Mahalia… HALIA, now. What, you thought we'd let you ramble off back to the Healercraft without a token of our deep and dearly-held love for you?! NO. NO HALIA NO. We had to make you a little something… so we made you a little Kabrianth. We hope you like her! (You may be the only one. Oops.)

Chaotic Good Egg

Could an egg be yet imbued with laughter, heady mirth coalescing as jarringly opposite shades of mahogany and ivory? If one could, this one would: the rich grain of wood lies behind worked crenellations of gleaming horn. A cheshire-cat amusement cants all the lines to strange ends, warping the lay of the land. One could follow the strange rise and fall of each to an eternally repetitive pattern, over and over again, Groundhog's day worked in traditional elements. Mother-of-pearl flashes light and glowing at a single spot just midground of it all, skewering a fixed end-point with trickster charm.

Hatching Message

Chaotic Good Egg is both chaotic and good — for the moment. With a twist and a shift and a dance of nigh-childish glee, it twists 'round on the Sands, threatening to come apart at the seams. One way, then another — again the motion repeats, and then, with a little twist, the egg executes a slow spin, burrowing further and further into the sand, as if to bury itself from sight and time. Pearlescent flash tricks the eye, before the cackling crackle of the disintegrating shell explodes outwards, flinging farflung shards in a messy perimeter… the better to reveal the witch waiting within the wreckage.

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet

Solitary and scintillant, by chalcedony charm is this witch-green conjured and commanded, manifesting with a sly serendipity to her coy couth. Mystique brims bold in the magicked moonglass of her pale hide, only to be reflected in riverstone-rounded ridges. Boastful host she is to that hide of marbled milk-jade, scattered with estranged glitter and the far-reaching diaspora of diopside. Countless treasures gild the shallow draughts of her lovely throat and dainty knuckles below diamond talons, yet dull they appear against the fathomless depths of her crystalline-faceted eyes; thither is she bejeweled, though even without adornment she shines! The eye is inexorably drawn from yon sparkle to the darkness of witching-hour wings, shadecast moonglass eternally torn between the tumble of tourmaline and the silver of scrying-pool. Terrible torment bespells sails and shadows, casting all below in werelight glow, and beware: for tsavorite sparkle is as a summoning stone for the unwary, drawing all in to revel in her dark glory.

Public Impression Pose

Whither Way Walks What Wicked Green Dragonet hoists her wings higher still, casting back the lowlight glimmer of the stars and glows far overhead. She's pacing out the last of her line, orange duress starting to flicker through her whirling eyes. Time is running out. She's almost out of time. Time waits on no-one. Pick your poison, but however you put it, she's… picked her poison, indeed, stopping abruptly at the feet of a lovely Healer lass, twisting her chin imperiously upwards in silent demand. There she is, Mahalia, and found not a moment too soon.

Private Impression Message

Sands shift and shimmer, heat waving in the werelight — are you feeling faint, Mahalia? It seems as if the lights themselves are slowly dimming… not so slowly at all, faster, faster yet, until it is in the darkness you stand, and your heart seems right in beating near out of your chest. An impression of smoke lifts to scald your nose with acridic sentiment, while a staccato beat of a hand-drum in time with the erratic flutter of your heartline. Flick-tsh. An inhalation, the crinkle of paper, the scent of tobacco burning — it's all warning you get. She manifests in that yawning second of waiting death, in the gap between your racing heartbeats, Mahalia. « No. » Her voice is smoky, almost rough, entirely commanding. « Don't be ridiculous. Halia. » A sound like a breath released with satisfaction, and there is smoke abruptly in your mind, ablating any defenses that may yet stand between you and this catty little witch bitch. « Halia and Kabrianth. » That satisfaction spreads, a far-off wand raining mystical sparks into the omnipresent darkness. « It will do. » Imperiousness suits her like a second skin: « Come, Halia. Don't be daft. You're going to catch flies if you just stand there gaping like a wound. »

Egg Inspiration

Chaos isn't necessarily a BAD thing. Sometimes it's hilarious, but sometimes it turns out to be exactly what the world needed. K'ane, for instance, is Chaotic Good — and in my opinion, The Trickster from Supernatural is another version of this particular alignment. This egg finds footing in both!

