in the clutches of a dragon, I might have claimed I wanted to die too – but nobody wants to die, and I fought it.

I ended up being saved by a band of malcontents who, in exchange for more or less dragging me from the claws of a killer beast, demanded everything I had back at camp, except for my crowbar. From there I wandered around – in the general direction of Zion. Just… Taking longer. Dragging my feet. Getting my a** handed to me here and there along the way and, again, being allowed to live in exchange for whatever I had on me at the time. When I arrived at Zion, the only person who recognized me without needing to hear my name was my Uncle Derrick. I was worn out. Tired of everything, tired of being tired. Whatever I was wearing was stained, shredded, and filthy, and my shoes were so worn that the soles had come off up to the arch. A year and a half, I’d been out there. Ten months of which I’d been alone.

After some time in the medical wing, they put me among the other refugees – and it was a good, hard reality slap. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one to suffer nor the worst off, and frustrating that I couldn’t allow myself to wallow in self pity. But I needed it – and it was what brought me to Headwoman Sarah Jackson. Or actually, Derrck pointed me in her direction. I was staying with him by that point and he knew better than anyone that I needed something to do with myself. I knew her from my visits, and I knew she’d let me put myself back to use. She’d know I needed something to do. To keep me busy. So she let me be her apprentice, and I was back on track. Teaching, like I’d wanted – funny way to get what you want, isn’t it? I didn’t have time for myself, and I was glad. I was busy with everyone around me. I didn’t need to help me, I needed to help others. I slipped back into myself slowly, and it’s still a work in progress – the wastes leave a certain coat to a person that they can never quite shake.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

There’s Old Elan – a congenial guy with something nice to say to just about everyone. Eager to help and eager to please. He was always ready with a witty remark and retained good humor even in the face of the most dire situations, and enjoyed the luxuries of listening to music, reading, re-enacting entire plays with himself, and playing in the kitchen when Mom wasn’t home to crucify him for it. And then there’s New Elan. New Elan is the one everybody gets to deal with.

Being prickly, I’ve come to find, is an acquired defense, and a damn useful one. Less people bother you when you look likely to stab them. It’s too bad that it wasn’t until my last days in the wastes that I realized survival is only half about being stealthy and having good aim. The other half is looking like you’re about to ******** someone up. I probably look like I don’t talk much, but that’s just not true. I look like a vagabond most of the time, have a tendency not to watch my language after being by myself for so long, and often think out loud – which includes some pretty rude s**t.

I’m like a perpetual motion machine – if I’m not moving around externally, the cogs are working on the inside. Always moving. Always thinking. Even if I’m not really doing anything, which is rare, I’m looking for something to occupy my hands and, if possible, my feet too. If I’m not working, then I feel useless, and that’s something that can’t be going on. Most of the time, I focus on making myself useful to everyone around me. Help them through things, guide them by the hand if they need it. If it’s in my power, nobody’s getting left behind, even if the arduous trial is something as trivial as a few lines of Shakespeare.

I’m what you can call rough around the edges, I guess. Really rough. And maybe a little pointy. My sense of humor is ever-present but generally dry. I used to be all smiles and helping hands, but a big part of me faded in the time I was outside. It didn’t go away, it just dimmed. I’m still the same Elan. Old Elan liked to look out for people, be needed, make himself useful. Like he had a purpose. But now I need a purpose. I need to help. The bigger, the better. When you get into the core, I’m a good guy – go out of my way to prove it sometimes. One who knows he’s going to do something with himself for the benefit of others, hell or high water.

Actually, I’m afraid of not being to live up to my own expectations of myself. Because who am I to sit around happy and content on my a** when other people are busting theirs? I need to do something too, and when you take long leaps, you get further. What I do now just doesn’t feel like enough, and I’m hoping a dragon will agree.

La LeClamour

midnightblue , darkslategrey

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

xxxxxxxxxx

Regine Claire Bohlen

A K A

❝ Reg . . . Or you can just leave it at Regine. ❞

"I have the heart of a man, not a woman, and I am not afraid of anything."

Red, Hemileth

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

Nothing spectacular, I’m telling you. I look like a lot of other people – four limbs, ten fingers, ten toes, a solid head on my shoulders, an average, sustainable weight, and no superfluous inches or significantly lacking height complex. I don’t stand out in a crowd unless you’re looking for my hair, and as far as reds go, I’m about as plainly by-the-book as they can be. But if you really need help I can give you specifics.

I’m a good 5’ 7” but I’m not telling you how much I weigh. Wasn’t it rude, once upon a time, to ask girls that? My hands and feet are of average proportion and any daintiness they once possessed, like the palms and fingers of any other surviving human around here, has long been worked off by hard labor and long walks in the shining sun – or the shadow of the moon. Whatever. Like most redheads tend to be, my skin is pretty fair. You stick me in the sun and I burn up until I resemble a freshly boiled lobster – and then the color fades back to that nice ivory with only the freckles to remind anyone that a tint of color was there in the first place. Usually when I’m outside, I’ve got on a great big floppy hat to keep my head and neck – and sometimes my shoulders – out of range of skin cancer rays. Like everyone else, I’ve got my scars, but no real memorable causes for any of them. I’ve never been attacked by a feral dragon or raped or ... other alarming and traumatizing things like that – though I’ve had my share of scrapping with other survivors. It just usually ended pretty well for me, or badly for us both and we’ve always parted ways without near death trauma.

My bright red hair falls unevenly to reach a tip at around my mid back, and a lot of the time I let it go free. Mostly because I lose all of my hair ties and ribbons and shoe strings and anything else I find to keep it out of my face. Anyway, my eye are grey and I’ve got eyelids and eyelashes too, in case you’re wondering, and I’ve got a nose and a mouth – and lips. Imagine that. A lot of the time you can catch me smiling – or grinning or what have you. I’m not really good at being surly.

As far as clothes go, I’m not picky. Jeans, shorts, tee shirts and tank tops are the way to go. And hats. Baseball caps, floppy straw hats, funny looking fishermen hats – I don’t really care as long as it keeps some sun off. I don’t fool around with jewelry either. The holes I used to have in my earlobes have long closed up – somewhere in that three-ish year time span I must have decided that pretty danglies weren’t worth the trouble. I distinctly remember taking my mom’s wedding band, but lost it somewhere along the way. Maybe on purpose – I don’t like keeping things for sentimental value. I like combat boots but sneakers do a pretty alright job too, and I don’t put on shoes without socks. Who does that?

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Last I checked, “families” were out of date, and mine got cashed in three years ago. I’m not from Zion, but I’m not Xena, Warrior Princess, running around in animal hide with battle scars and a bad attitude either. s**t happens. Deal with it. A lot of people learned a long time ago that it’s a dog eat dog world, and it just got a little more tragic after the bombs dropped. If you want story time, I’ll make it short and sweet because I’m not big on sentimentality. Hope you weren’t counting on it. Pretty sure you weren’t. If you’re a survivor of the Wastes too, you’ve probably got more s**t to share than the oldies from Nam.

Like almost every other poor thing dragged in here out of the territory of hell, I had a family and a life – and they’re long gone, left in Washington where I last saw them. I grew up in modern suburbia with Mom and Dad and my annoying little brother – Mom sold Mary Kay and was an avid feminist and Dad was a nurse. Little brother Jason was a pain in my a** and liked to tear things apart and put them back together the wrong way – he was only two years younger than me. I was a good girl who kept her grades up, tutored kids after school, volunteered at the animal shelter, and came home in time for dinner every night – promptly served at six. Usually by Dad. Life was nothing if not flawlessly functional and I had my head settled square on my shoulders. Smart kid. Good kid. Safe kid. The most extraordinarily adventurous thing I did was go camping or attend my Saturday riding lessons.

Actually, that was what I was doing whenever the bombs dropped. I was out on a riding trip with a couple of friends from my boarding stables. Only a twenty minute walk from our campsite, I was under the impression that it would be perfectly fine to explore the caves off the falls by myself while I was supposed to be getting more fire wood – and I was. It’s just that… I should have dragged the other two girls along with me. I was inside the caves when the bombs dropped, and my friends were out in the forest with no cover but the falling tree branches and polyester tents. I didn’t get knocked in the head with a falling rock or crashing stalactite – I waited until the earth stopped shaking and the heat stopped whooshing and everything quieted to creep out of my hidey hole and check on my friends – both of whom I found dead, huddled up in what remained of our crushed and crumpled tent that I had to disentangle from a large fallen branch. We won’t get down any dirty with the details. The horses had managed to break free from their ties in the tumult and I found one stranded over a broken leg near the river. I’d have put it out of its misery if I could. The other two were long gone – including mine – but the car seemed in well enough shape to get me the hell out of the forest. The back windows were just busted in. I ravaged what I could from our campsite and took off but, as you can imagine, getting back in town was no better. I felt like I was trapped in a horror movie and the corpses of the fallen were going to come crawling out of the buildings at any moment.

