{ D R A G O N R I D E R }
- Name: Saverah S'vera
Age: 17
Gender: Female
Appearance
- Hair: Dark brown. Finally allowed to grow, it shows to be coarse and thick, and curls. Curls a lot. Once upon a time before she'd become a candidate, it'd been a mass of thick braids that otherwise was a tangle of wavy, curling locks. At this point, the mass of curls and waves fall past her shoulders. Bangs cut somewhat shorter--in a haphazard, did it herself way--the rest of her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, from which various braids hang. She's of the habit that, once the braids are in, they stay in even through washings. Only when absolutely necessary--as in, orders from above--or when she's decided to refashion her braids will she take them out.
Eyes: Pale blue, thick lashes. Inquisitive and bright, a wide-eyed look is not uncommon.
Skin: Darker tan, golden and brown.
Bodytype: For her short stature of barely 5', S'vera has most of her length in her legs. A body slowly developing towards dexterity and flexibility, her intent to push boundaries has signs of muscle mass slowly forming through her arms and legs.
- Personality:
- First sights of S'vera range only slightly. Loud laughter and teeth showing past grinning lips, to something of a snicker behind a corner turn in the hall, to gritted teeth and snarling insults. Slightly. Slightly. Sarcasm is also a thing she deals in. Often.
A girl of metal and stone, S'vera is about as stubborn as the rock of the earth itself. She stands with her hands on hips and chin high, and for far more reasons than simply making sure she's seeing the world she's dealing with. Expecting to meet the eyes of those she deals with, she is brazen with her actions and open with her thoughts. In her eyes, the truest path is the straightforward one. Heart on her sleeve--along with her opinions on everything--S'vera treats others in the exact way she expects to be treated in turn. Or at least, would prefer to be treated. In part. In there is where her hypocrisy lies: S'vera is very much the curious sort, loving to ferret out stories and secrets however she may. Eavesdropping is a life-long hobby of hers, and where the vast majority of her grand dreams have emerged. Yet for every person who's caught her and bitten her a new one over her antics, and for how she'll ignore all the warnings about eavesdropping... The very concept that someone else would eavesdrop on her is a rather infuriating one.
Mainly because her pride would sting quite a bit to learn someone had gotten the best of her.
Growing up in the Weyr has instilled the young woman with a strong understanding of ranks, the authority they hold, and the boundaries set by said authority and rules. Growing up in the Weyr has also instilled on her the various chances to learn the existence of wonderful things such as loopholes and sentence structure. When dealing with S'vera, a very simple rule applies at all times: Say exactly what you mean and not a hair more or less. The girl seemingly lives for picking apart directions and instructions, shoving at boundaries figurative and physical alike. Often, she'll ask a wide variety of questions if the time and situation allow, trying to get to the absolute specifics of the orders or assignment given to her. What she views as the "real boundaries" she's facing. If she doesn't want to push the boundaries, and simply know the full extent she's able to "work in," she'll ask her questions. If she just accepts the instructions... well. That's the appropriate time to get suspicious or lay down some quick new rules to keep her in line. The less specifics S'vera looks for, the more she's planning on using the original information to push the limits of what was given to her. No, she won't be doing anything illegal--least not intentionally--and she won't be planning on hurting anyone. S'vera simply is the sort who feels she works best when given the leeway to do things her own way, by her own creativity and logic. Pushing boundaries often follow that concept--trying to figure out how much she can do what she wants to, while still following the letter of the other's instructions or orders.
Of course, social boundaries are a whole other world.