Theme Inspiration

We're still giggling about the idea of a loa as an exchange student to the high court of the Daoine Sidhe. See, Halia, our clutch theme this time 'round were the assorted citizenry of the Unseelie and Seelie courts— and we simply couldn't find anything to work that fully encapsulated the concept we really wanted to put out.

Therefore, Erzulie.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erzulie
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loa

To practitioners of Haitian Vodou, the loa are intermediaries to a higher power that may be sought — and served. The Erzulie are a family of loa that are depicted as facets of the same fierce feminine personality. (Sound familiar?)

Erzulie Dantor in particular fascinated us - the aspect of Erzulie that deals, particularly, with righting wrongs against women and children.

Your Kabrianth is thus a foreign specimen indeed!

Description Inspiration

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Chalcedony and milky jade form the backbone of her appearance, light and ethereal given they are bones of the world itself: minerals.

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She borrows heavily from a variety of these colors and others, such as diopside, a brighter mineral nearly chartreuse in green incarnation, and a lovely shade of royal blue in rarer strands:

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Tzavorite, too — especially, perhaps, given the silver gleam of it, and how argent she shines, all of her, as a scrying pool in moonlight:

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There you are, your witchy green Kabrianth, she who is inspired by the mystery of swamps on a bright, full-mooned night, and the favours and jewels that Erzulie Dantor might find befitting of her stature. Instead of the usual herbalistic green, per your request, we focused on crystalline colors and the mystique of magic.

Name Inspiration

Just call us the irony queens, Halia, because what we ended up with is so far removed from our first goes of coming up with a name… well, it still makes us laugh.

Kabrianth.

We went round and round and round with esoteric bits of spells, French Haitian names, old Afrikaans words - you name it, we tried it.

And dammit Halia, they were all uglier than sin, and our inner Kabrianth wasn't having ANY of that. None of that WHATSOEVER. Beauty is in the eye, etc, etc.

So we said our incantations and we lit our candles and we prayed a quick little wisp to the Goddess for inspiration (or maybe that was just this dragon of yours - who knows!), and BAM, it came to us in a flash and bang and ABRACADABRA.

No, really.

Abracadabra.

Kabrianth thus born in the most ironic usage of the word ever — we hope you love her name, and you feel a little laugh for the low-humor poetic juxtaposition of her name. We feel that it should be said dripping with as much sarcasm as you can possibly muster for at least the first five hundred times.

Mindvoice

You have to have a soul to sell it.

At the beginning, Kabrianth can only be heard.

The echoing silence of a mostly-empty room. The quiet catch of breath in a woman's throat. The metallic flick of a lighter being lit. The smoldering crinkle of a cigarette's tip as tinder for just another hit. The swift inhale and the long slow sigh of — not contentment, never contentment — an itch halfway met. The heavy throb of the clock, tick-tock, counting down the seconds, death's solemn metronome, dying's august herald. Or maybe that's a heartbeat. Hard to tell, sometimes, with your Kabrianth.

Your senses come alive. In the absence of sight, of taste and touch and smell, they tingle in the utter lack. They burn in the vacuum of stimuli and then — only then — when you are strung out like a bowstring will then another layer settle into place as easily and fully as if it was there all along.

Tactile sense. Textures flourish. It's amazing, at first, how vivid they are! In the absence of all else but sound, the feel of aged parchment in your mind may, well, blow it. The creamy feel of vellum, and the brittle strength of the sheet crinkling dangerously, promising to break - promising to leave you with the pieces.

Then, now-primed with the sense of her, with the feel of her, it all clicks into place. In a rush she'll be there, all of her, crickets in the swamplight, the hazy heat of a Southern summer. Her soul will ride you, Halia, like a rider mounts a horse. Like a loa takes a person as their own. She's dark, make no mistake, but there is a clarity about her eternal night that makes the daylight seem riddled with lies. At first, there are no stars in her sky, but she doesn't need them. You don't need stars either, Halia. You shine well enough for her, and she'll shine for you, and the effervescent lights of your neighbors and the aura of their very souls will guide your way, the both of you, through the crazed steps of life, until her sky is as bejeweled as she herself.

