Clutching Pose

It she done? Is she — no. No she is not done, dear sirs, dear madams, because she has three final statements to make. #1: a life without bacon is no life at all. #2: don't ever piss a tiny woman off. And #3: She is capable of pretty eggs this clutch. Breaking the usual number — three whole over! — Dhiammarath noses the last bit of sand over the tops of these and goes to the nearest corner to lean in momentary peace and quiet, resting, sides heaving.

Tiny Tyrant Egg

What do you MEAN this egg hasn't reached quota? That is UNACCEPTABLE! It seems as though palest blonde filters over the fair features of this egg, as hair caught in a cyclone of disarray and righteous indignation. Is that a shoe at the middle? It looks like a shoe — a boot, perhaps. Six… no, seven inches high, that heel, poised over an unshaven throat. Is that a throat? Wait, it does look like a throat. Man, whatever is going on painted over this shell — it's intense. And you know… it kind of looks like the latest installation of that trashy series, where the characters bear startling resemblance to a certain weyrwoman and a certain weyrlingmaster. There's no tying up going on in this fifty shades of blonde, though: just one heel, and one throat, and the tiniest tyrant to ever tyrant in the history of tyrants. :(

Hatching Message

Tiny Tyrant Egg suddenly tyrants no more, leaving behind one who knows his mind from the moment of his birth: A swaggering bronze hatchling that gives no pause, from the moment he breaks shell to the moment of Impression no more than a few whirlwind seconds. Lanky and scapegrace, the dragonet moves with all the finesse of a shotgun blast, barreling fast and hard toward his target, heedless of all that may lie between. Thankfully, the way is clear enough, and the desert-scape bronze hatchling lands before his intended with a firm shove of his headknobs, knocking firmly into the side of the erstwhile Harper with a creel that's utterly lacking in lyricism. There seems little magic in the moment when viewed from the outside, no moment when eyes lock and hearts suddenly tune to one another, just the dragonet's unshakeable, unrelenting, undaunted certainty that they're right for each other. Somehow.

Scapegrace and Swagger Bronze Dragonet

Lean, rugged lines of sandy bronze comprise the majority of Denivoth's appearance, giving him an insubstantial look for all his size: a dust-devil that wants for substance. Parched-earth colors the desert bronze of his wingsails, the darkness of veins making patternless cracks along the translucent skin, the color deepening only slightly where it blows across his shoulders and down the front of his chest. Narrow of form, just this side of skinny no matter how well-fed he might be, this bronze still carries himself with all the hip-swagger of a much bulkier specimen, from the shadow-darkness of his boldly bright eyes to the tips of cruelly hooked talons in gunmetal gray to the slick quickness of his saffron-hued tail.

Public Impression Pose

Thankfully, the way is clear enough, and the desert-scape bronze hatchling lands before his intended with a firm shove of his headknobs, knocking firmly into the side of the erstwhile Harper with a creel that's utterly lacking in lyricism. There seems little magic in the moment when viewed from the outside, no moment when eyes lock and hearts suddenly tune to one another, just the dragonet's unshakeable, unrelenting, undaunted certainty that they're right for each other. Somehow.

Private Impression Message

A schism. A rift. A divide so vast as to be unfathomable. No amount of faith will make this leap. It's too much, it's too much, it's too much. Stumbling, tumbling, free-falling, he'll never make it to the other side of something so massive, so monumental. Will he fall forever? Will he land hard, hit rock-bottom and be destroyed? The same mantra whistles endlessly through his thoughts, It's too much.

A distorted thought returns to him, bouncing off that infinite divide, like an echo that's just shifted into unintelligible patterns of sound, at first just an inaudible undercurrent to the original words. Slowly, the uncertain becomes something tangible, the freefall slows, and the echo overtakes the original shout: « I've got you, I've got you, I've got you. »

Amid that terrifying freefall, his thoughts find purchase, grasping, clinging. Denivoth, he realizes like a person snapping awake from the tangle of a dream. Was he falling? Was he safe all along? Denivoth. Denivoth, it's too much.

« I've got you. »

You can't.

« I do. »

Egg Inspiration

Hannah yelled at me in the middle of the night — no really, it was like 4AM — about having only done one egg. Well. She didn't really yell. It was in typing. And it really wasn't about me. This is all a fictional story. (Not really.) But she did send me a message, and in my sleepy waking-up reading of it this morning, I was plagued by the picture of Hannah-character — tiny little Hannah-character — shoving K'ane-character's nose into a ledger and going, WRITE YOU BLOODY HEATHEN, WRITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1! <fin>

Theme Inspiration

Description Inspiration

Name Inspiration

Mindvoice

Physicalities

Personality

Flights

Thread

Credits

Name: T'zaim
Egg Desc: K'ane
Dragonet Desc: T'zaim
Messages: T'zaim
Inspiration: T'zaim

Clutchmates:
Dione and Blue-Blooded Bloody Baron Blue Fieranaoth
Lisette and Lost Rebel of Route 66 Brown Syzaith
Mi'lo (Milloy) and Yankee Doodle Do Or Die Bronze Akeniath
Noi and Hiding In The Grasses Green Cwyth
Rocio and Why, Bless Your Heart Green Niamyth