They didn’t.

When I got home, I found more corpses. I took everything I could scrounge around for – mostly dented canned goods – and left again with no idea where I was going. Where the hell do you go whenever everything you know is gone? I’d never been alone before, but it didn’t take long to get used to. I was a little bit more preoccupied with figuring out what to do next to take the time to feel like a whiny b***h. Keeping busy is the best medicine for grief, and I was never lacking. I never fired a gun, but the pocket and kitchen knives I made off with did good enough work on their own. I learned as I went, travelled by night and kept cover during the day. It’s a relief to say I’ve never had a personal encounter with a feral dragon, though I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from the people I’ve met on the road and the ones I’ve gotten friendly enough with around Zion. And aside from that, I've got a few horror stories of my own.

In my time in the Wastes, I've stumbled across my fair share of trouble - and one thing I've become exceptionally good at is hiding. I'm lithe, limber, quick, and exceptionally good at tucking and folding into small spaces or ducking discreetly behind ingenious cover - but it's not a natural talent. It's something hard-learned and took a hefty lesson to ingrain in my formerly fearless skull. I don't like to relive my problems - but I'll tell you since I'm sure you know, the Wastes is no places for a girl alone. I wouldn't go back if you paid me.

I’d been out and alone for going on three years whenever I was picked up by a blue rider. It took some smooth talking to get me on board, but I eventually came to the conclusion that the opportunity was worth way more than wandering around kicking up sand by myself until I got raped or mauled again. I have my pride, but I've got a sliver of common sense to go with it.

And it didn’t look like the guy was taking “no” for an answer.

When I arrived in Zion, I did the one thing I’d been depriving myself of for the last several years – cried. It was dark when he brought me in and led me to a fresh cot, and the sight of a real bed was all it took to bring on the waterworks. I didn’t sleep that night because I was too busy blubbering on the blanket over everything I hadn’t bothered to fret over since the bombs dropped, but I got up for a shower the next morning feeling more refreshed than I had in years.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I don’t think the Wastes changed me the way they did so many others. I’m not a hardened soul – I’m a free one and, now, a grateful one. I manage to remain lighthearted and I am an admittedly constant optimist - or perhaps just abrasively cheerful. I sincerely believe that, one day, things might not be back to normal, but they’ll definitely be better. I don’t think it’s stupid to believe that the whole world can bounce back from what it is right now. It might not be the same as it once was – I think it will be better, if – or when – we all pull it off. Learn from our mistakes. Not a new world order or anything, just… A better place. I’m a strong believer that if you do good things, you will be repaid. And likewise on the opposite end of the spectrum. People will get what they deserve, and I think that’s pretty good incentive to do the right thing to the best and greatest of your own abilities. Or at least, that’s the mantra I live by. What goes around comes around. Being angry at the world won’t help anyone. Stepping in and lending a hand will.

Steadfast, resilient, enduring, from beginning to bitter end. Like a rock, my friends, I am dependable. Idealistically, physically, uh… linguistically. . If you wanted to be a little more accurate you could probably say that I’m stubborn. When I make my mind up about something I don’t change it, and I’m loyal to the concept until the bitter end. At this point, I know what I stand for, and I plan to fight for it, and fight hard. I don’t have time to be indecisive. I make up my mind and then I want to get it out of the way. If I got it in my head to rob a bank, I’d put on a ski mask and get on with the show, not stand around contemplating it. Of course, the robbery is just an example – I’m not the bank robbing sort.

On that note, I can also be pretty touchy, and my good mood can snap to sour in the blink of an eye. (Usually not over petty things, mind you.) It takes one wrong stroke to get me angry, and after that all hope is lost. When I make up my mind that I’m pissed off, it’s your funeral. It can get vicious – be it physically or verbally or, as it is most of the time, both. Don’t hold back on me, please, because I’m not going to put on kiddie gloves for you. I guess that make me a little bit brash too, which can get me into some difficult situations, but I can manage. I always have.

With brashness comes feigned confidence. A lot of the time I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, but that doesn’t stop me from trying and acting as if I know precisely what’s going on and how to go about it. Admitting my failures isn’t something I’m good at – and a blow to my ego is never taken lightly. I’m bound to be sore about it for the rest of the day, at least, but don’t be discouraged. Usually I’m a pretty pleasant person, and almost as quick to forgive after I’ve had a little bit of time to be mad (except for select special cases). I love an excuse to smile or laugh – or make someone else feel that way – and I’m a caring person because I can’t help being that way. Compassion is a staple of life and humanity won’t last without it. That always sits in the back of my head – kept me surviving on edible mushrooms and plant life and anything nonperishable I could find out in the Wastes. I don’t like to kill things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like meat. Call me the cowardly lion.

Overall, I think I’m still that girl next door. I just live in a cliff now. I love card games, a good long trek around the caverns, to have something to do, to have people around that I can talk to and laugh and joke and feel human with again – not like some alien speck on the face of a forsaken planet. I like to be seen as friendly and helpful where possible, but with a more profound purpose in life than to lead Girl Scout meetings. As for what I don’t like: killing. The actual act of doing it. I don’t like the prospect of taking a life, nor do I like war or unnecessary violence – even if I do have a tendency toward “temperamental hellcat”. I don’t like being afraid of anything, ever, because it makes me feel weak and I can’t do that anymore. I can’t feel like I can’t hold my own, because it might break me. And my only fear is of being, somehow, thrown back into the Wastes – because being without humans and friends and a community for a long time and then coming back to a place so welcoming, and then thinking about being thrown out there again is utterly horrifying. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and now I’ve got it back and I never want to leave it again. I didn’t know “lonely” was ever so scary.

La LeClamour

#5c0051 , #a80000

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

xxxxxxxxxx

André Baptiste Deveroux

A K A

❝ André ❞

"On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur L'essentiel est invisible pour les veux."
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

Silver, Acenath

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

The word for me is regard to my appearance is "simple." The powers of intimidation are not on my side, my height a staggering 5' 9" and weight no more than 145 lbs. without much build to speak of. Years of battling the elements have done little to combat my 15 year head-start of a life spent in luxury. I am eighteen now, but prior to the bombs, I had yet to understand what hard work was. My hands are still soft, but I am learning fast what it takes to survive. Callused, bleeding palms are only a few of the trophies received for my diligence.

Though I prefer a tame environment, I am not useless. Lean muscle has shown sign of that. A tan could tell the same thing could I create one. My skin was not meant to belong to a glowing, sun-kissed Adonis, as displayed by the fair and pale substitute I possess. A vision of masculinity, I assure you. I work to the best of my abilities, and give it my all when I do, no matter how menial the task.

I am the stereotypical blond-haired, blue-eyed male; a combination of traits that belong to neither parent. The eyes were my father's, while the reckless layers of rustic blond are property of my mother. Were my hair as steady as my eyes, it may be more appreciated. I do little to "tame the mane," which is made obvious by the lack of attention my hair receives. Though reputable for my hygiene and sense of style, I can only do so much for the mop. Keeping its length descent is the least.

Tattoos, piercings and other physical adornments are not in my repertoire. Like I said, I am simple in both construction and design. I lack accessory because I prefer to focus on the central elements. How I manage to maintain style in a world in poverty is another one of my useless talents. The pride of the French is their fashion sense. The ability to make something tattered and burned glamorous is in the blood, I suppose. Call it vanity, but I like to look sharp.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Some stories begin in times of tragedy. Mine belongs to the common collection of those that do not. My life was above common, however. My father, Étienne Deveroux, was a member of French government dealing in dragonrider affairs, both foreign and domestic. He was a man in their favor, always encouraging rider involvement when available or necessary. His work was not always appreciated, but he continued support their cause to the end. He, with my mother, Olivier, and I, performed his work under the blue skies of France. We were wealthy and privileged because of his position, but not proud. Humility was a welcome guest in our household.

I respected my parents. In time, I sought to follow in my father's footsteps and become a voice for the dragonriders, old and new. My father had power, influence and the rarer quality of heart to give balance to his actions. I wanted the same. I wanted to become a voice--one regarded as important or invaluable. Not many can claim such. Anyone can cry out in a crowd and receive attention, but I wanted my words to make a lasting impression. My father was an honored spokesman in the dragonriders' behalf. Was it foolish of me to want the same?

