THE MASTER
Name: Verin
Age: 47
Gender: Male
Craft/Rank: Blacksmith, Master
Appearance:
- Hair: Coarse, thick, and black, he keeps it cut to his shoulders in thick, tight braids he almost never takes out. On the extremely rare chances he takes his hair down, he shows to have rather curly hair, though if this is due to turns of being in braids, he's not sure any more. He does have facial hair, mostly scruff along his jaw and up to his hairline along his cheeks. Kept short mainly due to not wanting it to catch fire. Again. Here and there, streaks of grey cut through his braids and facial scruff.
Eyes: Narrow, thick-lashed and deep-set. A light, amber brown color. Deep crow-lines and more beneath the lower lids line his eyes. Laughter and sleep deprivation in equal share.
Skin: Dark golden-brown, marked with tiny pale scars here and there from sparks and early, tiny burns from the forges he's worked throughout his career. His right forearm is heavily scarred, however it is from dragon claws and teeth. Some of the scars run deep, making actual imprints on the flesh. The lower on his arm one goes, closer to the hand, the more frequent and crisscrossed the scars become, until at the hand itself. He is missing his pinky and a slight piece of his hand beneath it. These damages were gained at his first Hatching while still a Candidate.
Bodytype: Approaching on 6'7", Verin wears his height and bulk well. A man of clear strength through his upper body, his arms and chest are deeply defined by muscles. His lower body is thick, but again his form speaks of solid strength.
Personality:
- Klah is his life-blood. It might as well be, for the amount he's consumed throughout his life. Sleep was something that never came easily to Verin, and over the turns he developed a preference to spend his time working rather than sleeping. There were always training to be done, assignments to finish, projects to tackle. Even chores were time better spent than on sleep. Later in life was no different, with orders to fill, tools to remake or reimagine if there were the need, a child to raise. Even more children to teach as his apprentices. Sleep is not a luxury. It's a time waster. Minimal naps keep him fresh--as do frequent pots of klah. He developed a strong taste for the stuff early in his life.
It's easy to attribute his supposed sleep deprivation to his lack of open cheer. An incorrect assumption, but easy enough with how the large man goes around grunting out minor agreements or disagreements. Words in general beyond simple greetings, more elaborate instructions, transaction dealings, and the occasional offer to help try on armor... Extra socializing doesn't really happen between Verin and new faces. Smiles come slow to his features, and often newcomers to his forge are met with looks as steely as the substance in his hands. Deals are struck quickly--haggling should rarely be attempted, though youngers with spark and adults with actual sense between their ears might get some leniency from him. No-nonsense is an easy word to describe Verin and how he keeps his workspace. Indeed, there's only so much he'll say to a new face, or a vaguely recognizable face. Burned more times than he'd like to recount, Verin expects newcomers to come and go. Quickly. There is little reason for him to spend time coddling or minding his manners around those he does not expect to last long in his corner of the world. Longer conversations are wasted breath unless they are for business or knowledge, in his mind. Those that dwindle in his space, form niches in his frame of reference, are those he treats with far more warmth and laughter. It only takes a handful of visits before he begins to view others as just that, more constants. Verin is the first in that case to break the awkward silences or move from simple conversations to more small talk. Seeing someone enough times will certainly have him asking questions if they'll permit it. Now and then, glimpses of a younger man spark through the grit and scars. One who enjoys speaking to people and learning their tales. A youngster whom once earned a few cuffs and scolds for pranks against other candidates, a young man who knew more about laughter than the gravel and thorns of the world around him. Though time has ground that constant laughter down, shoved coal and metal atop it to smother it down, Verin has not lost all his humor. He'll laugh readily with comrades and colleges, play with the children whom call the Weyr home when not tending to his own brat. That others might think he simply has his favorites and hates the rest of the world... wouldn't have the wrong impression. Unless someone becomes a constant.
Those that do get to see his humor will, along with warmth and a rather fantastic drinking buddy and bodyguard, be treated with an undeniable silent request of stay. For all his gruff appearances and demeanor, Verin is a man whom can only properly deal with separation he himself instigates. To lose someone he considers a constant in his life is a jarring experience for him. Calling it painful is to put it lightly. He breaks down. Loss is not something this man deals with well. His sense to cope is to hold tighter to those he wants to keep, and push himself to the brink in his work. After experiencing a loss, Verin gives gifts he likely shouldn't be buying, or using pricey materials in hand-made gifts it would take a few marks to replace. He spoils those he wants to hold onto. Bribes. Silent begging. While none would see him crying, finding Verin hunched over a roaring forge, gulping down air like a landed fish, isn't such an uncommon site when he believes he is alone. Losing a constant in his life keeps the smith out of sorts--though highly productive--for a few weeks at a time. His rebound is a slower state. It's among the few times he'll put down the klah and actually sleep. Those who know him, know Verin is back to his usual self when the dark lines of sleep deprivation come back to him, and they're not getting snazzy gifts a few times a day.