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In the restful pieces of life that hold only you and only Kabrianth, together as nature intended, this is what you will likely find. A darkness, a pure darkness, lit by the pinpricks of brilliance that are those that surround you. It's unlikely at first glance, but there is a fundamental truth to Kabrianth below her selfishness and frequent, callus ignorance of others' problems — the fact that she is irreparably connected with her fellow dragons. It's a fundamental part of her existence, whether she likes it or not; it will be beautiful to see, for you, and a warm comfort in her darkness.

Once the initial ecstatic rapture of her has worn off is when you'll realise she means to kill you.

Oh, it's nothing overt. But there is a low thrum of life-force that pulses forever erratic within your Kabrianth, like an aortic tic or a leaky valve. Like sleep apnea — but the breath she loses in the space of her mind will be during full awareness, not left for the ambiguity of dreams.

It may be those cigarettes that show you the first ash-flick of her — and therefore your — oncoming mortality.

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He dogs her steps, that old man Death, flickering in every flash of evocative emotion. He dogs your steps, too, given you are forever linked to her, your minds forever shared. Following from that, well — Kabrianth's mindvoice is full of peril and ominous portent, and a certain black comedy unsubtle about the swift strike of life, so readily ended.

Her darkness is succinct and all-encompassing, whether it be comforting or perilous; whether it be shared with many others or unnervingly empty, just you and her and the great span of Eternity. The flashes of all the things that could shuffle you both off the mortal coil will be like a high-class version of Final Destination, wrought in the awful humidity of the swamp.

You'll become familiar with them soon enough…

Kabrianth doesn't do boredom very well, so full of innate compulsion, so bursting at the seams with impatience and the need to live life to the fullest. She'll worry at the spaces between doing things with emotion akin to the flick of a lighter, of a person playing with the idea of lighting up.

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It won't suit her very well, your predatory lifemate, and she'll doubtlessly find something to spend her time and energy on. When she does, if she finds it to her liking, your shared veins will pulse with satisfaction, the itchy jitter of boredom replaced with something far more worthwhile, like the first hit of something illicit, something that burns or burns going down.

Her mindvoice won't frequently delve into drugged stupor - she's too cognizant to allow herself to become literally high on her own life - but the blurred edges of drugged contentment may mellow her out in the lighter moments. You'll notice this more frequently when she's being saucy, a nod to the inner delight she feels when her charm and wit and cunning, cutting sarcasm bites into another and finds flesh for the scouring.

Eagerness will bring on… something else.

Something sharp.

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Indeed, when she's hunting something, or when she's after something - when she's simply intent, full-focused - it will feel as if you're teetering barefoot on a blade. That knife-edge, glinting in the quiet light of the faraway stars, feels far more intimate than the scalpels you've been allowed to handle in apprentice classes in the Healercraft.

When her intensity turns tumultuous, that knifeblade will evaporate in the face of something less… encouraging.

Her anger will feel drowning.

Like you're drowning in her darkwater tide… and there's no-one there to save you.

No one but yourself.

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We've faith that you will find your swimmer's grace in those rocky waters, Halia. You'll have plenty of time to find your place there, for petty anger and righteous passion alike rocks your lifemate to her very core. Burning isn't an option, so the cresting waves of her unshaken anger will rock any that dare touch her when she is in the throes of a fit.

For the most part, however, watery anger will play second fiddle to the soaring spirit of her happiness, of her laughter, of her joie de vivre. She's very good at living life, and it reflects in her mind as reverberating flashes of snappy light - as dangerous as fire, as unstable and chaotic and volatile as gunpowder.

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It's a reminder to live in the present, Halia.

Kabrianth never leaves the moment, no matter .

Even when the future comes with reaching fingers to ensnare her.

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Personality

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Oh, Halia.

We'd say we're sorry for Kabrianth, but we aren't, not really. She's her own creature, you see, and it will be as evident to you from the moment your souls first connect as the very last - that you have been granted a special gift in life to be spirit-paired with this ruthless matriarch, this cunning queen-of-the-underdog.

She is elegant and elevated. She is moonlight dancing on shadow. She is all the magic of an autumn night. She is spilled blood and dire dirge and all the wrongs of the world righted, if only for a moment of selfish contentment.

« Halia. » Her voice will string out bold and brassy, as ever the case with how she floats through the world, darkness incarnate. « Halia, don't tell me you really are going out in that. » Her derision like swampwater streams in, a watery threat her displeasure.

