E’don’s Lament of the Last Bronze Qianvaelth

Donner, E’don! We are so delighted to have awkward, so-incredibly-realistic Donner around to say what everyone is THINKING and be that quintessential teenaged boy. We are so delighted to have YOU! This inspiration is our gift to you, darling, for all the laughter and great scenes you have brought to Southern. Please know that while we hope you enjoy your Qianvaelth as much as we enjoyed making him, he is YOURS and YOURS to do with as you please! Please feel free to disregard any part of this inspiration that doesn’t fit your internal vision of who Qian is and what he will grow into being. With that said… for your reading pleasure, here he is! — Bailey, Hannah, Jedi

Clutching Pose

Perhaps the only magic of the last set of eggs lies in the fact that they seem to have given Dhiammarath a second wind. Or perhaps they only cry heraldry for greater things — or greater eggs. Subjective to be sure, but she settles these three directly next to the ones just-clutched, so that they lie together in the sands; fire and iron, changing of the seasons, and dark feline predation… t'is the end, perhaps, but these were worth laboring for.

Sidhe Season Egg

Preternatural battle wages across this middling egg, colored brilliant with the changing of the seasons, the changing of the world. Winter's frost rimes cold tundra turf at the sand-nestled bottom of the egg, new growth tender in the most fragile of greens tracing skyward into summer's bright whimsy, all sunshine and sunburns juxtaposed against a robin's blue sky. Autumnal glow of turning leaves rich in rust and ochre band about the northerly slope, fading dun and drab until winter's preeminence is reached once more at haughty apex. Thus the battle wages, thus the battle flows: forever changing, forever the same.

Hatching Message

Sidhe Season Egg quivers and quakes. A fine trembling overtakes the shell itself, setting the four bands of coloration to vibrating against one another as if trying to achieve some particular harmony: season to season, ever-changing yet held so perfectly in balance. A tremor unbalances the egg upright, and it topples over to expose the glory of autumn’s repose swathed about the band. That sunlight-soaked russet seems to grow, fall becoming predominant over the sweep of shell. Or… wait, that’s a bronze emerging stolid from the shards of whence-he-came, lifting his damp wings in a sweeping, slow gesture. It is stately, this gesture, and embodies the essence immediately evident: unhurried, unhasty, yet brilliant with the scarlet of maple’s dying defiance and the buttery yellows of sunlit leaves.

Lament of the Last Bronze Dragonet

A skybroom stoic looms solid-trunked and solid-limbed, with shimmering sunlight to warm the honest bones of a homely face and gild the tops of timeless neckridges. Doomed is this brilliance to die a crimson death to the bare-birched monotony of staunch neck stippled by branch and bramble. Vivid gusts the passing glamour of ephemeral smoke, leaving honeyed ochre as fleeting foliage across the depth of his chest and brawn of back. Gnarled paws lie patiently intransient, talon-tipped in evergreen, and oh! would they root him earthbound, but for the vastness of wings fated to free him from the fundament. Evanescent with the colors of summer’s death, those sails unfurl ambered apricot and scarlet-scorched saffron, defying eternity with the memory of autumn’s embers.

Public Impression Pose

Lament of the Last Bronze Dragonet has taken his time, and that is not likely to change in the near future. Every movement is as if it is preordained by some force far beyond that which would inspire a last-hatched dragonet: each step sways as if moved by the winds whistling above. Dawn is close, now, and his steps slow even further, passing the winnowed ranks of candidates with deliberation. He ends where he destined to end, rearing up to plant his paws so-careful of egg-soft claws on the shoulders of the one he chooses: homely snout is pushed close to the long face of a chestnut-haired lad, his snort one of gentle admonition. Be not hasty.