Verin is, in much of a sense, a volcano. Slow to boil, yet with contents as fiery as anything, an erupting top is inevitable in some situations. In the smith's case, his is a slow, drawn out eruption. Not a massive explosion sending bits flying this way and that, but steady and liable to smother all around it. Gritting teeth and flexing muscles, Verin in a fit of anger is a caged beast, more than willing to lash out with bellows and insults, but physically contained. He at least knows he's got his forge for that vent. He'll lift no weapon in threat beyond his own fists--and that's only if a weapon is drawn on him, though he's hardly experienced in such situations. His rage is a slow thing to cool, simmering and boiling away for long periods of time before he can finally move on. He won't act as if nothing happened. He'll try and find the other party involved and speak to them of the matter. But he'll push onward, attempt to mend what was broken, or otherwise leave it behind if the conflict was harsh enough. His choice, though. He'll suffer the same grief as any if his temper lead to a loss of someone he was fond of. There's no changing that light.
History:
- Once upon a time, Verin was one of two children. Offspring of riders at High Reach Weyr, Irrinnia and her brother lived comfortable lives. They knew their place. Though duty could call them away at a moment's notice, their parents tried to be there for their children. Verin could ask for nothing. At the age of four, the Civil War meant nothing to him. The only comprehension he had of it was one moment he had a father. Then he did not. He had a baby brother, though. Vlynn was born not long after their father and his dragon fell in battle. The first impression Verin had of a dragonrider's life was the simple understanding of a child that it lead to his father never coming home. It was the first loss he'd ever comprehended.
Like many other Weyrbrats, Verin was among those chosen as a candidate as he came of age. His sister before him, and even their youngest brother with them, the youth was a keen wit and sharper tongue. Nights were made for extra studying, extra training... or playing pranks on his fellows, should the amusement strike. Strike it did. Often. Punishments were taken in stride, always the grin on his cheeky face that the crime had been worth it. Most noted, he rarely seemed alone. Sarenna was often there right along with him in the schemes and pranks. The crafty girl had the greater sense to not get caught, she'd always sneer and jeer at him, during or after his extra chores or lessons. As energetic as he, the two formed a fast friendship, one where both children jeered and shoved the other. Always to be better, always to be faster, stronger. Sarenna became one of his constants. Even if the two ended up rather black and blue due to one another. During this time, as the boy grew and was taken on as a squire, that he began to watch the blacksmiths work their trade. Armor and buckles and tools and extravagant detailing. He was amazed and astounded by the craft. All too willing to run errands for his dragonrider-master when they included relaying orders to or picking up orders from the smiths, Verin gained his first tidbits of facts and minor lessons behind the creation of many of the basic tools he and his teacher used daily.
Not long after his seventeenth birthday, a Hatching had all candidates in a twitter. Verin, Irrinnia, and Sareena were among the hopefulls gathered in hopes of Impressing. Years later, Verin can still recall little of the actual event. He could recall the sight of the new dragons moving towards them. The awe of a bronze coming towards him. Towards him.
Supposedly, Sarenna had tried to pull him from the jaws of the dragon, even as the bronze had his claws and fangs buried into Verin's hand. He lost his little finger to the dragon, along with a bit more of his hand, chunks of flesh from his arm. Sarenna had done her best to keep him stable until the healers could get to him--the additional support and confidence of the green whom she'd Impressed certainly helped. After a delirious few days with the healers, Verin had been distressed by the news of what had happened. Both his sister and friend had Impressed. Both had escaped without injury. He'd failed in both aspects, wounds slowly turning to scars that would follow him the rest of his years. Though Irrinnia tried to convince her brother he still had time, he still had hope, Verin began to notice Sarenna spent less and less time with him, despite his best attempts to keep up with his dear friend. She closed the doors behind her, lifted by wings Verin had no access to. The boy turned his new found free time, no longer so interested in pranks and games when so many were spent alone, to the smiths of the Weyr. Learn more of their trade--to repair armor and gear, of course. Useful tricks.
He told himself they would be tricks and knowledge useful for a rider. He continued to tell himself this, as another Hatching came and went without a dragon by his side. Sarenna had since taken the name S'nna, graduating with her green without hitch. Even Irrinnia, then I'rin, could only say so much to her brother. Under the warmth of the forges where he began to spend so much of his time, S'nna sought Verin. To rekindle their friendship, he spoke words they both wanted to hear. Words that bound them back to one another, even his twenty-first birthday came. Went. The next day, was accepted by one of the smiths he'd spent so much time with as an apprentice. S'nna had embraced him that day, saying it was not a shameful thing. It'd been a few weeks before his family could say the same.