Scrapes and bruises are signs of a good time in her book. Punches and cuffs to the back of the head--or middle of the back, if the other's too tall for her--are signs of affection. Brash and brazen, there's not too much about S'vera that can be defined as 'soft.' Something that makes socializing... a tad difficult at times. Well aware of the female stereotype of being overly emotional and quick to talk about feelings, the girl often considers herself unfeminine. Emotional conversations--with anyone, at any time, on any subject--put her on edge and make her squirm. Heart-to-hearts are... difficult at best, to say the least, with S'vera running for the nearest escape point at worst. She's far more the type to give friends an awkward pat on the shoulder when they're upset and try to distract them with random news, gossip, or games. Rather than, y'know, actually talking with them about what's bothering them. On the same token, don't expect S'vera to open up when she's in distress. Oh you'll know it if she's angry with you, or with the rules or regulations or nearly anything under the sun. But if something is bothering her on a deeper, far more personal level? She'll cork it till she can vent in private. Or until she cracks and the cork can't contain things any more. Emotional outbursts to that extent are short-lived but potent, leaving S'vera in a drained, usually sobbing mess either in her room or somewhere she can hopefully hide beneath Zevoath's wing for a bit. Proper coping mechanisms are required for her, as thus far she's only had much luck with 'go beat something up' under the guise of training. That being said, if someone believes she is getting towards a breaking point, the signs are obvious. She'll be more snark and snarls than usual, fidgeting and flexing her fists at nearly every turn. Zevoath usually is quick to try and intervene at this point, as likely the only soul able to coax personal topics out of the girl. For the rest of the world? Give her a good spar, or a challenge to work on. Something to direct her energy on.
She's all metal and stone and too much energy can lean to a meltdown. Or a wicked cool creation. All depends on what forces are applied how and when.
- Background:
- There have been three main constants in S'vera's life. Her father, her curiosity, and the Weyr.
Born in 186 as the first--and thus far only--child of the smith Verin and the green rider S'nna, Saverah grew up in the heat and noise of the forge. Or that is at least all she remembers of her early life. She'd heard her father hadn't been present for her first two years of life, and that her mother had been the one to care for her. True or not, the first memory Saverah can recall is of sitting on straw behind forged iron bars that penned her in, staring up at the big man hammering out a sword. The sounds and smells of the forge were the first scents she could recognize, the sound of a hammer striking metal and water hissing as hot metal was placed in it.
Her first memory of her mother didn't happen until Saverah was around four--and even then, it was only a minor glimpse, as a woman with brown hair stormed from her father's forge as the child had approached, walking with her uncle. It was only when V'yn asked why S'nna had been there--to which Verin had only grunted and slammed away at a piece that was to become a breastplate--that the tiny girl had spoken up, tugging on her father's pant leg to ask who the lady was. Saverah is oddly convinced, thinking back on the memory, that her mother would have never stood out to her, had she not seen the worn, tragic look on her father's smudged face. "Your mother. S'nna, your mother." It wouldn't be until Saverah was around ten when she would actually exchange words with the greenrider, though in the years before then the girl became a constant sneaking around the parts of the Weyr accessible by foot. If word was S'nna was on the lower floors, Saverah wouldn't be far behind, creeping the best she could through shadows or ducking in crevices to try and catch better views of the woman. Despite her best attempts to strike up words with the rider, try to impress her, S'nna would always avoid the child--or outright ignore her.
Where S'nna was removed and unreachable, Verin was a rock for the flighty Saverah. If he couldn't watch her in the forge--a difficult task, as she'd begun her career of climbing and sneaking around back when he'd made the forged pen to keep her in--he'd send her to the creche while he worked. It was a stressful time for both each time he left her there. Saverah loathed the time spent with the other children, and often tried sneaking away. Adults caught her--usually, much to her discomfort--and returned her to her place. Her sullen moods rarely lifted while she was--as she openly called it--locked up in the creche. The women who worked there could sometimes order the girl to remain in a room, or stay by them as they did rounds. In such times, she behaved the best. Being given a task, an order, seemed to give her something to focus on behind missing her father. He always returned for her later that day, picking her up and lifting her to his shoulders if the women stated she had been well-behaved. Or at least hadn't tried to sneak away.
As the girl grew older, it wasn't just her mother she'd try to shadow. Instead, Saverah turned her attention to other riders who came down to the first few levels of the Weyr, listening in as they told their tales of combat and sights from across Pern--far fetched or not, she was enthralled. Her imagination soared as she watched the dragons, listened to the stories. Her uncle and grandmother now and again spoke with her, introduced her to their dragons. They wove tales of their own. Of her father when he was younger, of the aunt she never met. Of their own adventures. All was fodder for the young mind. Reasons to play, reasons to try and work at her studies. As the Great Dragonplague hit, and the Civil War with it, Saverah lost her grandmother and uncle. For her young eyes, they were reasons to fight. Her illusions of grandeur didn't dissipate in the slightest, though she stuck closer to her father for a spell. The seven year-old wasn't accustomed to seeing her immense father cry. Even at such a young age, the expression of emotions made her uneasy and--in the case of seeing her father of all people morn the losses--queasy. Verin at least was able to recognize his daughter's unease with such displays, though it troubled him that she was more affected by his distress than the loss of her family members.