My chance arrived when my father's services were required in America. I was invited to join him, to observe his practices first-hand and gain experience. I was thrilled by the offer and obliged to accompany him. I would be seeing America, the land of freedom and opportunity, and assisting my father in his efforts. It was intended to be the trip of a lifetime, and had been until the bombs rained down from the heavens.

A bomb shelter had spared my father and I. We arrived in America, were received, accommodated properly, and had spent a few days discussing matters regarding the growing threat of civil war amongst the dragonriders. War raged on amongst the humans, but the dragons and riders attached to them were no longer watching with similar interest. My father was much aware of the swelling conflict within their ranks, some riders eager for the common downfall while others would die fighting to prevent it. My father sought means of unity, compensation and universal appeasement. Bombs could not silence his ambitions.

We emerged safely, spared little harm while millions had been slaughtered and devastated by the impact. But this was no time for relief. Now, more than ever, my father's voice cried to be heard. We needed the dragonriders. No amount of technology would suffice in the hasty revival, or protection of humanity. Long had the dragonriders stood as a symbol of peace in my father's mind. They were an ancient, trusted and mighty power for good that would not, and could not, fail. He believed in them more than he believed in himself--martyrdom, his unjust reward.

Rebel dragonriders, rogue and merciless, descended on the government officials at a most opportune time. A meeting had been organized, in which all officials, presidential and representative, gathered to discuss what global actions need be taken. The attack had come more sudden than the bombs. How I managed to survive remains a blur in my mind, drowned out by the screams and horrific visions I was forced to witness. My father was slaughtered. Nothing remained but charred and shredded corpses amidst destruction and debris. Had the bombs not destroyed my fortitude, this tragedy claimed me. I was lost, alone and unable to communicate. There is much I do not remember during this time, and do not care to.

For miles I walked, forcing my feet into motion. Need for anything no longer existed. My state of shock was so great, desire to eat, drink and sleep eluded me completely. I would walk until my legs gave out and I dissolved into the ground. An unexpected confrontation attempted to send me there faster.

The man was enormous, a scavenging behemoth in the middle of a wasteland that welcomed its prey with gleaming eyes and a pair of fists. His words were lost on me. I tried to explain I could not speak English. I remained silent otherwise, and did not need linguistics to understand his frustration in me when a fist broke into my jaw. It was the first of many brutal strikes that he beat into body. I had never been in a fist fight, or any physical match for that matter. I could only recoil, hold up my arms and wait for them to snap beneath the pressure. My failure was inevitable. Had Conner not arrived, I would not be alive.

Conner saved my life and revived my need to maintain it. Conner was, and remains to be, everything I am not. Bravery, strength--the skills and talents Conner has are those that would take a lifetime for me to possess. Desperation, admiration, survival, companionship and debt are only a few of the reasons I remained at his side. I wonder sometimes how he ever put up with me. My skills in English then were limited to a word of it here and there, I couldn't fight, and had always been privileged in terms of wants and needs. I did not try, but there are times I know I was a terrible burden. I owe him everything, but give him my trust above anything else.

There is no one I trust more than Conner. During the years we spent in desolation, I had to. I have seen enough results to know that he would never intentionally do something detrimental to the cause. Though hesitation might exist, protest and failure to do as he says, do not. Above all else, he is my friend and I would give my life for him. It feels like the least I could do.

Conner and I were eventually rescued by a dragonrider, a testament to my father's beliefs and the truth of them. I was hesitant, but when the opportunity to become a dragonrider was offered, Conner and I accepted. I still don't know what I can offer. To be a dragonrider comes with high expectations, but that is exactly why I have chosen to attempt it. There are dark figures at the back of my mind--those that call my father a fool who died without cause--I need to prove wrong. I want to be what my father believed in.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I am very polite, charming and intelligent. The problem is, it is incredibly hard to be so when confined to a bubble of confusion. I am illiterate in the English language, a flaw that I try very hard to correct on a regular basis. Conner has been helpful. He is easiest for me to speak with, considering we have been together for about three years. He also speaks in short sentences and often at a steady pace, which has given me enough vocabulary to get by. It remains a struggle, however. As if it is not difficult enough, my thick accent makes whatever English I possess hard for others to understand.

Because of the language barrier, I do not come off as composed or confident at all. I fumble along through sentence structure, repeat words, say things incorrectly, misunderstand. . . . There are times things go straight over my head, and I end up standing there with a smile fixed on my face. Words to better describe me become naive, gullible, clumsy and foolish. I dislike my incompetence, but I assure you it is what I most strive to put an end to.

What I most assuredly am not is a fighter. I have a whole lot of heart, but my fists are another story. I've never been taught how to fight and find no pleasure in the infliction of pain. My talents lie in patient contemplation and reasoning before I take action. I would much rather discuss something without violence and conflict to reach a conclusion. You see how difficult it is to be an asset when my talent with words is useless? . . . It frightens me.

With so many expectations to meet and little means of doing so, I worry for the security of my home in Zion. I want so badly to earn the respect of my peers; to be heroic, valiant strong, but these are traits I lack on a number of levels. I have been raised in the comfort of high society with the intention of being a voice, not a weapon. But what good is the voice of a foreigner in an impoverished society, where hard working warriors are in high demand? . . . How long someone like me will be welcomed to stay might be on a delicate scale.

I know I couldn't live alone, but this dependence is sure to be the death of me. It feels like I am constantly taking advantage of others, and it is something I can't stand. The fear of being an annoyance keeps me deathly quiet at times. When I realize I am trying too hard and just need to stop, I do. It is out of respect more than anything else. I do not seek your sympathy, but satisfaction.

xTahirux

#35586C , #CDAA7D

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

xxxxxxxxxx

Samantha Barbara Layne

A K A

❝ Sam or Sammy ❞

"Life is beautiful."

Silver, Melanth

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

At five feet and seven inches, I may seem a little tall but my figure makes me the least intimidating person in the room. I'm very skinny though my body is toned from all of the jogging and sit-ups I've been doing over the years. I'm twenty so I'm through with my days of trying to impress all of the cute boys by keeping in great shape but I still like to do it on my own accord. Plus I want to make sure I'm in top condition if I get picked by a dragon, but even I don't, I'll still keep up my routine. Call me vain, but I like to keep up with my appearance; I do my hair and makeup even for the smallest of occasions. I'm such a girl; I love to dress up and look nice, what else is there to say?

I have long, wavy red hair that falls to my mid-back. It's layered, but my bangs are only as long as my chin and hardly noticeable apart from the rest of my hair. I don't tuck it behind my ears often, so it outlines my diamond-shaped face. Sometimes I'll wear a baseball cap or any kind of cute hat since Paris always tells me I look cute in them. Maybe he's just saying that . . . or maybe he just likes to make fun of me when I take them off and have hat hair. Or maybe he likes having the leverage of pulling it down over my eyes. No matter what, I still wear them and they're so good for taking off and hitting pesky boyfriends with!

I have roundish almond-shaped eyes and long lashes that I like to bat at Paris to try and get my way. They're blue like my dad's, one of the few traits I proudly inherited from him. Freckles cover my entire face and all over my arms, shoulders and upper back. I like 'em; no amount of "freckle face" jokes are going to change that fact. People might think otherwise since I tend to wear long sleeves or thin sweaters, but I can't live without my warm clothes since I get cold very easily. However, I love my tank tops too so whenever I have a chance, I wear those. Blue jeans are a must too whether they're shorts or pants. Can't hate on the classics, but generally I like anything cute.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Some people think it's ridiculous how optimistic I am after all that has happened to me. The fact of the matter is that I have always had people there for me to help me through things and it has made an exceptional difference in how I've been brought up.

I've lived in Zion all of my life with two riders for parents and a family history that commands respect. There are hardly any Laynes in the family that haven't impressed dragons so my dad constantly reminded me of how I was going to join the ranks with "no problems." I had a legacy to uphold and the family name to carry on. That might make him sound extremely strict, but he wasn't back then. My dad and I were close and I always knew I could go to him because he was one of the sweetest people in the world. I learned so much from him and my mom and they were always eager to teach or answer any questions I had and give me all of the attention I wanted. I was an only child so I was spoiled rotten with attention.

That all changed when my mom died.