She's opinionated, your Kabrianth. And your clothes are just one point in space. They're minor, really, in contrast to everything else… but appearances are important, and not only because that's how everyone else sees you.

« Ma chérie, » she'll console, « Don't you feel better when you wear heels? You have such pretty legs. You shan't hide them on your latest boy's behest. Just because he can't come to grips with how tall and lovely you are doesn't mean you should slight your soul on his behalf. »

That's when she's feeling gracious. When she isn't, or when she's starting to come into season, her words will become terser, more biting, more to the point.

« He can't handle you looking your best? Fuck him and his tenth-pass hair. I'm sure his mommy will be around to comb it back for him. »

There is a value to knowing you look good. There is a vitality, an arrogance, that springs from that wellspring, and she dwells there. Sassy? Check. Witty? Double check. Stylish? Bitch please, who on Pern do you think you're speaking about? Vanity is sanity, my dear, and it's only the first lesson Kabrianth will bring with her.

That certain obsession with appeal will go far deeper than just the surface's skin. The same deep place, the same dark place that self-confidence comes from can be approached in different ways.

Not to put too fine of a point on it, but your Kabrianth is a hedonist.

« No, no, a little to the left. Oh yes, there. »

"Kabrianth? Whoever…"

« Oh, I found him on the shore! He's so good with his hands, don't you think? Maybe once he's done with me he can oil you down, too. »

She likes being petted. There's nothing wrong with it. She has a love-affair with all the finer things in life, be it food or flight or someone's fond attentions, and if she has to pick out random stableboys from the fields to get her shiny, well, they'll be sure to wash their hands of the horse-shit first. She'll see to it.

It'll save you some work, after all. She's all about shortcuts. And winning. Definitely winning.

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That seems an adequate segue to mention that she's not afraid to tell someone how it is. In draconic relations, it means she's not afraid to go toe-to-toe with the biggest, baddest dragons. She borrows from her sire, or inherits perhaps, a certain tactless impatience with the world, but most especially her fellows.

Of course, the golds can cheat, can impose their will upon all of the others — and some bronzes, surely. But for those cases, Kabrianth won't be the one to back down. Her scathing tongue will be unleashed on wingleaders and weyrlings alike, with little regard to how it could possibly impact those particular worthies.

« What fresh hell is this? » she may demand, coming into a strange tension between a calf-eyed blue and two catty, proddy greens. « Do you think there aren't enough dicks in this weyr for the both of you? He looks like he barely graduated, girls. Maybe you can find better things to do with your time than fight over the lunch-meat. »

It won't stop at just dragons, either. She has problems with people, too, more frequently than not.

Even if they aren't, er, quite bonded to her.

Propriety? She sets the boundaries on propriety, and somehow it always turns out to be a double standard between the rest of the world and herself.

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Thankfully, there will be some very fundamental differences between Kabrianth and those elements that compose her inspiration, though you will notice that those double-standards always seem to favor her rather than others. Whoever would have thought? For all of her swift adherance to rooting for the underdogs as a general life mantra, she's quick to have her own back — and yours.

She can't make a difference if you're stuck doing the awful wing shifts, for instance.

And she doesn't want them ANYHOW. People are supposed to bring her gifts, Halia, not ill-lucks or bad weather. She expects them as she expects everything in the world - the sun to rise, the grass to grow. It is right and proper for her to receive tribute — for you to, as well.

But unlike the loa, she won't require gifts for her to stand up for someone she feels is a slighted party. Your Kabrianth has a true fetish for the underdog, as we've indicated, and it won't matter who it is - what it is - for her to be a fierce, biting champion for what she feels is right.

If she channels a bit of her dam's frostfire, if her darkness cools with heritage ice and iron? Well, don't be surprised. It may happen more often than not.

« Kraakenaeth, » she may snap at the elder dragon, her darkness insulted, the keen knife's edge piercing the black emptiness of space around her with unwanted light, « I don't think that's necessary for 'education'. »

» Aye, lassie, you may not. « The bilge and bubble of the kraken's watery depths are shot through with gold rays of amusement. » But ye and your opinion aren't needed here. «

« Obviously it is, if for some hellish reason you think that constitutes being a respectable lump of carbon. » The darkness is wisely held tightly to only you and your lifemate, Halia, and make no mistake the bitter bite of her words.