Private Impression Message

Sweet, soft susurrations overtake the eternal whisper of ethereal moans of the hatching cavern’s harmonics. The space about you is suddenly devoid of your fellow candidates, rank with sweat and disappointment, and the silence that invades is a living one. Have you ever visited the forest, Donner? Have you ever seen the mighty skybroom reaching for the sky? The presence that infiltrates is a quiet one, but it seems to have that same awe-inspiring weight, a metaphysical mass that presses seamlessly into your own. There are only the wooden creaks of limbs far above, the sighing sway of trees dancing to the wind’s whimsy. No words are needed when Qianvaelth decides that you are his own, and thus the largest moment of impact passes quietly heralded, with only the trees’ symphony as music triumphant. When it is over, the past is left behind, and the future looms forever-changed for you, Donner, now E’don of Qianvaelth.

Egg Inspiration

The legendary faerie courts: summer and winter, forever locked against one-another in eternal balance.


Winter is an etching…
spring a watercolor
summer an oil painting
and autumn
a mosaic
of them all.

— Stanley Horowitz

Theme Inspiration


Fangorn Forest. Ambarona. Tauremornalome. Tauremorna. Aldalome. Entwood. Sheltering the Limlight and the Entwash, the Eastern End of the fabled forest of Eriador, the sole hearth and home of the Ents by the Third Age, place of the final Entmoot and witness to the glory of Gandalf the White and the Last March of the Ents… Inspired of the twisted branches of Puzzlewood and borne of one of the most legendary literary minds of the 20th century, Fangorn seemed like the perfect Legendary Place to go with our hand-picked Legendary egg.


One isn’t quite sure if the forest is named after the ent, or the ent after the forest, but it is nearly a moot point (excuse the pun), as Treebeard — named Fangorn in the Sindarin tongue — and the rest of the ents have long resided in the dense convolution of bramble and branch that is the forest as of the Third Age.


As such, Treebeard himself is as much of an inspiration as Fangorn Forest itself. He is the life, the intellect within Fangorn, along with his fellow ents, much as Qianvaelth is the intelligence and will behind the brilliant autumn colors of his hide. As you will see, he is not just the light shimmering through dying leaves, nor just the roots that branch deep into the earth. He is all of this and more: patient in his own way, deliberate to a fault, slow to rouse to anger but terrifying when he does. He is Puzzlewood, and Fangorn Forest, and Treebeard; he is made of the stuff of children’s dreams.




Description Inspiration

Autumn has forever been a favorite season of Bailey’s, who agonized over this description for so many hours that Hannah literally had to tell her to stop messing around with it and get on with the rest of her life. No. Joke. There are many layered elements composing Qianvaelth, and we can only hope that you appreciate the matched and counterweighted pairs that hang Qian’s physicality in the balance. He is the bough and the leaf; the enduring and the fleet; the glorious and the homely. He is in some cases a dichotomy of ideas, but here are specifically things that inspired his color and build:

Autumn fire on bare branches.


A face only a mother could love.


Humble parts that when seen overall can take one’s breath away.


Eternity and transience: the wind and the candle’s smoke.


The glory of sunlit leaves that gives the sense of being part of a different world.


Name Inspiration

Donner, Donner, Donne… uh, that is to say, E’don. How are you liking your name, E’don? We hope you’re liking it JUST FINE. Because let us tell you, we really like the name of your dragon. (We hope you like that too.)

Qianvaelth was a joint effort. We bantered around names, and names, and names…. and let’s be frank, someone was OCD enough to go back and count them, and it was hilarious, because what do you know? Qianvaelth was our 42nd name attempt. APPROPRIATELY, we felt it was immediately perfect.

Qianvaelth is a combination of laiqualassien, “laurels; literally, ‘orange leaves’”, and taurvantian, “forest walker”. He is your orange-leafed forest walker, and we only hope you love his name as much as you love the rest of him! We hope that you find Qianvaelth rolling, not-too-long, and elvish-inspired as you requested… and that you know you should never, ever put your rider name in the hands of SearchCo. (Our top three contenders for pure evilness, just so you know? N’erd, D’oe, and O’ne.)