I was little. Seven was old enough to know and understand what happened but too young to grasp the gravity of the situation. Mom was gone and wasn't going to come back again and dad had changed drastically. He became more temperamental - not toward me but toward the world. Because it was a normal (as in non-dragonrider) person that had been responsible for her death, dad held a huge grudge with people outside of Zion. Not only that, but he became somewhat overbearing and never let me leave Zion. I couldn't go on trips into small towns or big cities - not even the ones closest to Zion. He didn't want me to be wandering around downtown somewhere only to be hit by a drunk driver like what happened to my mom. I was underage, so I had no say in the matter. Begging Telsiath to fly me places didn't help, either; he wouldn't go against my father's wishes.

Backtracking a little since I'm so scatterbrained . . . It was right after my mom died that I met my best friend and current boyfriend, Paris. He helped around the medical wing with his daddy, kissing "owies" to make people feel better - a story which I love to share with everyone because it's so darn cute. I wandered in looking for company since my dad had been more or less closed off in the beginning after my mom's death. Paris and I bumped into each other and started talking and well, the rest is history. Without even knowing it, he had helped me through one of the toughest times in my life. Now he does it consciously since he's old enough to know what's going on.

Being practically confined to the caverns wasn't so bad. I got to know basically everyone and not just the riders, either. I know all of the workers by name and can hold nice conversations with over half of them. I can navigate the entire caverns and mountainside with my eyes closed . . . practically. I wouldn't risk it. Also, I'm a bit of a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to helping out around the caverns. I've done kitchen duties (willingly), bathroom duties, secretary work, been a librarian, a nurse, a babysitter and so on and so forth. Knowing a lot of people has its perks and I at least know I have things to fall back on if I don't get to be a rider.

The past few years have been . . . hectic, to say the least. When the Rebels first started rallying before the bombs dropped, my dad would disappear from home at certain points of the night and I just knew that he was going to some of the meetings in secret. He didn't tell me at first but I knew what was going on; I wasn't stupid. When the bombs dropped and the Rebels made their move, my dad expected me to go with him - to just drop my whole life in Zion and with all of my friends and "family," and to go against everything I believe in! I refused and this time I wasn't underage so I didn't have to go with him, though I begged him to stay with me. Instead, he disowned me, called me worthless and left without saying goodbye.

I don't think I have ever cried so hard in my life except over those next few days. Luckily, I had my surrogate family there to comfort me. Paris and both of his dads welcomed me into their home after I was abandoned and they helped me through it along with everyone else in the caverns. It's amazing how well some people come together in times of hardship and though I'm not over my dad leaving me, I am no longer grieving because of him. Instead, I've become more bitter about it, but that can't be helped.

I have Paris. I have my friends and family and I have my life. That's enough for me and I am happy for it.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I'm a generally happy and optimistic person. It's bad enough that when people see me without a smile on my face, they immediately know that something is wrong. I've grown up as a "sweetheartpie" from what Paris has told me and everyone in the whole of Zion seems to collectively agree. I like to be there for others because so many people have done the same for me in the past and will probably continue to do so in the future. If there was one thing everyone taught me in the caverns, it was how to care for others. I'm not obtrusive enough to barge into people's business if they tell me no, but if someone needs help, I'm willing to provide it in any way I can.

I'm mature for my age. Even though my dad had been a part of my life growing up, he wasn't all there so I more or less had to take care of myself at home. Sometimes I would even have to take care of him. I understood why for the most part; he had lost the love of his life and he didn't know how to cope except to collapse into himself and let it consume him for years. The problem with that was that he left me out in the cold; it was like I was nothing to him until he really needed me and once I figured that out, I decided to become more independent. I didn't abandon him like he did with me, but I no longer let him pull me down with him.

I talk a lot, but only after I've gotten to know someone. I'm not very outgoing otherwise and like my alone time just as much as my time spent with others. That doesn't mean I'm shy, I'm just soft-spoken and barely ever raise my voice. In fact, I've actually lost my voice before trying to fake a scream for a skit I was doing for fun. Paris teases me about that relentlessly. Which is another thing . . . I'm okay with teasing as long as it doesn't go too far. I'm not a fan of cussing and I can get very sensitive about things. I'm not uptight; I just have gentler feelings than some.

I can get impatient at times, but I try to keep quiet about it. If there's news I want to hear or a book I want to read, I tend to get over-eager. You would have to know me to notice, but I fidget and can't keep still when I want something. Paris likes to point it out so I hide it as much as I can; I don't want people to think I'm rude or something. I'm easy to please though. I love to read, write and sing . . . and chocolate is something I just need to survive. I don't like cars, profanity or unnecessary violence. Rebels scare me mostly because of what they are capable of doing. I'm also afraid of needles . . . I always need Paris to hold my hand if I get a shot. And I just love it when Paris holds my hand.

Aggy the Awesome

Plum , Silver

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Paris Ethan Rowe

A K A

❝ Paris ❞

"I will never let you fall. I'll stand up with you forever."

Silver, Lyreath

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

From what everyone – including my Daddy – tells me, I look “just like my father.”

At 20 years old I think I’ve finally tapped out the meter on 6’ 2”. I’m not a giant, but I’m a pretty big guy. And at precisely 183 pounds – of solid muscle (even though I’m a sucker for dessert) – I guess that might be a little alarming in a dark hallway at night. I’m broad shouldered with a thick torso, long arms and legs and big hands and feet. Big gloves. Big shoes. Like I said, I’m all muscle and in the hours of my days that aren’t spent in the med wing with my Daddy, you can probably find me training in the gym or outside in the mountains. I like to keep in shape not because I’m vain, but because I need to, and it feels good. With a body built for it, I don’t feel at liberty to waste the luxury. Besides, being in the med wing all the time can call for some serious manpower, especially when there’s an unconscious, 15 foot tall dragon that needs patching up.

Despite my size, I’m hardly the most intimidating guy around. Unlike my dad, I smile often. I don’t always look like grinning Dopey the Dwarf, of course – it’s hard to smile when you’re pulling out bullet fragments or sewing up machete wounds a mile long, but I try to keep things light for everyone’s sake. Nobody wants a grumpy medic poking at their owies.

I was born with big, baby blue eyes, a head full of curly honey-blond hair, and thick near-white lashes that I never really grew out of. I keep myself showered and wash my hands so often that my knuckles stay pink from scrubbing - what can I say? Hygiene is a must in a med bay! – but my hair is hardly ever combed. It might start out that way in the morning, but by this point, Daddy’s given up on keeping me groomed and just calls it “charmingly mussed”. Fine by me, ‘cause I can’t be bothered to smooth it down after every time my hand rakes through it. Facial hair is kind of the same case. I shave almost every morning, but by the end of the day I've got some scruff, and after day two it's just plain itchy and I have to get rid of it.

I’m not exceptionally dark skinned, but I’m not really fair either. I tan well, and until the dead of winter when I can’t go outside without three layers on, you won’t find me without some healthy color. As far as clothes go, I'm a pretty simple guy. Jeans and tee shirts. Sometimes I wear a lab coat when I'm in the med wing, but I run hot so it usually comes off and the only thing to identify me as a doctor is the stethoscope and bouquet of lollipops sticking out of my back pocket. Boots are the shoes of choice, and I don't wear gloves, sweaters or jackets until the temperatures are falling into the twenties.

On to superfluous details: I’ve got a scar along my abdomen straight from my bottom rib down around my navel. The cut almost looks like artwork, but it was just a training accident. I wasn’t wearing my armor and… I learned my lesson. I’m not riddled with battle scars like my accident prone father, but I do have some tattoos. Two. One is a cross on the upper right side of my chest, right beneath my collarbone. My parents' names are inscribed in the crossbar. On my right shoulder is the script “What Goes Around Comes Around”. I don’t show them off, I just like them. They’re for me.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

The way things are now, I’m probably one of the happiest human beings on the planet. I don’t have a reason to complain, so you won’t hear me doing it, and I’m entirely grateful for my life. Really, I am. I spend most of my time taking care of the refugees from the Wastes, and sometimes even get the chance to go out and see to them out there as a field medic when Daddy needs an extra hand, so I know how lucky I am. I was born and raised in Zion by the two greatest parents in the world, hands down – so I guess I’ll start with them. I’ve probably confused you a little bit by now anyway.