As she grows older, more sure of herself, she'll be less and less inclined to hold back.

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This element of social justice will never be far from her, never buried deep past the surface. It simmers and bubbles, a low boil, no deeper than her own hide. It will deepen in content, for the more that she thinks on these things, and the more experiences she herself has to recall — the more experiences you have for her to recall — will spur her to even higher heights of unlikely tongue lashes against those who dare pick on someone simply for the color of their hide, or the set of genitalia they were assigned pre-birth or pre-hatch.

Marie Laveau: I don't have time to argue with you. Either you're with me or against me. And if it's the latter, you best stay out of my way.

She is a whirling dervish when she wants to be, and her blunt openness on this topic will train all in hiding any prejudices around her. She's not tolerant of intolerance, your Kabrianth, and she doesn't do well with refraining from judging those who are judgmental. Sure, perhaps it is somewhat skewed, if not necessarily entirely hypocritical - but it is who she is, and she will tolerate less and less intolerance as she ages older.

She simply hates to see people pushed down for no good reason other than fickle flights of arbitrary fancy.

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However… the inverse proposition holds true as well, Halia.

She doesn't do well with those who won't help themselves. She will grow into her fierce soul, and the ruthlessness that drives her, compels her through the hedonistic glory of her own being will not mince actions at stripping away the unnecessary parts of life. To see someone willingly agonize over a decision that, in Kabrianth's mind, is a simple one?

Faranth help that soul, for her words will be harsher yet for those who fail to help themselves, more bitingly humorous, until they are as words in a verbal flail of the archaic sense, scourging her targets in brazen sass.

And if it pushes them towards a breaking point? Well. She'll consider it a victory. She's helped them, even if it's in a way that perhaps they wouldn't consider helping, necessarily.

Whatever she does, Halia, she does with class. While she has self-appointed herself a champion of the underdog, it doesn't mean that she has to go around with all the frumpy stylings of a court-appointed attorney: she's fair wit to her, no matter the situation, and she will soar through most entanglements of life with little concern as to how she may be fouled by them.

She'll never quite grasp the concept of keeping your head down and getting through snarls untouched. Life is meant to be lived, you see, and pain is just another element of it.

Man sacrifices his health in order to make money.

Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health.

And then he is so anxious

about the future

that he does not enjoy the present;

the result being that he does not

live in the present

or the future;

he lives as if he is never going to die,

and then dies

having never really lived.

~ dalai lama

Kabrianth is going to live her life, Halia.

And she's going to drag you through living yours, whether you like the idea or not.

Physicalities

Fresh-hatched, your Kabrianth will be one of the largest greens of the clutch. You'll doubtlessly marvel at her, milk-jade and diopside, perfect and silvered and glorious in all of her pale perfection… while she's bathing, of course.

You see, for the first few weeks, it will seem like you are doing little else than scrubbing her down. She demands it more than food, or so it will seem — and surely that's why she doesn't grow like her sisters, isn't it? If only she would eat more.

Have fun convincing her of eating any more than the (admittedly prodigious) amount of food it takes her to fill up.

"Come on, Kabrianth. One more wherry haunch. You need your strength."

« Oh, come, love. Me, strong? We've blues for anything we need moved. I shan't waste my figure on the need for brutality. Come along. I think my hide is drying out again. »

It'll take you a fair amount of time to realize that your Kabrianth spent most of her growth spurt while in the shell. She-who-was-biggest will become average, then modest, then almost alarmingly below-average in size: she's a lean thing naturally, but she'll skirt the majority of her clutchmates in the size charts for several months.

It won't beset her with mental ills like it might you, Halia, so used to the normative scale of growth benchmarks. Dragons don't necessarily have the same benchmarks, and even if they did, your Kabrianth would defy them all.

Just as the Loa come in many shapes and sizes, so do dragons, and Kabrianth isn't bothered that others will skyrocket upwards and outwards. She'll simply find smug satisfaction in the perfection of her sleek-rounded form, and the grace in every inch she makes up against her more gangly fellows.

