Name: X'il (Xantathil)
Age: 31 Turns (3541.Turnover)
Sex: Gender-fluid (Biologically female, accepts any pronouns)
Sexual Orientation: ???
Weyr: Western
Rider Rank: Wingrider
Previous Rank/Craft: Minecraft (wherhandler)
Physical Description: Despite her best attempts, X'il can't help but be a bit of an eye-catching sight when she enters a room. She dresses as neutrally as she can, favoring dark or plain colors, raw cloth without dye, aside from the occasional piece she can find to match Halcyath's hide. Rarely she can be spotted in a dress or skirt, though those too lack flair or ostentation. It's not her clothes that catch the eye, no. It's her skin, and her hair. Like klah cut with cream, viltiligo has left her an unusual—but beautiful, to the unbiased eye—sight; patchy whorls creep up the right side of her face and into her hair, down in erratic swaths across her torso and onto her arms. Her hair is usually cut to shoulder length, and only rarely tied back. More often her ever-present riding goggles hold it in place, like a headband or bandanna, the multi-colored strands mingling freely.
Somewhat meager in height at 5'8", her unintimidating presence is only softened by doleful black eyes and an almost-mournful tilt of her plump lips. Add to that an innate desire to be more or less ignored means she comes across almost like a ghost at times, a barely-there impression of someone that ideally (to her mind) never really lingers in anyone's thoughts.
Personality: X'il doesn't really talk much. It's not that she can't, it's just that she doesn't really want to, usually. Once upon a time she was a far more social person, but ever since the loss of her wher she's been more...introspective. As if a small part of her went missing, that no one, not even Halcyath, was quite able to fully replace. that trauma, on top of childhood trauma and teasing, has left her content to ignore most people and just quietly go about her life and work with only the company she absolutely needs to keep (AKA her dragon) around her. This sometimes makes her seem stand-offish, because she doesn't need people to be happy, and thus invests much less into her social appearances or relationships than most.
The same history that left her less keen to interact with people did have its positives though! She is very slow to judge, and even those who are disparaging of her will find no anger on her behalf for their harsh words. Everyone has their faults—some internal, some external—and she of all people doesn't let them bother her. Physical beauty means nothing to her, though while she could in theory find anyone attractive, she'd never be the type to say anything, or act on it either. She keeps her opinions to herself and Halcyath, and is often frustrating to others with her tendency to simply shrug an answer to any question that isn't actually, really important.
There is a layer of morbidity, of gloom and doom, of impending loss to her attitude as well. She's suffered as much loss as anyone else, she'll say if pressed. She just can't really help it if she's often caught up thinking about the past, or wondering what's beyond between. It makes her a bit of a wet blanket, but if she ever gets the sense that she's bringing down a room, she has no trouble leaving before anyone points it out. Let the rest have their parties, she doesn't mind being alone in the meantime.
Positive Trait List: Placid, introspective, patient, selfless.
Negative Trait List: Gloomy, antisocial, comes across as aloof, vague.
History: Born to a brothel worker in Nabol, X'il was born under the threat of a corrupt hold and the opportunistic nature of her habitat. She never knew her father, though her mother would tell her tales of him, painting him a fine, wealthy man. The fact that her tales often differed, in the man's origins or appearance or name, only further distanced X'il from the idea of finding him one day. He was no one, and it didn't really matter. What did matter, however, was the appearance of strange pale patches on her skin. What was once a 'pretty but common' young girl of ten turns became 'exotic', and 'unusual'. the matron of the brothel took an interest, already imagining the marks such a rare treasure might bring in, if she was trained right.
With her mother's blessing (or rather, lack of protest) young Xantathil was shipped south and west, to the Courtesan Hall, with high hopes that proper training would break her of her unfeminine ways and set her up to win the hearts of all who saw her...once she returned to the brothel that had sponsored her apprenticeship, that was.
But no one had bothered to ask Xantathil what she wanted, and as soon as she was out of sight of Nabol, she begged the rider ferrying her to take her somewhere, anywhere else. A share of the marks she'd been given to pay to the Courtesan Hall instead went into the opportunistic rider's pocket, and Xantathil found herself alone, in Crom. Thankfully the Hold was used to handling refugees from Nabol—which she was dubbed, young and solitary as she was—and she was absorbed into the ranks of the more isolated mining hold without a thought.