I have two dads, organized to minimize confusion in address (but not by much) by Dad and Daddy. Dad is my biological father, the one that I could probably be a clone of. He’s the rider of the red dragon Tyrsrith; a loving father and husband and a powerful rider. He’s kind of standoffish if you don’t know him, but I promise, he’s not all that scary. At all. I still think he freaks Sammy out a little though. But if he’s too much to handle, my Daddy – Dad’s husband (and technically my “stepfather”, but I don’t tolerate the title) – is made of sugar and spice and everything nice. He’s also a rider, silver Venereth, and a medic. One of the best, actually. I’m actually the only remaining piece left from my Dad’s first marriage (to a woman). I never knew my mother. Dad took me and she split as soon as I was out. Dad was capable, but he was alone and could use a hand, which is where Daddy came in. They’ve been friends since they were pint-sized, so I don’t know what took them so long to figure out they were meant for each other. I blame Dad. He’s kind of dense. The point is, I have no recollection of life without my parents being together. Ever. I don’t remember the wedding, but there are plenty of pictures of a very cute little ring bearer that looked a lot like a tiny, chubby baby version of my dad. So I guess I was there.

I grew up dragging on my parents’ legs in the training rooms and in the med wing and learning as I went. There’s nothing I ever wanted to be more than a medic, like Daddy, so if I ever did count on going to a Hatching, I wanted to be a silver rider. If not, then I’d be happy to be a doctor. Even though I have spent my entire life training to follow in my parents’ footsteps. As you can see by my age, I just fell under the cusp in this Hatching.

What else… My best friend – and girlfriend – is Samantha Layne. I’m pretty guilty of trying to steal all of her time and sometimes forgetting other people exist. I’m pretty friendly with just about everyone though. I know all of the riders and med staff by name, of course, but I’m acquainted with a lot of others in the caverns too – sometimes through Sam. I’ve been a lot less sheltered than she has, even when we were little kids. Whenever I got to go into one of the towns or cities with one of my dads, I always managed to bring her back a present. Usually a Hershey’s bar since we didn’t really get prepackaged food in the caverns.

Anyway, with the Hatching imminent, it’s impossible not to be hopeful. Coming from a long line of dragon riders isn’t a guaranteed place among the ranks, so I can’t help but be nervous. I know neither of my parents would be disappointed, but I don’t think I’ve wanted anything more in my life. Especially now, with the bombs and the rebels… But even if I’m not picked, I’m good. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll still be a doctor and I’ve still got all my friends and family and the chance to do what I can, get married, and raise a few kids… I’m a simple guy.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I love being outside. Hiking, swimming, running, hunting, gathering herbs or napping in the tall grass – anything to breathe in the fresh mountain air and absorb the pure, unadulterated beauty of untainted nature. I like reading too, although I don’t have a whole lot of time to do it. Even more than that, I enjoy being in the med wing. It’s my life – since before I could walk, or even sit up straight – and I more or less eat, sleep, and breathe the place. I love knowing I’m helping, and that I’m good at it. I learn from the best and, if I do say so myself… I’m pretty darn good at it. I’m an expert wound stitcher-upper and lollipop hander-outer, and I’ve devoted countless hours to bettering my practice. I think I’ve finally perfected my pain salve. Slather a handful of the goo on your latest flesh wound and it’ll work its magic in a matter of minutes. Quality guaranteed or … you’ll just have some goop smothering your open wound. Sorry.

I guess the easiest way to really describe myself is… A nice guy. I’m polite, and respectful, and ready with a helping hand or a nice word wherever it’s needed. Now, it doesn’t appear often, but I’ve got that temper, and it’s not pretty. As far as patience goes, I have the one of the longest fuses you’re likely to encounter. It takes a lot to get on my bad side, and I’m quick to forgive and forget. Staying mad isn’t really what I’m good at.

I’m not the most outgoing person in the world, but I’m not painfully shy either. It’s easy to engage me in conversation, and I’ll accommodate you enthusiastically. If I see that you look confused, or think there’s something I could be a hand in, I’ll offer before you have to ask. I can be a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on, all you need to do is give a hint. I’m pretty attentive – comes in the realm of being a medic, I think – and I’m prone to notice even the littlest things. My attention to detail is all but impeccable.

I’m always good humored – about everything, and I’m likely to poke fun at you if I think I can get away with it. Gently, of course. I don’t say anything to hurt anyone’s feelings. I’m not that kind of person. I’m not an incredibly sensitive person – though there are, of course, those things that make my jaw twitch and my fists clench – but I’m conscientious of the sensitivities of others. I don’t like when others are needlessly rude or abrasive, not fond of disrespect to someone who doesn’t deserve it, and loathe the Rebels with a burning passion. Which is saying something. I don’t just hate people for my health and satisfaction. They’re terrible people who do terrible things, and they don’t deserve to burden the earth with their presence. Fear isn’t something I associate with them consciously, but I guess it’s hard not to be afraid of a horde of such merciless terrorists. I’m much more afraid of immediate dangers – like losing my friends and family, especially to them. There have been close calls, attacks, and they make me sick to my stomach.

La LeClamour

cornflowerblue , #25587E

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Zachery Hubert Smith

A K A

❝ Zach, please. ❞

"I want to break free."

Blue, Scyrith

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Get ready to not be impressed, 'cause I'm just a typical fifteen-year old. I'm five feet and seven inches tall and I weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. That makes me short and skinny, if you haven't noticed. I don't have any real muscle structure; I've never worked out a day in my life and exercise is more like a chore than a fun activity for me. I've never been the type to actually like going for a jog or lifting weights; I tire out too fast. Don't get me wrong, being outside is fun and I love playing sports and stuff . . . I just might need a break every few minutes to catch my breath. What? Not everyone can be an athlete. Not everyone can be perfectly tanned, either. I'm not ghostly pale or suntanned or anything; I'm somewhere in the middle.

The most hair I've ever grown is on my head. It's hard for me to grow any stubble, so I think I'll probably have a "baby face" until I die. As for my hair, it's black and long, falling to the middle of my neck. My bangs are slightly shorter, only reaching to my cheekbones which, by the way, are not high like a model's. I also have a triangular face. My eyes are dark brown and protrude a little, but not by much. I'm so happy I didn't inherit my dad's huge nose. That would have sucked big time. I'm already shy and kinda awkward when people first meet me; I don't need "that weird kid with the big nose" tacked onto my non-existent reputation.

What sucks about being underage is that my parents still control pretty much every aspect of my life. I wear what they think is appropriate which usually translates to khaki pants and sweater vests, long-sleeved shirts, buttoned down shirts. Just anything that looks "nice." God forbid I wear jeans and t-shirts or actually dress like a normal kid sometimes. Nope, they like to see me in anything that makes me look like a huge dork. Thanks, mom and dad.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

What can I say about my life? . . . Not much, actually. It hasn't been very exciting. I'm serious. Not exciting at all.

First of all, I was born in one of the many tourist traps for Zion National Park. We lived on the second floor of our gift shop, running it straight out of home and taking customers any time of day. I started working when I was old enough to walk, doing simply things such as sweeping the floors or running up and down the stairs to get things out of our home that were needed. As I got older, my job became a bit more complex. And by complex, I mean I learned how to run the register, restock shelves and so on and so forth. It wasn't a very exciting job, but my parents insisted I keep it up. It was mostly for their benefit since they kept me close to home and never had to take their eyes off of me.

I was home-schooled so I didn't make a lot of friends. The few I had were great, but the only time I got to see them was when I was free and that was hardly ever. I was either working or doing school stuff, so I'd be stuck watching the others play outside through a window. My parents didn't seem to care about that; they seemed to be afraid of every little bump in the night. They were paranoid that I might fall and die if I went outside or that someone might kidnap me if I strayed too far from home. Even the dragonriders, who had been nothing but kind to us and our town, were dangerous to my health.

Ah, dragonriders. How I had always longed to be one. Living so close to Zion, I saw dragons passing over our town regularly. If I heard the sound of wings beating against the air, I would drop whatever I was doing and race out of the shop to see them fly overhead. It never got old to me. I loved reading history and stories that included the dragonriders and I wanted nothing more than to walk among them. Meet one in person. Be one. It was the only dream I had ever really had, but my parents wouldn't have it. I was destined to run the business when I grew up, and that was final. I had no say in the matter.

When the bombs dropped on the world around us, things changed. The dragonriders dropped in and asked many shop owners if we could take in any refugees. They needed our help in the aftermath of the war, but my parents wanted no part in it. It was like they were on their own little planet; they wanted no strangers in their house to endanger us and that meant anyone from the outside. I hated them for that. The dragonriders were asking for our assistance, to help people who were in desperate need of it and my parents had turned them down while everyone else I knew were taking in at least a few refugees. It embarrassed me and made me ashamed of my parents.