When she was twelve, she was selected to become a candidate. She'd expected no leniency, and indeed she pushed without question to show her eagerness to learn. She certainly wasn't trying to show off her skills. She had about zip. Knew something of weapons, having spent so much time watching her father make them. Could easily name various weapons, materials used to make them, and the like. She'd been full of tips for how to care for gear, when self-defense and combat training began. Had a concept of her dexterity, slipping around as she'd always done as a kid sneaking after various adults and tales. The lessons that grated on her were always the literacy. And history. And really anything with lectures and not a lot of hands-on. Been almost happy her father had taught her how to read prior. Chores were bliss compared to the time she'd spent trying to force the required knowledge into her brain. Learning from books and lectures was not her strong suit. Books she could only hold onto the information for so long. Lectures? The words would stay with her, no doubt there. It was simply the fact she'd be bored to tears that her mind would wander right out to the sky. She'd spent much of her time with homework struggling, less she had the fortune of begging the aid of another candidate. She hadn't been against trading chores or training assistance for homework help. Anything to pass. Anything to get beyond the grueling part.
Must have worked somehow. Saverah made it. Somehow. Often she questions it herself, recounting all the times she'd received extra chores and exercises for some of her more rowdy behavior early on. Energy was one thing, a brazen spirit another as well. Down-right objecting to some of the lessons and demands hadn't gone over so well. Nor had her attempts to wriggle out of punishments by attempting to use rules to her favor. Never quite went that way. Never stopped her from listening to instructions or requirements quite carefully, trying to determine what the real limits were, if she felt something was a bit too constrictive. Her success with such tests varied.
One test came, went. Passed. Passed in brilliant color. She'd Impressed. Awed by the Hatching, yet fully aware of the dangers from the relatively minor injuries her father still bore, Saverah had been on pins and needles at the Sands. Excitement burned and unease twinged her thoughts with frost. She'd wanted to move, she'd wanted to do something. Shout, run. Something. Anything to rid herself of the energy that boiled her blood and sent pins and needles through her legs. Held still, tried to look as calm and disciplined as possible. Someone else felt her need to burn, though. A warm, vast voice filled her head. Dark, golden eyes bore into wide ones, the newly hatched brown trying to carefully maneuver around other candidates to reach her. He'd done well--least, she thought so. She didn't see him jar anyone, though her usually darting attention was a tad captured by the dragon. He'd ducked his head as he'd approached, cocking it to the side to peer somewhat up at her before nudging his head into her middle. Shoved her. He would play with her. Not there. But later. That was the promise that had helped to calm her, though he'd given her a new ventilation for her energy, not minding as the girl ran her hands over his face and neck and wow those wings were huge....
She'd been on pins again, introducing Zevoath to her father. The large man looked older than she'd ever seen him before, worn and wary by the time she'd finally been able to speak to him after the Hatching. That she came accompanied by a dragon, a brown no less--so similar to his younger brother--had made her nervous. Her fears were shattered as he'd caught her up in his arms, cheering and laughing and--Saverah had refused to acknowledge the moisture in his eyes. The obvious relief as his shoulders had slumped the moment he'd spotted his daughter walking towards him, unharmed and well and Impressed. She refused. He was stronger than that, so was she. It'd been quite the sight though--still was--to see how the big man and big dragon almost bonded over... well. Her. And her tendency to need a guard, according to both males. Men...
Her time as a Weyrling came... and went. Far more hands-on than her time as a candidate--and with a nagging dragon more than willing to nudge her to focus on her studies--Saverah had a vaguely easier time. In terms of she at least didn't fall asleep during lectures. Her energy never left, nor her enthusiasm. By the time the First Flight rolled around, she was nearly bursting with her thrill. Zevoath... had been not quite as sure, though when the time came for him to push off from the edge it was Saverah's cheers and sheer joy radiating through the bond that lifted the young dragon off. Wing drills became a pleasure and a bright point in the days for them both, if slightly one-sided. Such were the similar sensation when came time for them to fly as a pair. Saverah hadn't been able to sleep the night prior, abuzz with excitement. Zevoath had been enthusiastic, but wary. He was right to be. She'd nearly fallen off when she'd convinced him to try a loop. He hadn't even gotten through the turn before he realized there was an issue.