A few leaves stay for a while on the trees
After their color begins to turn,
And no other leaves seem as gold as these
Not even the ones our bonfires burn
With golden flames in piles on the ground.
A few leaves stay so long that I found
The one last leaf on a tree in the snow,
And when a galloping wind came round
The edge of our house and started to blow
Snow dust to sparkles floating free.
When the wind ran away, almost with me,
And sunshine settled quiet and cold.
There, like a bird, still on the tree
Was that lonesome leaf, no longer gold
But curly and brown and dry and old.

The Last Leaf, Harry Behn

How beautiful are the leaves of autumn, E’don? The leaves as would be seen better on the Northern Continent than ever on Southern, the beautiful colors of red, gold, yellow, bruised purple. Such magnificent shades are colors you will rarely have the chance to miss, anymore. For although Southern has claimed you as it’s own, your lifemate, your beloved Qianvaelth…his mind is so very much full of a forest full of these beautiful colors.


As a dragonet, by and large his forest will be small; a sapling tree for each of his clutchsibs, ancient hardwoods for the Weyrlingmasters. As he ages along with those around him, so will the forest of his mind. Saplings grow to tall, gorgeous full grown trees as diverse and exotic as can be found upon Pern’s vast surface. From oak to pine, from skybroom to redwood, many trees as diverse and unique can be are found within your lifemate’s mind. You’ll come to find that to Qianvaelth, each tree is a different person, a different dragon - and yes, in some cases, even different animals. The latter is more likely to take form in a fallen tree trunk, rotting and decaying along the forest floor. Even his prey deserves recognition.

The forest that is Qianvaelth’s mind is not quiet, E’don, but nor is it the sounds of animals that disturb the silence. The elder trees creak and groan, quiet susurrations accompanying the swaying of branches. The younger trees rustle and snap and almost-vibrate with the potential of growth. Do not forget the leaves - oh those beautiful leaves. When breezes chase across your lifemate’s rich mental forest - and they will - those leaves whisper a delightful symphony, a sweet tenor melody to go with the deeper rustle of papery forest litter, leaves long lost to the fall skittering at the wind’s whimsy.


You might not be surprised to find that his voice changes as he grows up, knowing how easy he approaches his own growth. As a weyrling, his voice will be more of a tenor’s high pitch. It will seem as if he grows an underlying current of depth as he ages, a strange false harmony, hollow like a trunk of tree long emptied of heartwood. Then, one day, that tenor will simply be gone and Qianvaelth’s voice will become what it was always meant to be - a deep bass, full of weight and meaning. Every word is important, and his voice emphasizes that so very much.

Of course, sometimes this means that when he talks…he talks so very particularly slow. Where Raxsonath’s thoughtful speech could be considered slow, when paired up next to Qianvaelth the true meaning of slowness will be discovered. Every word is so very carefully chosen. When asked about why this is, Qianvaelth will likely simply answer that it’s just how things are. It’s only natural that he should talk slow: talking fast can have dire consequences, after all!

Of course, slow talking can be bad sometimes too — and your lifemate will shed his slow speech during times of emergency or Threadfall. And the cadence of your lifemate’s speech, E’don! Each word is released with it’s own beat, as if there’s a drum you can’t hear in the distance that Qian’s talking in time with. Each word is unique - and because of his typically slow speech, this is only ever-more obvious as he enunciates each one carefully.

« The trees nearest to you creak slowly as Qianvaelth rouses from slumber, and as he wakes the creaks give way to groans. The tree nearest to you begins to sway, giving leave to a few amber-colored leaves to fall from their precarious spot so high up. One lands on your head as the other trees join in the melodic groaning and rustling. Light catches upon their leaves briefly, causing the golds, oranges and reds to shine all the more brightly. Morning has come — and Qianvaelth is ready for the day’s challenges. »

Trees will groan regardless of whether or not he does speak, and the more they groan - the more they sway. Eventually the swaying will give way to a melodious rustling of leaves distinct and unique from that which occurs when a breeze stirs his mental forests. Sometimes however, there is only the sway and creak as the tree moves - and sometimes, just sometimes - you might spot a tree actually moving as if it were walking. Of course, when this happens there is far more creaking and groaning than normal.