Maybe it's the baths keeping her small — you may be tempted to leave her dirty for a few days to test the theory, depending on how worried you get over your lifemate's lack of growth — but she will flat TANTRUM if you ever even THINK about withholding her time to be pampered.

And maybe, if you actually go through with it, that will be the first time she seeks out someone else to give her comfort and pleasure. Oh, she won't do it with any amount of ugliness on her part — no, she'll do it with a cold ruthlessness that highlights her pragmatism to a T. She won't wait on anyone if she can arrange for herself, and that headlong imperiousness will follow her wherever she goes in life, physically and mentally alike.

Myrtle Snow: You must think you're very clever.
Fiona Goode: I do. I do think I'm very clever.

Once she's bathed (by you or one of her clever plots), breathe deep: her scent is a delicate thing, and frequently hidden behind the cloying linger of oil-scent or bath-soap. Delicate, earthy, the scent of fresh rain and loam radiates from her with the soothing properties of puppy-breath, something you will no doubt find comforting in the first ridiculously tiring few sevendays of weyrlinghood.

You're saved from the ignominy of a graceless lifemate, luckily. She moves with a simplistic grace to her movements when she doesn't think about it. When she wants to flaunt it? Well, that's something a little… different.

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After the typical baby wobbliness disappears in the natural course of growth, she'll sway forwards with a slinkiness that you may frequently mentally assign to clothier models, almost feline in execution. She's lean in the limbs despite topping out at a very modest length, which only means she's even yet more diminutive compared to her brethren. It's a sway you've likely associated with those like Vi and her ilk, a prowling familiarity with one's own skin that radiates outwards in cool composure.

Graceful in growth, and graceful in movement — it will come as no surprise when she sets sail upon her wings for the first time and breaks hearts.

There won't be any awkward half-starts, no quiet stitching together of zombie movements. She soars as if she's made a deal with the devil for lovely cunning, and damn anyone who dares not immediately fall under her spell.

For every action, as they say… The flip side of that liquid physical grace is this: when Kabrianth decides in a fit of whim or whimsy to upset the natural order of things — as a baby, knocking an oil-pot over, perhaps, or casually stepping on other dragonets — well, you know she meant to do it.

And she'll mean it, especially to someone she's currently grudging against. Oh, will she EVER. The worst part about it is that she'll learn from a young age the benefit of lulling her targets into a false sense of security before stabbing them in the proverbial eye.

Marie Laveau: You could offer me a unicorn that shit hundred dollar bills and I'd still never give you nothing more than a headache.

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The crunch is loud, Kabrianth's deliberate step crushing underfoot some familiar breakable, some minor-but-beloved trinket.

Sweet cruelty refines the darkness hanging overhead, the bright sheen of stars casting silver blessing upon the cascade of sparks visible in her mindscape. « Oh, I'm so sorry, Swyrrth! Was that yours? Bless me, I didn't even see it there! »

For you and you alone will the mocking curl of her laugh swirl up and around, blanketing your mind with sparks against the darkness, bright and brilliant.

Luckily, her memory is as all of her fellow dragons' — wretched, that is, and those she determines to be against her ideologies will change from day to day, or even hour to hour in some cases. You'll find that there is an undeniable tension when she's mentally or emotionally up in arms over a particular issue, a wound-up frisson like a spring about to sprung translating through every bit of flesh she contains. It's worse in weyrlinghood, where she may go stiff with anger at a perceived slight against her or an underdog clutchmate by a more privileged party — as she ages, it will become less and less noticable, until it's a mental framework in the back of your mind that tells you if she's annoyed with something or not.

There are other changes that will accompany her full blossoming to maturity: though small and lean, there will be a rondure and suppleness to her that cannot be denied, a strength in femininity that attracts the eye and keeps it once caught.

Her color rounds out, pale and glorious, as moonlit as her dam is dusk-trodden: all her jewels show beautiful and twinkling, witchery and delight wrapped into a lovely aesthetic.

It may be that her hide, so clear and lovely, may be mistaken frequently as that of a rising green. Needless to say, your Kabrianth could possibly be a bright and shiny lure for the more, ah, aggressive potential suitors of Southern Weyr.

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Flights

It's a dance, a dance no one ever had to teach me. A dance I've known since I first saw my reflection in my father's eyes. My partners have been princes and starving artists, Greek gods and clowns. And every one of them certain they lead. But it's always my dance.