After a few more years of enduring life in an empty shop, stuck with my parents and no one else, I made the biggest decision that my fifteen-year old brain had ever made in its life. I was going to run away. I knew that the Hatching was going to take place, so I sneaked out as soon as I could get free and hitch-hiked with a small group who were also on their way to the caverns to try their hand in getting a dragon. I knew that if I could get chosen, my parents could no longer control me. Despite being underage, I would be in the hands of the riders and my parents wouldn't be able to change that.

I can only hope that my dream will come true and I will become a dragonrider . . .

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

It's hard to get past my shyness, but once you do, it's like I'm a whole other person, I promise. But before I get to that part, I'll tell you that at first glance, I am a quiet, fumbling idiot that can't talk his way out of a paper bag. I try not to say much because I know that I will stutter. And when I try not to stutter, I only stutter more. I suck at getting up in front of people and talking and I don't do well in large groups. I just haven't had that kind of exposure growing up and it's going to take a lot of getting used to. I would probably die of a heart attack if I was the center of attention.

Now, if you stick around long enough to get to know me, I promise I'm a nice guy. I talk a lot more, but I am not good at starting conversations. If I have to, though, I might ask questions that come off as awkward or out of place. Why do I do that? It's 'cause I'm not sure what else to say or to talk about, but I don't want an awkward silence. Like I said, I'm really bad at socializing, but I try. If it doesn't come out right, I'm sorry. That's another thing . . . I'm very apologetic. Even when it's not my fault, I tend to apologize. Habit, I guess.

I have been very sheltered, so certain words, jokes, slang or whatever tend to go right over my head. I'm still young and still not sure why people say "that's what she said" or other such things that have been around. Mention any kind of sexual innuendos, and they're probably lost on me.

Despite all of that, I am a thrill seeker. Being cooped up in my house has taught me one thing . . . That I don't want to be cooped up in my house. I'm willing to try anything. I'll taste whatever food you put in front of me, I'll follow through with dares. I'll basically do anything because I just want to be free. I want to make up for all of that lost time, all of those missed activities. I want to do things. Life is too short to have to sit around and do nothing all of the time. I need and crave activity. It's what I live for now.

Aggy the Awesome

#c29c59 , #426bd4

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Atticus Henry Wallace

A K A

❝ Atty or just plain Atticus ❞

"Time to nut up or shut up."

Green, Kerath

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Alright, let's go ahead and get it out of the way since it must be killing you to say it. I am small for a thirteen year old. Yes, there's no doubt about it; I know it for a fact and so does everyone else. I am a puny little stick that stands about five feet and one and a half inches tall. If you say one word about how small I am, then I'll have to punch your brains out. You think I'm joking? I'm not. Even if I don't have an ounce of muscle on me, and even if you can see my ribs if I suck in my stomach a little...I pack a hard punch. Or I try to. I have scars all over my body from mischief I have gotten into. One of the most recent ones is a bite mark on my left arm. Let's just put it this way . . . never try to walk up to a stray dog when it's hungry and looking for food; it might just try to make you the meal too - especially if you look like a pint-sized hobbit.

Moving on. Now if you would look at my face rather than my body, you would see that I'm a pretty handsome boy...or at least that's what my mom and older sisters used to tell me. Blue eyes ran in the family; my parents had them, all of my sisters had them and I have them. Mine were always the brightest too. But anyways...my face is covered with scattered freckles which is annoying. Yes, annoying; bullies used to play "connect the dot" with a permanent marker on my face. Not fun. Needless to say, I'm not a big fan of my freckles for that fact, but there's nothing I can really do about that now, can I?

A messy patch of shaggy black hair rests on the top of my head. My mom used to get onto me for not brushing it enough. She showed me how to use gel, and from then on it was always spiked up. But after the bombs dropped, gel wasn't really my first priority, so my hair went back to doing what it wanted. It naturally sticks up nowadays, but it's less organized. I really don't care though; looking good is not really on the top of my list of things to do. In fact, it's the very last thing on my mind. However, I do care that I can not - for the life of me - grow even a single hair on my chin. I oftentimes search for any kind of facial hair, but there is none to be had. I am a frickin' baby-faced child. Sometimes it sucks to be young.

Scars are cool, right? Well I have plenty. There's the one on my hand for when the dog attacked me. That was one of the few times I had wandered off alone a little too far. Of course it had to happen. It was also the only thing I had ever killed aside from like rabbits or birds for food. I had a knife so when the dog jumped me and started biting, I had no choice. . . . I didn't really want to. Anyway, I also have a scar on the left side of my forehead at the hairline from a guy that bashed my head pretty good. I also have a long line down my shin calf from falling on the blade of a weed eater. Yeah, that sucked. What sucked even more is having to get stitches with a needle and string from Tristan. I still deny crying to this day.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

You might think that, as a thirteen year old, I haven't had a long enough life to have an eventful history, but boy are you wrong.

Let's start from the beginning. I lived with both of my parents up until they died. I was the fourth - yeah, I said fourth - child out of six and the only boy aside from my dad. Yeah, my parents were very productive. But you would think out of six kids, they would get more than one boy! You heard me right; I had five sisters. "Had" being the key word there, but I'm not gonna jump that far ahead yet. My dad and I may have been outnumbered, but life was better than you'd think with a bunch of girls running around the house. Sure, it had its downsides - like when I was four years old, my older sisters decided to play dress up with me as the guinea pig. I was stuck in a dress and some makeup for at least an hour before my dad got home and scolded the girls. Thank God for him.

Well, to give you some more background information, my mom was an English college professor and my dad was a high school history teacher so I was awesome in both subjects. I grew up with nothing less than A's and B's 'cause my parents wouldn't let me have anything else. Below that was unacceptable. My parents may sound strict in that sense, but it really wasn't that bad. I loved my home life. Especially once my twin younger sisters were born because they became the center of attention. My older sisters stopped picking on me with their girlie stuff and played with the little ones all of the time instead. That was FINE with me. Family time had gotten a whole lot better; we were a close knit group. Sit-down dinners almost every night, vacations once every year...it was a happy existence for the most part.

Any problems we had were probably my fault. I ran into trouble in school - not with grades, but with bullies. I was puny and had three older sisters to look after me, so that merited being picked on by bigger kids. I had to stop riding my bike home 'cause things got bad if I was left alone. Like one time, some guys knocked me off of my bike and stole it and my backpack. I didn't want to tell my parents about it and went several days claiming "I just feel like riding the bus today" while I tried to figure out how to get my bike back without any help. I had too much pride to run to my mom and dad and tell them that my bike had been stolen. But trying to get it back only got me in worse trouble. I found the guys at work and got into a fight with one of 'em...and got owned. However, the staff managed to break it up and I had to explain myself for what I did. So yeah. Got my bike back...but couldn't ride it to school.

So that incident didn't really earn my any points with bullies. I was still picked on, but didn't let it get the best of me. I wasn't gonna have some a*****e with a God complex push me around. I hated bullies. But I was too small to hold my own, so a lotta s**t happened. Thankfully, I wasn't some p***y so I'm stronger for it.

Alright let's skip ahead to the bombs dropping. Well, when that happened, I was out riding my bike. That's a horrible place to be when bombs were goin' off. Thankfully I was able to make it into some shelter and take cover. Somewhere in the mix, I got knocked out and woke up the next morning to see everything around me destroyed. The first thought in my head was about my family, so I found my bike and sped home as fast as I can. When I got there, I found my family, only none of 'em were alive. I don't want to talk a lot about that . . . It wasn't easy. The devastation hit me like a kick in the balls . . . I was alone. My entire family was dead and I had no idea what to do next.

I don't remember much after that. I wandered around without any sense of where I was going or what I was going to do. It wasn't until a guy named Tristan found me that I "woke up" from the trance I was in. Well, if you call that wakin' up. I didn't talk for a while; the pain of my entire family's deaths hurt more than anything and it was hard to snap out of it.

Luckily, Tristan was there to take care of me again. He took me in and together we survived the world. He kept me busy with different things to help get my mind off of the loss I was feeling. The pain of their deaths still hasn't gone away, but it has definitely made me stronger. I did stuff like scavenge for food, keep a lookout, learn a few punching and kicking tactics from Tristan . . . the works. I've never had to kill anyone, but I wouldn't hesitate to if it meant my life over theirs. Tristan even trusted me to hold my own weapons; I own a knife and sometimes carry a gun. It has still been hard, but after three years I'm feeling a lot better. I have Tristan to thank for that - but I won't. Manners don't exist anymore, so why should I? He knows I appreciate it.