The inner circle of oak trees groan and creak as a hearty breeze bothers their leaves of gold and orange. The foliage rustles, and even farther off you can hear the leaves of the trees further away rustling as well. Qianvaelth is in a good mood today, it would seem, because the golds and oranges seem all the brighter today. « E’don. » There is so much meaning that he puts into just your name, so much love. « We fly today. » The breeze returns, the leaves swirling into a rustling melody of excitement.

How long it will take to discover is a mystery that even we don’t know, but someday you’ll find that the perpetual autumn of your lifemate’s mind is sometimes broken. Sometimes spring invades, sometimes winter’s cold embrace, and only occasionally summer’s decadent heat and warmth. It’s safe to say that springtime is likely saved for the days when your Qianvaelth chases after one a particularly comely greens or gold, as the energy of a forest during springtime is self-explanatory. Winter, however, will likely strike you harsh, as it may only appear for the most sad and solemn occasions. Perhaps a friend falls to Thread, or an elderly dragonriding pair disappear ::between:: forever. The sadness he feels in the wake of their loss will cause the forest to lose all of it’s decadent colors, and a tree may even fall. His grief is a subtle thing, and only you will be there to hear the echo of the felled tree.

His branches lie bare, bereft of the defiant covering of emberlit sienna and sugar-saturated maple; there is no denying the eternal, now, as life’s transience is made all the more poignant. There are only the bare leaves, E’don, for Qianvaelth’s forest, and snow on the ground: for winter has come, and taken her due as is only her right. There is no soft southerly wind to rustle leaves and stir fanciful ideals this night. There is only the westward wind of fate, and the trembling of a mighty oak felled: there is only the snow, and the bare boughs, and grief.

There will be times when Qianvaelth will forget you are listening, E’don. Or perhaps the two of you were talking about something specific, and his attention is caught by something else. Where silence might normally fall instead when such a thing happens, Qianvaelth will sometimes…continue speaking, allowing you to come to know the vast knowledge that lurks within your bronze lifemate’s mind. Sometimes you might come to realize that he’s purely just talking to himself - and he didn’t even really intend for you to hear him at all. But when such a thing happens, there will be plenty of that creaking and swaying that you’ll come to know so well.

When the day is done, E’don, Qianvaelth’s expansive mental forest is yours to explore, and to take the time to do so. It may take you years to accomplish that, or even decades. Or perhaps you’ll never be able to fully explore the vastness of it all…if only because it is ever-changing, and rarely ever exactly the same, with mysteries even we cannot begin to foretell.


'Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind,
long years numberless as the wings of trees!
The long years have passed like swift draughts
of the sweet mead in lofty halls
beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda
wherein the stars tremble
in the song of her voice, holy and queenly.'
'Who now shall refill the cup for me?'
'For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of Stars, from Mount Everwhite
has uplifted her hands like clouds,
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow;
and out of a grey country darkness lies
on the foaming waves between us, and mist
covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever.
Now lost, lost for those from the East is Valimar!'
'Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!'