Turns went onward. Verin continued to act as an apprentice blacksmith, throwing himself into his new craft. Friends from his time as a candidate continued to visit him now and then. His family became frequent visitors to the forge, even his younger brother then under the name of V'yn. S'nna was his constant, however. At the age of thirty, Verin and S'nna made their relationship known. Partners, it was a well-known secret up until that point the two were bound. He was growing comfortable and confident in his life. Steel, iron, and flame was his mediums, an artist of his own right. Or so he'd like to think, as he worked and shaped the precious materials around him. The disrupt to his constants came in the skirmishes between the High reaches and Ruatha. It was only by the surviving members of her wing returning to the Weyr that he and his family learned of I'rin's death and of Velveth joining her in the between. Verin himself often thinks back on that moment. Had a piece of him gone with the dragon and her rider to that place? For how he went on, a man possessed, after hearing of his sister's death... it felt as if some of him had been lost. For months after, he worked without rest. Even S'nna had difficulty reaching him in the place he'd withdrawn himself to. He fought to return to her, pull himself back. Be there for her, if no one else. Yet he found new excuses to be upset with his life. He could learn little else from the blacksmiths of High Reach.
S'nna fought him on his decision. She would not wait for him. Verin made his decision. The tension among his remaining family, the distress he felt with his life. He needed to leave. Needed space. That the woman he adored would not wait for him was a loss Verin formed for himself. He left for Telgar without final word to her. To be fair, the time he spent away from the Weyr was necessary. He was taken on by masters far beyond what he believed the smiths of High Reach Weyr were capable. The new exposure to culture, other people, new styles of how to work the metal and materials--Verin felt the rekindle of passion for the craft, the reawakened wonder and respect he needed to help fuel him. He felt he had a purpose again, goals to chase. It was turns before he returned to High Reach. He knew he would at some point, and had long braced himself for what he would find upon his return. Or rather, find a lack of. That S'nna wasn't there with arms wide open for him hadn't been a tremendous shock. A painful one, yes, but expected. She'd given him the warning.
What had been a jolt to his system, the unsettling note, was returning to the Weyr and, through his brother no less, learn of a dark haired, pale-eyed toddler S'nna was sometimes spotted with. The woman herself was nowhere to be found by the smith, instead turning to the creche directly. Sure enough, there the toddler was. The rider often left the babe with the creche for days--if not weeks--at a time, something he only later came to understand as her way of separating herself from his child. The child he quickly took custody of, toting her from his living quarters and the forge--occasionally. Not that he went without suggestions from family and friends alike he use the creche more. He used the creche sparingly, disliking the extended time spent away from his daughter. While he would leave her there during the vast majority of his time spent at the forge, training his apprentices, or even simply out with others. Saverah was his new constant. The moment he could, he would return to the creche to retrieve her. Any suggestions to do otherwise were shrugged away. Verin wanted his daughter near by. She certainly never complained of their time together. Even if her mother barely spoke a handful of words to him in his time since returning to High Reach, their daughter rarely left her father's side as she grew.
With the good came the bad. The Dragonplague hit hard. The Civil War no better. Once again, Verin saw the pain and loss of being a dragonrider. Loss that spread to him, stripping him of more constants he held so tightly to. His mother and brother were lost to the plague and combat. S'nna survived, and it was after their deaths did she again approach him. Only minor words were exchanged. Saverah had required his attention. His constant. His daughter. S'nna did not linger when the girl was around. Verin managed to keep somewhat above the brink, doing what he could to smother his stress and dismay around his daughter. Remain a rock, for her sake. In that, he could understand the loss viewed from a child.
By the time he again felt the need to travel to Telgar, ready to try for his Mastery, Saverah had become a candidate herself. Though unnerved by his daughter following both his and her mother's paths, unsure which branch she would truly follow, he knew her to be in good hands and watchful eyes. He departed without much issue, though a promise to bring something back to Saverah from his trip. The trip back to Telgar was a bright one, filled with reunions and cheers and exchanges of techniques. Old friends he had not seen in turns were a sight indeed. As was his success, earning his Mastery at last. The blade he'd brought before the Master Crafter and other Master smiths had been an interlocking pair, intricate and sleek in their design. A double-bladed staff that could be detached and used for dual-blades. Even the sheaths locked together, reinforcing the blades into a dense staff. He'd been undoubtedly proud of his work, of the use of the weapon. Never mind the carvings along one side of the blade, depicting dragons and flame lancing across the metal on both. That he'd come with multiples, to show the design could be reproduced with enough skill and dedication, in different weights and lengths to accommodate different combatants, had been enough to grant him his goal. His victory.