We survived in the wasteland for two and a half years until we met a dragonrider that offered us a "better life." We just had to trust him right off of the bat and fly to Utah on his dragon. Didn't I mention that I was afraid of heights? Yeah. That was the worst day aside from when I lost my family. I clung to Tristan and didn't open my eyes the entire way. ******** that. Anyway, once we got there and past the whole "WOW" stage from seeing Zion, we got settled. I don't think I've ever eaten so much in my life except for that day . . . then promptly threw it all back up since i ate too much too fast.

It's been awesome living there for six months. Comfortable. Then there's that whole Hatching thing coming up that sounds kinda cool. The only reason I'm doing it is 'cause Tristan is. Then again, the whole flying thing is still leaving me with a nervous pit in my stomach though . . . I'm not gonna admit it though.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

Alright, let's get the easy part out of the way first. I'm feisty and it shows. I am always eager to please and to help out. I don't like to be seen as useless, in other words, and that's hard to do, being my size and all. But I think I pull it off well. I work hard and play hard as they say. I am constantly doing things and people usually have to stop me and tell me to slow down before I realize that I might be taking it too far. I think this also pertains to the fact that I do act my age. I am highly energetic and somewhat immature - though I won't admit it out loud - and I like to get my way. In fact, I insist on getting my way; I am stubborn. It's a trait that a lot of boys share, I think.

From what Tristan has told me, I apparently have "little man's syndrome". That statement couldn't be truer. In being puny, I tend to try to make up for it by acting tough and courageous. I like to put on that face of bravery, even when I'm scared. Don't get me wrong, I don't scare that easily - especially after the things I have seen - but there are the times when I am genuinely shaky beyond belief. However, I am usually the first to get into some kind of trouble, mostly because I tend to put myself in that kind of situation. I am irrational and jump into things too quickly, perhaps. If I see something, I go for it; I don't like to hesitate. Sometimes, I don't even think, I just act. Some might say that's a flaw, but my dad always told me it builds character. I'll believe his memorable quotes over anyone's any day.

So all of this eagerness didn't come out of nowhere. It actually stemmed from the desire to prove myself to everyone - especially Tristan. I really look up to him, though I would never tell him or anyone else that. I try to imitate him much as I can to learn from him. He is really everything that I want to be; strong, brave, smart...and he's really just like the big brother that I never had. Where ever he goes, I usually follow if not for the experience, then just to enjoy his company. I'm not quite as serious as he is, but I try to act like it sometimes. And while his personality might scare some people, I relish in it and work hard to be the same way.

There's not a lot to really like nowadays, but if I were to choose a few, I'd say I like to explore; going around and picking houses and stores clean always turns into some kind of adventure. Food is something I enjoy thoroughly; I'll eat anything and always crave more. I'm a growing boy, so I'm like a bottomless pit! Also, I like following Tristan around even when he tells me to stay put; I'm obviously not a leader, so following is a specialty of mine. I like to read too; I guess that stems from having an English teacher for a mom. I salvaged any books I could to take back to our shelter and read, and Tristan always helped me with the things I didn't understand so that I didn't stay completely ignorant. Most of the books I read though were fiction or sci-fi, so there's really not a lot of brain-usage there.

Now for what I don't like...that's easy. Dragons. They are big, they are strong, and they blow fire - all of which I am helpless against. Not only that, but since we don't have very many weapons, it's hard to fight a threat like that. Worst bullies ever. I also don't like scavengers...which is hypocritical, I know, but still. I don't like it when people try to steal my stuff. I don't like bullies. I know how it feels to be pushed around, and I really hate the ones doing the pushing. I would feed them to the dragons if I could. By the way...just a side note...I have a fear of heights, so flying just doesn't go well with me. I'm also afraid of being left alone, though that isn't a severe as my fear of heights.

Aggy the Awesome

#6e0606 , #256925

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Evee Marie Thornton

A K A

❝ Evee ❞

"They won't catch me 'cause I'm innocent."

Green, Fraemoth

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xxxA p p e a r a n c exxxxx

I’m small, but don’t let that fool you. I’m only 5’ 4”, and don’t weigh more than a hundred and fifteen or twenty pounds, if that. I’m only fourteen, but I doubt I’ll be getting too much taller. I was never one for sitting on my a**, before or after the bombs dropped and don’t have an ounce of fat on my body. As a kid, I was in gymnastics, and that evolved to cheerleading. With my tiny bone structure and lacking height, I made one great flyer. There wasn’t a single stunt I couldn’t pull in my league. And prep school leagues, let me tell you, are brutal. In the past three years, my physical form hasn’t failed much. I haven’t been starving, so my muscles are lean and hard as ever. More than ever, all things considered…

Despite my height though, I’ve often been mistaken as a few years older than I really am. It was probably the makeup back when people cared about cosmetics. But it’s likely also got plenty to do with my bone structure. My mom was a former model, and my dad was just a handsome man. The pairing of excellent genetics did wonders for me, I won’t even lie. I’ve got my mom’s flawless complexion and warm colored skin tone, and her thick dark hair, and my dad’s bright brown eyes. I could have done with my mom’s stunning blues, but… whatever.

As far as dressing goes, people can’t really be picky any more. I always liked soft, flowy materials and pretty things because I really am… super girly. Bows, ribbons, flowers, silk, chiffon, soft cotton, skirts and dresses are all among my favorite things, but they’re not really practical anymore. Generally, you’ll find me in something that’s easy to move in. If it’s cute, then excellent. I like to pick things that at least have a nice cut or pattern. Shoes are limited to boots, most of the time, but.. they’re kind of growing on me. Less people mess with you when you wear scary boots. And I can lift my foot high enough to kick your face in.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Three years ago life was pretty different. Drastically different, actually. I never thought I’d be here back then, and I miss it more than anything.

My family was more than considerably well off. Nothing insane, but I was definitely spoiled. My dad was a business mogul who liked to buy into big franchises. He had two Burger Kings, a Taco Bell, and a Cold Stone Creamery two his name – and all were my guilty pleasures – that I could have since I worked them all off within an hour anyway. Now, free Whoppers, double scoops of Raspberry Dream and chalupas are things of the past. Mom used to be a model, but by the time I was born she had retired into being a trophy wife. She was still gorgeous, of course, but spent her time taking care of the house, enrolling my sister and me into innumerable extra-curricular activities, and shopping. Pretty good way to live, if you ask me. My sister was a few years older than me – five to be exact – so we had our fights. Mostly though, we got along pretty well. Especially after the bombs dropped.

I went to private schools and started gymnastics when I was walking. Literally. By the time I could run, I had somersaults down. My biggest dream as a kid was to be an Olympic competitor. And I could have done it, too. There’s hardly a trick in the book that I can’t spin even now, although I could probably use a little bit of practice after being out in the Wastes. Anyway, when I reached middle school, I took up cheerleading. I was a natural, obviously, and the cute outfits were right up my alley.

But like I said, that stuff’s all gone now. Wiped out when the world went to nuclear war. I didn’t really care about political affairs back then, as you can imagine. What eleven-year-old little girl wants to listen to people talk about the world going up in smoke? So when things went to hell… I was shocked. And horrified. And helpless. Without my sister, I probably would have just died in the beginning. I depended on her entirely, and she never let me down. Even when my shoes broke through and I couldn’t walk, she picked me up and carried me as far as she could before we both had to stop, and when we made camp she made sure I had enough to eat before she did, and when a feral flew out overhead, she made sure I got to safety before she came in and shut the door behind us.

We traveled alone, until we ran into these guys. A group of three that thought a couple of chicks hiking it alone could use some help. We didn’t want to, but they wouldn’t go away… And they had a car. So we were stuck with them. We had been with them for about a week and were maybe an hour from a town that seemed intact enough to be inhabitable and dying to check it out, but one of the guys – Garret, I think his name was – wanted to stop for the night. After dinner, I went for more firewood. Going off by myself to scrounge around was no big deal by then, and I had an armful of broken sticks and branches whenever I stumbled in on… What they were doing. All three of them had my sister – but she wasn’t screaming. Something was shoved in her mouth. She spotted me before they realized I was there, but the little jerk of her head was enough to let them know. One of them came at me, so I ran. Got maybe two steps away before he caught me. I struggled, and tried to worm my way out, but ended up with my head on a boulder and nothing else to remember.