/ˈaj ˈlauriɛ ˈlantar ˈlassi ˈsurinɛn/
/jeni uˈnɔtimɛ vɛ ˈramar ˈaldarɔn/
/jeni vɛ ˈlintɛ ˈjuldar aˈvaniɛr/
/mi ɔrɔˈmardi ˌlissɛmiruˈvorɛva/
/anˈdunɛ ˈpɛlla ˈvardɔ ˈtɛllumar/
/nu ˈlujni ˈjassɛn ˈtintilar i ˈɛlɛni/
/ˈomarʲɔ ajrɛˌtariˈlirinɛn/
/ˈsi ˈman i ˈjulma ˈnin ɛnˈkwantuva/
/an ˈsi: tinˈtallɛ ˈvarda ɔjɔˈlɔssɛɔ/
/vɛ ˈfanʲar ˈmarʲat ɛlɛnˈtari ˈɔrtanɛ/
/ar ˈilʲɛ ˈtiɛr unduˈlavɛ ˈlumbulɛ/
/i falmaˈlinnar ˈimbɛ ˈmɛt ar ˈhisɛ/
/unˈtupa kaˈlakirʲɔ ˈmiri ˈɔjalɛ/
/ˈsi ˈvanwa ˈna roˈmɛllɔ ˈvanwa ˈvalimar/
/naˈmariɛ/ /naj hiˈruvalʲɛ ˈvalimar/
/na ˈɛlʲɛ ˈhiruva/ /naˈmariɛ/

Qianvaelth, even fresh-clutched, will be an interesting paradox of homely beauty. His hide, taken by itself, is incredible: bright and rich and autumn-infused, brilliant as dying embers against the ash. But his actual physical aesthetic, his hide aside, will be… rather like that of a draft runner, actually. He is heavy-quartered, heavy-haunched, with paws that dominate the ground where he treads. He is one of the largest dragons clutched of mixed-heritage, and perhaps proof that the nowtimers as a whole aren’t stunted. He is very much his mother’s son in his bulk, however: all that mass has infused within it a ponderous grace.

He won’t be the most coordinated of youngsters. He isn’t Osweith, for instance, who will always know the precise radius of his wingspan and have an uncanny ability to be exactly where he wants to remain. He isn’t even very similar to Chorzeczoyth, despite them both sharing the attributes of being large-framed: where D’tri’s bronze is lanky and bonky, Qian is well-rounded and packed with smooth, balanced muscle. And don’t get him started on the smaller bronzes of the clutch — Raxsonath and Iaxryth may well be browns for how smoothly they maneuver.

No, Qianvaelth’s physical prowress will be hard-earned. He’s painstaking about his care to not disturb that which surrounds him, but even his attention to detail will wear thin when something else has captured his attention. And if he gets himself in trouble without you immediately around… well… his tendencies to be incredibly self-reliant may get him in FURTHER trouble. Have fun, E’don!

All I have to do is lift this wing just YAE high and slip that haunch just SO and I’ll be able to be free if I…
“Qian, what are you doing?”
« Figuring the best way to unstick myself from behind the oil vat. »
“… you’re stuck behind the oil vat?”
« If I wasn’t, that line of thought would be most useless, would it not. »

In his credit, his hide will take battering like no other. It as if he came out of the shell ready-made to weather any possible catastrophe, be they physical or emotional. Physically, his hide is extra-tough and supple without being oily. He won’t take much oil to maintain, aside from the natural necessary amount for growth. In fact, he’ll take so little oil on his wings in particular that it may catch E’don off-guard when Qianvaelth starts flying — for wing-chapped wings are painful, and though Qianvaelth will endure discomfort stoically, he will also have very little problem telling E’don when his lifemate is doing something wrong that can have ramifications for Qianvaelth himself.

« E’don. » Ominous creaks the foliage of Qianvaelth’s mind: an autumn typhoon looms, grey stormclouds thundering in the backdrop… or perhaps that’s a tree, ponderously lifting root to rumble from one copse to the other. « If you do not properly oil my wings before we go aloft, we will waste countless candlemarks to correct the inevitable chafing. Be not hasty to fly. Prevention is the cure of all ails. »

The “bark”y spots of his hide will soak up the most oil, along his neck and the broad spread of his paws. These will also be the locations that will tend to itch the most: E’don would be smart to learn when he feels ghostly itches and attend to them with alacrity, else off Qianvaelth will go to assuage his problems himself… and doubtless whatever he chooses to rub up against will tear hide or break asunder from the dragonet’s intense concentration.