He still doesn't approve of how much she pushes for him to do aerial stunts. She'll never let him live down the failed loop.
Recently graduated, changing her name to S'vera in homage to both her parents, she is... a tad adrift. Her time not spent training, or doing drills with Zevoath, is typically spent with her father. Throughout her years as a candidate, and even as a Weyrling, she'd continued to spend time learning from her father the methods behind smithing. Not to pursue it as he did, though she finds a great love in tinkering with metal and fixing up worn gear. Tending to her own is relaxing, and often brings back thoughts of the forge. The idea of fashioning a weapon for herself is still pretty neat though. A large part of her covets one of her father's linking twin blades, though she's unsure if he'll ever just give her a pair...
{ D R A G O N }
- Name: Zevoath
Colour: Brown
Age: Two turns.
Appearance: A large member of his color at around 35' long, one who often ducks his head and tucks in his wings to try and not look... quite so large. Lean muscle cords beneath flesh the color of parched soil, with an underbelly that sinks to a greying tone. Dark brown spots pepper his form, with a long tail that he has a tendency to curl back towards his hind legs. Dark, aged golden-amber hued eyes are his more preferred coloration, though any tint on the earthy spectrum is relatively common. His wingspan is a tad longer than necessary, even for his size. A long, relatively streamline figure made for speed and stamina, Zevoath is one made for speedy approaches and lunges... and his size grants him the ability to take blows till he's able to make a retreat. Assuming the large paws he's still growing into don't manage to knock out whatever he's going up against, that is.
Personality:
- If you ever want to find a dragon that's a bit of a pushover for any female of any race... just find Zevoath. His partner discovered early the ease in which she--or any female, for that matter--could direct or order around the brown without much qualm. Female authority is simply the authority he prefers to follow, finding little reason to openly question one who gives him a direction. While not to say he'd roll over for every female that ordered him to--he's no pet, thank you--he finds respect easier to come for the so-called 'fairer' sex. Males? He'll bring himself to his full height against without pause, asking questions and expecting answers he agrees with before complying. A male requires proof and a reason for Zevoath to fall to a following position behind. He judges them far harsher than he would a woman, nit-picking their logic and tactics constantly. Perhaps not outwardly, as he's not the brazen fool his partner is and knows very well the consequences of authority, but he'd not accept their logic as quickly as a female whom has given him relatively minimal cause to trust.
Zevoath is more than capable of giving his input to a female as he is to keep his own council--especially in the case of S'vera. Her, he'll often follow her lead, trailing behind her in her antics and brazen words. Not without his opinions either way, of course, often falling back to being the voice of reason to his bonded. His size certainly allows him a greater control of situations than hers. It's not without question that Zevoath will become the type to literally lift his rider up and drag her out of trouble if need be--in many cases, he already is doing just that. He's a tendency to try and silence her with his tail over her mouth, flicking her with said tail, or all-out covering her with one of his wings. Should situations allow, of course. If more silent methods are needed, he'll simply scold her loudly in her head.
A lover of long conversations and moral debates, Zevoath takes pride in the simple ability to listen. Quick to warm up to others, and happy to prattle about the weather to pass the time with a stranger, he strongly takes to the concept that every encounter can be grand. Lead to something. A nugget of knowledge can be garnished from anywhere. Or a nugget of cheer. He'll take both, without question. Give him a warm rock to sun himself on, a story from another era or land, or even just mindless conversation to pass the time, and he'll consider it a time very well spent. Easy going, his temper is relatively non-existent. Far more prone to simply becoming annoyed or exasperated--at which point, he's happy to use his size to snarl and scare the annoyance away, if able without massive consequences--he is by far the type to try and push away a problem before it could boil into a larger mess. Regroup from afar then re-approach is his preferred method. Rarely will S'vera go along with this, and if anyone is more prone to seeing his temper, it would be her. Snarls and huffs and stomping his massive paws are at least among the extent she'll experience physically, but mentally... he can rant. A long, long time. Others whom push him past his brink must be wary. Without proper authority near by to keep him in check, even the rather calm Zevoath can take to a violent frenzy when feeling his rider or he are in particular danger.
- Other: To S'vera, Zevoath speaking in her mind brings along the sensation of dry heat, large spaces, open skies. She describes it as "warm freedom," if questioned.