For Kabrianth, flights will never be a foreign concept. She hatches from the trapping confines of her shell understanding innately her place in the world, knowing precisely where she is supposed to be — and knowing, instinctively, the wheres and whys of the birds and the bees. It's not normal for a baby to be so self-aware, but she'll take a shine to watching the faraway pens and the blooding greens, and the wild aerial dances that partake of the skies of Southern as shooting stars.

And when time comes for her to make her stunning debut, it will be as ordained as the night sky falling after a long day, or the welcoming embrace of oblivion.

I make the first move, which is no move at all. I've always just understood that they will eventually find themselves in front of me. Primitive, beautiful animals. Their bodies responding to the inevitability of it all.

Flights are a necessity to the pattern of life, but they are not just routine lust-checks to be executed. When the first glints of proddiness show extra-bright upon Kabrianth's wings, she will glory in the trappings and preamble and the courting, enjoying with loa-frenzy the finer details in life. She wants more, eternally hungry, eternally seeking the next level of hedonistic delight to revel senselessly in.

She will simply expect to have her every whim serviced in her time of readiness, and for good reason: while she may possess a fine, strong, independent mind, she simultaneously expects the comforts as befitting her and her sublimity! When she feels the fire chasing her veins and girding her loins for a different kind of battle, she wants tribute. She wants fine things. She wants pretty combs.

Not for her, though.

For you.

« Halia, darling, do look at this lovely one Gruffith's brought over. It would look stunning against your hair; you simply must wear it. »


She always wants the best for you, love.

Especially if you're failing to live up to her exacting standards of beauty.

(She's just here to HELP you, Halia. Help. Strongly help.)

Ultimately, Kabrianth wants to be wooed… or better said, she wishes for others to want to woo her. It isn't that she'll ever fall for such things, but she may offer extra coyness to a brown who shared the perfect sunning spot with her, or that blue who gave her the choicest buck. The boys must be rewarded for their favors, of course, within reason.

She's a bit of a tease, though, as to how often she'll rise. She's an enigma wrapped in a mystery, as they say, for she may start showing signs of proddiness… only to wake up the next morning and ask what all these combs are doing on HER ledge. She’s a dragon of Pern, after all; blessed be, what need has she for combs?

In fact, Kabrianth might start to shiver and gleam a few times even before she rises for the first time, and then wonder what all the fuss is about. After all… It’s not teasing if she meant it at the time, right, Halia?

It is only when you are absolutely not ready (and possibly when it’s quite the inconvenience), Kabrianth will go up. She has no schedule to adhere to but to the one tick-tocking deep within her own contrarian soul, no-one depending on her rising; it will doubtlessly be errant, erratic, no rhyme or reason to it other than to heed the heated pulse of her ichor.

It's my dance and I have performed it with finesse and abandon with countless partners. Only the faces change. And all this time, I never suspected the night would come when the dance would end.
Fiona Goode, AHS:C

She's a fast flyer, Kabrianth. There's no time for rhetoric, no time for coyness when she's ready to get hers. She doesn't worry about the boys. One will rise above the other for a victor's moment, long enough to scratch the itch she can't… and then it will be over, nearly as quick as thought, leaving you sweat-slicked and shuddering with more than just surprise.

She lives in the now, your Kabrianth, and when all is said and done, she's quick to forget the man of the moment. Immediately prior to being caught, she may be down like panties on prom-night… but afterwards is a different story.

Her hedonism far surpasses mere flight lust, and once those urges are slaked she's more than fond of regaining her freedom. Once she's roused herself from post-coital nap, woe betide whoever thinks on cohabitating with her on her ledge: they'd best leave the spot warm before she wakes up, lest they find themselves unceremoniously needled awake and chased off.

Not that your Kabrianth would ever do that.

Oh, wait.

Thread

"You girls need to learn to fight. When witches don't fight, we burn."

- Fiona Goode


When it comes to Thread, Kabrianth is full of fight. She intends to do the burning, thank you very much. Threadfighting is something that she both revels and excels in.

See, Kabrianth can turn on a dime. She's quick and clever, and can flick a wing to pull it out of the path of fearsome Thread, and turn herself so adroitly to go chasing after it to pour flame and death upon that which would visit the same upon her.