‘Yes', said Pippin; 'I'm afraid this is only a passing gleam, and it will go grey again. What a pity! This shaggy old forest looked so different in the sunlight. I almost felt I liked the place.

As he grows, the most remarkable thing will happen to his coloration. He hatches bright, a fire-touched autumnal sky at sunset. The demands of growth will stretch his hide tight at times, and as his bones grow faster than his hide can, the stretch of skin will cause darkening at the covers of joints and shadows to creep especially across his dark-brown parts. It will seem at times that he is a forest himself, gleaming in the sunlight only to pass into shadow as physical demands are put upon him.

Soon enough he will be flying. Ungainly still in the air, he will feel more at home — to those watching — in the air above. That’s right, E’don: you are likely to be the laughingstock of weyrlinghood with the largest dragon of the clutch who lumbers like a drunk bull through the weyrlingbarracks, and pitches as a sea in storm when he first alights. No instant grace here, though everyone will agree there is something uncanny about him as he learns rudimentary control. It may take him three times as long to get the hang of gliding, and Faranth only knows how many crash landings, but once he wraps his mind around how his wings are supposed to work, things will start to click into place.

Just as a sapling looks awkward until true maturity claims a broad sprawl of boughs, so will Qianvaelth continue to lumber and plod. It will be slow, his transformation into a creature stately with power, a being who chooses a pace without the cumbersome bearing of his youth. It will not be easy. It will take time and work, but both of those will never dissuade Qian from what he wants, when he decides he wants it. Sometime around his second turnday you will wake up and realize that he has grown up on you, your Qianvaelth, and he has shed his sapling skin for the exalted grace of elvish fancy — or perhaps more fitting, the glory of the treetops.

As tall as trolls they were, twelve feet or more in height; their strong bodies, stout as young trees, seemed to be clad with raiment or with hide of close-fitting grey and brown. Their limbs were long, and their hands had many fingers; their hair was stiff, and their beards grey-green as moss. They gazed out with solemn eyes, but they were not looking at the riders: their eyes were bent northwards. Suddenly they lifted their long hands to their mouths, and sent forth ringing calls, clear as notes of a horn, but more musical and various. The calls were answered; and turning again, the riders saw other creatures of the same kind approaching, striding through the grass. They came swiftly from the North, walking like wading herons in their gait, but not in their speed; for their legs in their long paces beat quicker than the heron’s wings.

Description of the Fangorn Ents, “The Two Towers”

He will roll forwards, then, with muscles hard from the learning of it, having put in his time to learn how not to awkwardly hop-skip as most dragons do — he will soar with keen eye to thermal and breeze. He will know the sky and the ground as well as a mighty skybroom, and he will not bend to either unless he chooses to do so. He will move with speed incredible to see, simply due to his size, and he will endure a blazing pace far longer than most would ever think he could.

It is only water where he will be uncertain, that element one not of his first choosing. He will bathe because he knows he needs to bathe, and he is a rational dragon your Qian — but he will not choose to swim as a past-time. Perhaps he gave Chorzeczoyth his full measure of water-love! In contrast, the rain is one thing he cannot get enough of, and it will not phase him if you choose a weyr with a limited cropping for a couch or covering. Even if he does have a comfortable wallow, you’ll doubtless find him outside in a winter storm, implacable hide gleaming glorious in the frenzy of the downpour.

E’don may prefer this, come to think, as one quirk of Qianvaelth’s anatomy will be his incredible penchant for the most sonorous snores. He is a dragon given to sounds, where many fall silent physically; he is naturally reticent mentally, but he won’t shy off from giving a wry grunt or startled snort. Well. Maybe not the startled part — it takes something getting up extra early to beat through Qian’s serenity. Everyone ELSE is going to need extra measures of that when he sleep, especially as a baby and in the barracks. While almost musical, his snores will doubtless keep some clutchmates awake until they habituate to the sounds he exudes at night. Stockholm syndrome being as it is, you may get to the point where you cannot sleep without the soothing sounds of your lifemate’s slumber.