There she found a new passion. Untethered from the shady brothel, and given the chance to see all life offered, she discovered whers. 'Ugly, like her', she decided, and was instantly smitten. The pale portions of her skin spread over the turns, as did her love for the almost-dragons grow. She was an eager study, and fearless, not at all squeamish of chopping meat or offering it bloody to the hold's whers. At 14 she joined the ranks of the candidates...for a wher all her own, not a dragon. She avoided the clutches of fighting and show whers, repulsed by the echoes of her past she felt near the fighting pits, or seeing their merit counted solely by their beauty. No, she wanted a fine, standard, working-class wher. Someone to venture into the mines at her side, or stand watch at night in the place of a watch dragon. The wait wasn't long—such professions were less lucrative than fighting or showing, and she was left with the pick of the clutch when an elderly gold wher gave up her last batch of eggs. Without thinking she selected one, a beautiful large egg that hatched some time later into, of all things, a little golden beast. It was the last thing she wanted, but with a quick slice of the forearm, the bond was set. And Xantathisk, the little charmer, became her constant companion.
A life as a watch-wher handler was all she'd hoped it would be, and she reveled in the brusque, if genuine support her wher offered her. It wasn't the total, unconditional love that riders spoke of, but the chafing, almost rude approval of the gold suited her fine. For turns they stood guard in the hold, and with the large golden lady at her side to scare of those who would make fun of her looks or how some days she presented herself as a woman, and others a man (something that she had come to terms with after bonding to Xantathisk, as she neared her 20th nameday), Xantathil felt that life had become all she'd hoped it would be.
And then, tragedy. Late one night, when most of the hold slept, the pair stumbled upon a group of intruders—would-be assassins that had meant to strike at someone in the hold. Xantathil never learned who they had come for, or where they had come from. All that mattered to her was that, with a well-placed dagger, dipped in poison and meant for herself, her Xantathisk was slain. Suddenly alone, without her partner and her craft, she was rocked to her core. Some were understanding, abiding her need to grieve. Others didn't grasp the size of her loss. It wasn't, after all, as if Xantathisk had been a dragon. And indeed, losing her wher did not make her want to pass between to join her. But it hurt, more than she could ever express, and the hold, thankful for her sacrifice in their service, abided it.
When she put in a request to take some time to travel, clear her head before seeking to bond to another wher, it was granted. A trip to Western, she decided. And to Courtesan Hall. A peek in, to remind herself of what she'd escaped, and reignite her spirits. She had not counted on a hatching taking place the day after she arrived at Western Weyr, but allowed herself to be detoured. From the stands she daydreamed, comparing the impressions before her to the bonding of the whers she'd known. Oh, how she missed Xantathisk...
She would not want you to mourn, you know. The voice came creeping, placid, if slightly tinged with impatience. And were you still hers, then you could not be Mine. And you ARE mine. She left you for me to have...so come down here, Xantathil-mine. And do go about shortening that mouthful. Xantathil was hers, but...hm, yes. Xantathil was hers, but X'il is mine.
It was the last thing she had expected.
Other: Her necklace has a tooth from her deceased wher; it was lost a few months before the wher died, and serves as a memento.
DRAGON
Name: Halcyath
Age: 1 turn (3572.01.19 Lyraeth x Veoth)
Color: Blue
Size: 31'
Physical Description: Halcyath is resplendent. On the large side for a blue, his true claim to fame is the glittering hide he was blessed with. A living constellation, his skin shifts from nearly-white specks to deep midnight blues. He is a picture of regal grace in the air, but is somewhat slow on the ground. His steps are less sure, and he takes time to move to make sure nothing is out of place as he walks.
Personality: Halcyath doesn't have time for all this nonsense. He's a very clever dragon, and picks up tasks or concepts near-instantly. He is good at reading a person or another dragon, and sussing out the truth of their feelings. The trouble is that he doesn't really care about anyone else's feelings. While he's very good at getting to know his peers, he has no real interest in getting to know them, and often considers them beneath his notice. Usually that is expressed as an almost patronizing gentleness, the sort an adult would have with a small child, but occasionally comes out in cold gusts of biting criticism. And those who speak against the weyrs, or against what they do for Pern, he likes the very least of all.
He is wholly and totally devoted to the cause of ridding Pern of thread, and while he approves of Western's success, he is somewhat backwards in the eyes of the weyr for his feelings about how things should be run. His ambition extends only so far as to be the best blue dragon he can be—and his rider's less-than-keen thoughts on being, well, a rider, help to firm up that notion. He isn't meant to be a leader, but he can be a sharding good follower, and takes orders to the letter, especially from the weyr's golds and bronzes. Now if only the other blues and greens would be so reasonable...
Pros: Intelligent, perceptive, steady, devoted.
Cons: Distant, reticent, hidebound, impersonal.
Dragon Art or Proof of Obtainment:
