K'rill's Tourist-Trap Marble-Bronze Llynth

Controversial Moment Egg
Where to begin? A cacophonous path of life and death, of dark and
light, of old and young, of rich and poor, of happiness and sadness
winds the record of an age in a mosaic of hues over the ovoid's squat
sides. They bulge with the watery blues of experience and the
faulty crimson of failure, marking an era in untended trails from
point to base. Like majestic trees and their rings for years of
life, some may count revolutions from the blurry low extreme, near a
hazy grey darkness, but some may count from a definite gate in
sharper soil-brown. Follow the shell's road past lumpy hours, smooth
days, rough months, and changing Turns to a flat but struggling apex
and an unclear finish to the highways and byways that ribbon their
way around the egg: could be here, could be there, where to end?

Controversial Moment Egg crinkles ever so slowly, ring by ring by
ring, blues and crimson and grey, as if casting centuries of memories
into the sand. Even when its unusually thick shell finally does
fall, the hatchling that claws out of its sac seems at first to be
just another lump, and widening his wings does little to demolish
that impression.

Tourist-Trap Marble-Bronze Dragonet
Heft he has, and height, raised stalwart on admittedly moss-taloned
paws; shine has the dragonet as well, the old, worn bronze of marble
aglow with twilight's purplish shadows. Even his neck arches showily
into wideset forequarters and blunt wings barely softened by their
milky rose undercast, but somewhat thin hindquarters trail into a
narrow, short-stubbed tail: the telltale quirk — as if light,
half-focused eyes were not enough — of aristocracy inbred so
slightly awry.

Sniff. Sniff-sniff. What's that? And then comes a pop, a squeak
— and a black curtain fallen velvet about your senses, blotting all
trace of the sands and those who stand there but for the slow burn of
your soles. Another squeak, and even that disappears. Your heart's
still beating, isn't it? You're still breathing, aren't you? But
there's silence; and there's stillness; and there's scent, a sweet
fragrance that might have a doily attached to it, and /then/ — »
No, here. Look here, « a benevolent voice informs in the plummiest
of tones — and there he is, roseate wings about you, and his heart
deeper yet,

» My name is Llynth! «


What would we want to take with us into the new millennium?

History… appreciation of the old order, even if it's
mostly cherished by tourists. ;)

Llynth was a name several of us listed as one of our
favorites, and when you asked for doubled letters, this seems to fit.
There's a certain lightness to it without being frou-frou — if
there's a lion, he's not the traditional sort — that we really

As for the egg, Controversial Moment Egg has that same sort
of touristy and time-ful feel to it, with its highways and byways —
and getting lost because you just don't have a map, or can't read
what you've got. Which reminded us, in turn, of Llynth.

Your Llynth is the old, worn bronze of castle bricks seen at
twilight, not clay but marble and all purplish shadows, with a milky
rose undercast to his wings and a bit of mossy green to his talons.
When properly oiled, he's glossy, polished marble rather than
rough-hewn. He isn't large as bronzes go, but neither is he the
smallest of them; he'll always have a somewhat Roman profile, and
with time and training he'll become massive in the neck, wings, and
withers, but his hindquarters are somewhat thin, trailing to a tail
that's stubbed like his sire's but even narrower. When he doesn't
think about what he's doing, he does reasonably well as hatchlings
go, but when he tries for pride and pomp, there's awkwardness —
leading to lots of 'whoops!' and maybe, maybe 'I meant to do that.'

If Llynth's aristocracy, he's old, worn aristocracy, with a
bit of a receding chin. His joints will itch and pop and creak the
most; he won't have much energy when young, being far too busy
growing. Call it a reverse-aging: as a hatchling, he's a creaky
bundle of bones; as a young adult, he's mostly apt to creak when the
weather changes. He likes long-lasting hot, and long-lasting cold,
but changes! Watch for him to complainingly crawl as the sun does
across the bowl so he never has to change, or for him to dread
getting into or out of the Weyr lake but heartily enjoy himself once
he's in (or out). Beyond that, the cycle will continue with every
Turn, one of creakiness, one that's middling, one that's cozy, and
then back to middling again — 'til he's some twenty-plus Turns, at
which point watch for him to get a new lease on life and the joie de
vivre he never had a hatchling.

Have you ever read P.G. Wodehouse's _French Leave_? Check
out Old Nick, an impoverished marquis who's benevolently scheming.
He eventually drops his ambition of marrying a wealthy woman when he
finds his true calling as a headwaiter in a posh restaurant. That's
your Llynth, too.

If he's a knight, he's a knight who has only one set of
armor — you — and he spends all his time shining his armor so it
won't get tarnished… but every once in a while, he just has to let
loose, like a balloon building up pressure until it pops (and not
always at the appropriate times, either). Watch for him to behave
this way when it comes to needing to be mucked, too; he could build
up quite a case of thicktail! You may need to encourage him to let
loose now and again (and not just with muck; this relates to having a
good time, too) if you want to avoid his doing so randomly… but
one can't remember to do so all the time!
Once he gets to be somewhat older, say some nine months old,
he'll become increasingly aware of himself as a member of society,
holding himself to some standard only he sees — until he reaches
full maturity and beyond, where he realizes he can let the bar down a
little bit and he'll still be himself, and can let himself loosen
up. Unlike K'rali's Rhioth, he's less concerned with /ultimate/
Right and Wrong so much as others' opinions, especially the smaller
dragons'. Indeed, he can be known to stall, like those
perfectionists who can't do something if he can't do it 'right',
which of course leads to trouble (fewer battlescars, fewer wounds of
valor). When he reaches sexual maturity and finally begins to notice
the female dragons — and only when they're proddy, mind, the rest
of the time they're just part of the phalanx — Llynth will tend to
fly firmly, doggedly, as planned-out as passion will let him … but
won't he be delighted, like a child with an unasked-for bubbly, when
he does occasionally catch? Note, though, Llynth's not so much a
perfectionist in other things (except occasionally his rider), just

As for a sense of humor, and humor's critical… humor isn't
something he'll develop for a few months, being rock-dead serious
until then, but then it's predictably juvenile. Really, really bad
puns, say; or those stories that just ramble on from one thing to
another to another to another as long as he can find someone who will
pretend to listen. You know, the fellow who buttonholes you at
parties, and sometimes you /do/ want to talk about minutiae, and
sometimes, … well, just want to distract them with someone else?
;) Slapstick, too, would ruin his image — but that doesn't stop
him from enjoying it.

Voice: His physical 'voice' will eventually stabilize into an airy
tenor, while mentally he's mellow, even plummy, but with the odd pop
or squeak — and a hint of rose-and-lavender potpourri.

Parentage: Arien's Katrineth + M'gael's bronze Theronth
Egg: Cisusse
Dragonet: Zephre, J'fen, B'nal, Arien

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