Imagine the mighty oak. It stretches to the sky, neither lazy nor ambitious. It is garbed by the most modest covering, and yet it can be so incredibly awe-provoking. There is a peace to be found under the branches. Standing sheltered under those boughs, one could seek solace from the rain, or sunlight, or heartache. Birds may nest in the branching limbs, or they could house squirrels, or a plethora of other life. Hurricane-speed winds may whip about it, and it may bend or sway with the wind, but only the mightiest of natural disasters could force such a powerfully obstinate presence to break.


This, E’don, is your Qianvaelth. He will woefully baffle you at times, and push you unceasing to be better than you were yesterday, than you are today. He will push you at all times, in fact, by the simple fact that he breathes; he lives his life in such a way to unconsciously inspire - or perhaps provoke - growth. He will shelter you from the storms when you are smart enough to seek him, and will let you flounder on your own when you range out into deep waters. He is a force of depth, of nature, of power… but that is not to say that it will always be your power to harness… if at all.

I am not altogether on anybody’s side, because nobody is altogether on my side, if you understand me: nobody cares for the woods as I care for them, not even Elves nowadays.”

- Treebeard, “The Two Towers”

Even from the shell, you may be a little confused on how exactly it is that Qianvaelth — your lifemate, your dragon, your baby dragon, purportedly the other half of your soul — is somehow simultaneously more emotionally mature than you, despite the 18-some turns that you have on him, as well as completely and entirely disassociated from your antics and schemes. Whining at him is as sound as whining at skybroom tree: he will listen, of course, and perhaps there will be pleasing noises as background for your rant. But at the end of it, that will be all he gives, an ear to lend when you need to vent, but expect no sage advice from him when you’ve blundered into your own mistake. He probably won’t bother telling you that it’s your own damn fault, either, because words are precious: why waste them?

In contrast, this streak of disinterest will have an inverse effect as well: that is to say, if Qianvaelth has a problem or a difficulty, he’ll be loathe to call on you. And by loathe we mean he won’t. That’s right, when he blunders into baby mistakes as a young weyrling, E’don will be the last one on his list to lean upon. He will try to fix whatever-it-is himself, first: because that is what one should do when one runs into a problem, of course! And if he can’t figure it out, and there is nobody nearby to appropriate for his solutions, he’ll likely reach out to the weyrlingstaff, which will doubtless have … interesting ramifications. He reasons that it is their job to watch over him, not yours; whyever would they have a fancy knot if it wasn’t precisely what they destined were to do?

“Qianvaelth… Qianvaelth… has anyone seen my dragon?”
“Shouldn’t you know where your dragon is, E’don?”
“Uh, have you MET him?”

He will indeed require additional effort, if you wish to remain out of trouble. It isn’t that he goes looking for trouble, or indeed that he ever really ends up in a great amount of it; it is just that he is so very headstrong, in his own way, and the weyrlingmasters have a certain expectation of the human side of a bond keeping track of the draconic. It may require a bit of maturing for E’don to realize that the best way to prevent weyrlinghood debacles is to engage Qian in steady discussion… and perhaps check on him every few minutes. Even when he’s sleeping. Especially when he’s sleeping. No rest for the wicked, E’don.

As he matures, it may get a bit better. Like cordwood, the bond between the pair of you will only increase as you both age, seasoning into something far beyond what it started out as. He will never quite lose his independent streak, or his disconnect with any desire to fix your life for you, but if nothing else, turns of conversation between the pair of you will encourage lessened bounds of pride from both sides.

Once it occurs to E’don to actually ASK his dragon for advice, it may be astounding to both parties how much Qianvaelth has actually paid attention. He will often cut to the heart of an issue without beating around the bush, with more introspection and intuition than one would suspect him capable of.