In retrospect, he's still not sure if going out drinking that night with his fellows was the smartest idea. They'd been talking of bonds and children over their drinks, and Verin had brought up Saverah... and S'nna. With the woman on his mind and drink muffling much of his sense, he'd been reckless. Bought a golden firelizard egg. A gift for the lady he wished would come around more again. He was back on his trip home the next day--hangover and all--and had assumed the egg would last long enough as such for him to return back. Or hoped, rather. Really, really hoped. Such was not his luck, though. The tiny firelizard clawed her way from the egg, and in slight dismay Verin found himself rather attached to the little Ceera. Didn't help his position when upon returning home, Saverah was squealing over the prospect of visiting the tiny gold each time she went to see her father. His daughter's cheer won him over. As did Ceera's rather unwavering affection. He still hasn't shown S'nna the creature, even turns later still. Though he had long since given her one of his blades that had granted him his new status, and now and then caught glimpses of her, the weapons strapped to her back or at her sides. Master Smith of High Reach Weyr, at only forty-four turns... Left him with quite a bit to keep up on. Not enough time to catch more than glimpses. His daughter, Ceera, and the few other constants in his life. Those are where his attention go... when he has the time. He's often not sure he can even spend enough time with them, training all the more apprentices now than he'd even been before.
- Timeline
Born turn 156 in High Reach Weyr to rider parents. Middle of three children born to the lovers: elder sister, Irrinnia born in 154; younger brother, Vlynn born in 160.
In 160, when Verin was 4, his father was killed just before the end of the Civil War.
At age 12 in 168, became a Candidate. First met Sarenna.
At age 15 in 171, Verin began showing an interest in metalworking, spending what little free time he had away from his squiring and duties to listen in to the smiths.
At age 17 in 173, Sr. Gold Pheneth clutched--Verin did not Impress, but Irrinnia did to a green, as did Sarenna. Verin lost a finger to a dragon, and his forearm was heavily scarred. He and Sarenna began to slowly drift apart after this point.
At age 19 in 175, Hiraeth clutched--again, Verin did not Impress. He began to spend more and more time with the smiths of the Weyr, something the rider he squired for showed an increased support of. Sarenna--now S'nna--tried to rekindle their friendship, something Verin held tight to.
In 177, at age 21, Verin aged out of Candidacy. He turned all his time and energy into his new craft, becoming an official apprentice to one of the Weyr's smiths the day after his birthday.
Turn 179, at age 18, Vlynn Impressed a brown.
In early 184, Verin and S'nna became partners. Later that turn, Irrinnia--then I'rin--and green Velveth were killed in one of the skirmishes between Ruatha and High Reaches.
In late 186, Verin left for Telgar Weyr to learn more of his craft--and to separate himself from the growing grief and tension amongst his family. His departure was not met well by S'nna, who told him plainly she would not wait for him to return.
In early 187, Saverah was born. Verin was 31.
190, Verin returned to High Reach, only to discover he had a two year-old daughter. S'nna took minimal care of the child, mostly used the creche. Verin took immediate responsibility of Saverah, even as he took back to the forge.
In 193, between the Great Dragonplague and the Civil War, Verin's mother went between after her dragon, as did Vlynn--then V'yn--and brown Calloth.
Became a Master at age 42 in 198 after studying his craft for 21 turns. Had to briefly leave High Reach again for Telgar, though at this point Saverah was a Candidate, a setting and guardianship he felt comfortable leaving her in. When he returned in mid 199, Saverah was just about to start her time as a squire. During his time in Telgar, he'd purchased what he knew to be an overly expensive, extravagant thing. A gold firelizard egg. He may or may not have been drinking a bit in celebration of his Mastery with his fellows before this happened. He'd hoped to get it back to High Reach to give to S'nna--the two hadn't really spoken much since he'd returned--but the thing hatched en route. He's since kept it--half because it's bonded to him, half because Saverah later remarked she loved being able to visit the firelizard at his home and forge.
Became the Master smith of High Reach Weyr at age 44 in late turn 200.
FIRELIZARD
Name: Ceera [sear-a]
Color: Gold
Personality: Nit-picky, finicky little thing. What might be her greatest regret in life is having an owner whom gets so filthy in his day-to-day work. He's at least noticed her tendency to nudge his tools and supplies into a sense of order, and she'll only perch on surfaces properly cleaned. While she'll let Verin pat or pet her with less-than-pristine hands, none other is given such a treatment. Even his daughter is met with a wary eye and snapping jaws if she doesn't at least make a show of dabbing at her hands with a wet cloth. If she can't find a good, clean place to perch, she'll scoot up to Verin's shoulder. In such a place, she seems to find it necessary to run her claws and muzzle through his braids. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was preening him...