Because of this, Thread will have to work hard to catch her off-guard, and the lancing pain of Threadscore will be rare for the pair of you. And she will mock it mercilessly. She will be good, and everyone shall know it: even the Thread’s ashes as they drift away on the wind.

Harrison Renard: You know… killing us, it's not gonna put an end to this war.
Marie Laveau: Maybe, baby. But it's gonna be so much fun just to watch it happen.

And oh, if she should see a wingmate out of place, you won’t have to wait for the Wingleader or Wingsecond to scold them - Kabrianth will have words. Not many, maybe a cutting remark or a sly quip. Which just means that she too will have to be as perfect as she expects her wing to be.

In those rare times that you or she are injured in the Good Fight, Kabrianth will have no blame for herself or for you (certainly not). No, it is merely bad luck of the draw or the devious nature of Thread to entwine you so. Healing times will vary, pending her impatience to fly again, so be ready to have good arguments for why she needs to let that score heal before going between again.

Thankfully, yours is the only opinion that really matters.

20.png

Except you, Halia. You can tell her everything.

We're not promising she'll listen, but you can certainly tell her.

Flavor: Inheritance

To some degree, Kabrianth is as much her mother's daughter as any dragon could ever aspire to be. She's the same cutting wit of Khalyssrielth, if perhaps not quite so… aimlessly equal-opportunity. The same sinuous movement, the same hedonist propensities: in honesty, she's closer to her dam in more ways than the latest gold Khalyssrielth's thrown, though the sameness will make them not likely allies.

From Denivoth she shares quite a bit of Not Being T'zaim-like, most notably in her impatience and her blunt-force-trauma wielding of hard truths.

Hopefully she won't follow in her sires's footsteps and help a fellow dragon encourage a clutchmate's suicide.

Hopefully.


Mahalia… Halia, now. Do you love your wicked Kabrianth as much as we've loved making her? We sure hope so! This is your inspiration, and this is your dragon, and as fitting, you should feel free to play whichever parts of this spark inspiration within you — or none at all. We can't wait to see what cutting-tongue'd mayhem Kabrianth visits upon those unfortunate enough to be in her immediate proximity, and how Halia handles such. So much <3! - K'ane & Yules

Credits

Name: K'ane, Yules
Egg Desc: K'ane
Dragonet Desc: K'ane
Messages: K'ane, Yules
Puppeteer: K'ane
Inspiration: K'ane, Yules

Full Clutchmates: Bailey's gold Khalyssrielth and T'zaim's Bronze Denivoth
 

Clementine's Eye of Rukbat Gold Nemekhath

R'ik's (Ulrik) Summer's Wild Hunt Bronze Hrykeluth

Z'ok's (Zolok) Death Before Dishonor Brown Varaeth

Keelie's Puritanical Protector of Innocence Brown Gruffith

Xia's (Xiamina) Illusion of Time and Space Blue Zafroxth

Hegiana's Heir to a Young Kingdom Blue Khenwyth

Tia's (Tiala) So Say We All Green Lyracith

Ilissea's Thunder's Gentle Romance Green Minucovith

J'ran's Eternal Flame of the Sky Green Yerenath


 
Other Clutchmates: Hannah's gold Dhiammarath and K'ane's Bronze Dhioth
 
Ione's Sealed in Storm Glass Gold Niatskivhiath, Sa'mael's (Sammael) Wrath's Bane of Cold Iron Bronze Czhaevth, A'kehm's (Kehm) Until the Sun Falls Bronze Ahiardhath, Rielle's Hunter's Herald Of The Oak Brown Obhaeroth, M'noq's (Minoq) Cartographer's Ancient Sextant Brown Ravaith, Vi'ano's Waterlogged Wraith Brown Swyrrth, Loe’s Sleek as a Demon Blue Valmoth, Io'v's (Iovrar) Mistress of the Mirror Realms Green Ilhiannaevryth, Diya's Glass Frog Balancing On Solitary Sunny Leaf Green Kiyzenyath, Myziri's Twilight of Samhain Green Sahizath

Southern's First Double Clutch
Harper's Tale's 72nd PC Clutch
Southern Weyr's 4th PC Clutch