When I woke up, everything was gone. There was some blood on a nearby rock, and the fire had been stomped out, but I couldn’t find my sister anywhere. Just those stupid earrings she refused to take off because they were our mom’s. Or one of them, anyway, shining in the leaves by the bloody rock. I think it got torn out. I don’t know what they did with her, but I know she didn’t leave me. I hope she didn’t leave me. I hope she didn’t go with them… But I don’t want them to have taken her either.

Anyway… I didn’t have anything to do but walk. A shoved the earring in my pocket and started going, on toward that town since there was nowhere else for me and, no matter how scared or upset I was, I didn’t want to die. I got picked up before I made it, by a woman. She was nice enough, but she pawned me off to someone else pretty quick – and that person ended up throwing me off to Zion. Said there was going to be a Hatching and I could “Impress a dragon” and “put myself to good use”. Whatever. I guess I owe him enough to do what he says for keeping me safe for a couple of years, even if he wasn’t the sweetest caretaker in the world. Not like I expected it.

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I have an unalterable sense of self preservation, because I am afraid of dying. If you don’t understand what that means, it’s pretty simple. Keep the hell out of my way. I’ll do anything to keep myself alive and kicking, because my loyalties are to me and me alone. Nobody else is going to look out for you anymore – so I don’t expect it. If it’s my skin or yours, I’ll sacrifice yours and learn to live with myself, so don’t be surprised if you see some discrepancies in my moral code… And now you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

You will probably perceive me as selfish, conceited, and vicious – and none of those things are wrong. In my time between the bombs and coming to Zion, I’ve had my fair share of s**t happen, and if I was nice to begin with, it’s enough to take a toll on the sweet side. People are mean and hurtful and nothing but animals when you get down to it, so you have to learn to fight back. And I have. I’m no master of the art or anything, but fighting is what I do. I’m small and fast, and I use it to my advantage. Don’t expect me to “fight fair” or whatever, because I will kick the s**t out of you when you’re down. If you not getting up is in my best interest, you’d better count on me making it happen.

I don’t like people. I don’t want friends, and I had a family but it’s gone now, so I really just want everyone to keep their distance. Don’t get close to me because I don’t want to get close to you. Got it? Good. I’m not afraid of judgment because I don’t care what you think. I usually keep everyone so busy thinking I’m a conceited little b***h with the morals of an alley cat that they don’t think to wonder if I’ve got a personality. Or if there’s anything I like, or anything I’m afraid of – but there are some things.

I like to read. Classics, mostly. Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, plays, romantic adventures. But if you catch me with a book in my hand, it’s while I’m hiding (meaning you probably won’t catch me in the first place). I don’t drop my guard in front of other people enough to lounge around reading novels. I like my quiet time, and I HATE being shut up in the caverns. I like open air, and high places and I’ll climb to get to them. Catching me at the top of a tree or wedged into some impossible space with a few footholds underneath is no rare thing.

I am intelligent, and I am clever, but I’m not cheeky or openly witty. In fact, my social vocabulary consists of three main responses: “Yes”, “No”, and “Shut up”. Don’t even start with me because I don’t feel like dealing with it. Thanks. I might have an attitude, but you’re just going to have to cope. I don’t have “problems” and I don’t need “therapy” even though that big blonde Locke guy keeps insisting I could use a good talking cure. You shut the hell up and mind your own business, and we’ll get along like peaches and cream.

La LeClamour

#1c5e02 , #52390d

 

[Aggy the Awesome]

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Charlotte Lilah Dean

A K A

❝ Charlie ❞

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."

Green, Firiveth

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I'm awesome! Check me out! I'm fourteen years old and 5' 3"--fun-size, my dad says. My super-dork brothers just call me "squirt," but whatever. They're super-dorks. Let's get back to me! Blue eyes, light brown hair; no tattoos, piercings or anything. I think they're a stupid idea and would hurt like crazy. I don't do tiny pokes. Pokes in general. Don't poke me!

I'm a scuffed-up little nightmare. I love helping my family, climbing, playing, running, wrestling--owies happen all the time. I've got band-aids all over the place, and pride myself in each one. I'm still trying to figure out hygiene. Combing my hair stinks. So do baths. Why clean up all the time? I'm just gonna get dirty again tomorrow. I don't stay neat and tidy very long, and good luck keeping me that way.

What else did you need to know? Oh yeah. What I wear are the usual hand-me-downs. Problem is, mom's too old, and everyone born in front of me ended up being a super-dork. Boys, boys, boys, so what do I wear? Boy stuff. No big deal! The after-end of the world isn't the time to be picky, and I'm not use to all that frilly fluff n' stuff anyway. Pants, boots, clunky tops; whatever the brothers don't want, I get to throw on.

xxxB i o g r a p h yxxxxxx

Not a whole lot to say, really. I'm the baby girl in a family of seven. My mom, Loraine and dad, Harvey, are both hard workers in Zion. Dad's the local blacksmith, crafting swords and more traditional weaponry the dragonriders get to use. Mom's taken to gardening. She's addicted to dirt, and it puts awesome food on the table. She contributes a lot to the dining hall. My brothers, Jeffrey and Mitchell, have followed in Dad's footsteps, and are well on their way to learning the trade; leaving little, 'ole me stuck in the cabbage patch. Yeah, whatever, it's nice to help Mom, but I can't wait to learn some smithing. Swords are so cool!

Mom hates when I wander off, but I tend to disappear. I love to adventure, find trouble and get myself into it. She shouldn't worry so much, but that's a mom's job. I know how to find my way back home. I usually end up at Dad's shop, anyway. Mom hates that, too, but I can't stay away. Watching my dad and brothers is so awesome! Dad doesn't like me being in there, either, but if I puppy-eye him enough, he'll let me sit in the corner or watch from a distance until Mom shows up to scold us both. It's dangerous work. That's probably why I want to do it so bad. There are a lot of things I want to do.

I've always wanted to be a dragonrider. I couldn't shut up about it since the first time I saw a dragon claw at Zion's walls before bolting straight out of them. You can imagine how annoying I was when the hatching was announced. I had to get a dragon, or I'd curl up and die. Good thing, things went the way I wanted them to, or I'd be a crinkly, shriveled worm on the sidewalk.

I did go to the hatching, and I did get a dragon! I'm an official dragonet, rider of the green dragon, Firiveth, and on my way to becoming the greatest dragonrider of all time. Don't blink! You might miss it!

xxxP e r s o n a l i t yxxxxx

I'm a talker. Don't get me started. I'll go on and on about the most random, mindless, obnoxious garbage you've ever heard. I like to ask questions, but like knowing answers more. Nah, I'm not too cocky. I'm nice, I just have a way of fighting for the top, no matter how insignificant the situation. Comes with the territory. Imagine being little 'ole me, number three child, with two brothers popped out first. They're both bigger, stronger and taller than me, so I've had to kick and scream to get my say in most of the time. Can't let Mom and Dad forget about me. (Whatever, like they could!)

The better word for cocky would be outgoing or . . . spunky? Passionate? Eccentric? Yeah, sure. Sounds good. I've got a lot of guts for a kid my size and age. I like to get my hands dirty, never say die, dive in head first, and all that good stuff. There's not a lot of things I won't try or do. I'm a risk taker, very headstrong, determined and adventurous. Just ask Mom. When congratulated on the birth of one daughter, she'll deny it. Dad got five sons, one just has longer hair and different parts.

My biggest problem is disobedience. When there's something I wanna do, I'd rather beg forgiveness than ask permission. I'll sneak out after hours, explore all the wrong places, but can you blame me? Secrets, little dark corners and shadowy places are so exciting! I'm a curious child. You really wanna keep me out of something or someplace, don't bring it to my attention at all! Period! Ix-nay! Better yet, entertain me! Give me something to keep my hands busy, and I'm less likely to get into trouble. Zion's enormous, and I've got nothing better to do most of the time. I don't like to be bored, or scared, for that matter.

I don't admit to being scared of anything, but there's plenty out there to keep me up at night. Rebels scare me the most; what they'll do to people they don't like and other horror stories. But no matter what they do, I've decided drowning would be the worst way to die, so I avoid water at all cost. Me no swim! I'm also afraid of spooks. Ghosts, aliens, demons, vampires. . . . Dragons exist, why can't these creepy-crawlies? Irrational? Not for a believer. But I'll face my fears. Bring them on, I don't care!

The icing on the cake is that I'm a furious friend. I love my friends, and will defend them to the end, like any born hero. Sure, I'm a little rough around the edges, and not the little girl a lot of mommies let other girls play with because of a reputation for trouble. But that's why, when I do find friends, they're so important to me. I hold them close.

xTahirux

coral , yellow4