One felt as if there was an enormous well behind them, filled up with ages of memory and long, slow, steady thinking; but their surface were sparkling with the present; like sun shimmering on the outer leaves of a vast tree, or on the ripples of a very deep lake.

Regarding Treebeard’s eyes; Tolkien, “The Two Towers”

For a dragon, Qian has a remarkable memory. It isn’t so much that he elopes from the principle of the thing — he will forget specific incidences within the span of a seven, much the same as other dragons of the weyr — but it doesn’t take much to remind him of things. It may be that the separation that the two of you naturally have with your waking minds somehow allows a greater subconscious link. He will remember things that you should, occasionally. Not meetings, or drills — though if you spend long enough in a steady wing with stable assignments, he will uncannily wake for those dawn sweeps, or push you to hurry up when afternoon drills loom and you have deliberately kept from reminding him of the fact.

No, he will remember the soft moments. A wafting of wildflowers will niggle at your memory, but Qianvaelth will remember that flight, three turns ago, where you had a nice little romp with Cerise after Qian did the unthinkable and caught Jiamoth. At first, when these shared-memories arise, he may not think to clue you in. But later in life, if you play your cards right, when these things occur he will naturally reach out to recollect to you something that you have forgotten, little gems of shared nostalgia that will be perhaps the most poignant moments of your life with Qian, for they will be shared with his emotion coloring your memories: the closest sharing of self that either of you are like to offer one another.

This, of course, has been focused entirely upon how Qian is with you, E’don. But of every dragon in his clutch, Qianvaelth does not exist in a vacuum, and his life will be his own for a great deal of the time. With you, he is particularly entish, as you are the outsider, the Other, the little orc that he hasn’t quite decided what to do with — other than keep a good close eye on you for the length of time that you inhabit his mental forest.

Others, though: his fellow dragons are his fellow ents, his fellow trees, those whom he claims kinship and forges fast bonds to. He knows each of his clutchmates intuitively, though there will always seem to be that central circle that he gravitates most often to. In this he is both static and dynamic, for certain fellows may forever be within this grouping, but never is any presence completely ascertained to remain. Dragons are allowed to grow root in a way that runs perpendicular to the path that Qian takes; he will not be ruffled when one devolves from his social circle, and isn’t one to be very angry about a great deal of things, when angry at all.

Indeed, to his group of confidantes, he will unbend and stretch - once the low pacing of his speech hurries, and the creaking of his trees turns into music of wind through leaves. He is observant, Qian, and intelligent beyond the ken of normal dragons. He’ll have the driest sense of humor, and for all of his implacable entishness, he can put up with the most profoundly different things that show in his clutchmates’ natures. So Chorzeczoyth likes to steal things; to each their own… unless Chorzeczoyth already took it. So Osweith likes to think their sire did something to him in the shell; it isn’t as if Qianvaelth is going to let him know that Jiamoth clued him in to their blue brethren’s wacko theory of The Bronze Brotherhood. So what if Desmeth thinks he has collected the richest secret in the world; it isn’t Qianvaelth’s place to tell his brother that EVERYONE knows Bailey sleeps with that damn stuffed llama. The point is that Qianvaelth, for all of his idiosyncrasies that some would consider flaws, accepts those around him without (external) judgment, and generally speaking treats everyone with the same internal sense of social justice. There are none exalted and there are none beneath, and while that may drive E’don CRAZY, it is how Qianvaelth was shelled and how he will remain until he dies.

Others will observe his equal-handed treatment and his penchant for remaining unruffled and find him an implacable old soul, wise beyond his chronological turns. On his part, Qianvaelth studies and considers and thinks out his actions beforehand, no matter the audience which surrounds him. He is, as you may have gathered, not a hasty dragon. In essence, he’s an incredibly intelligent creature that doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to conform to standards that are different than his own. He is rationally and emotionally mature: some of his more impulsive clutchmates may find him particularly dry, as a matter of fact. Others will be drawn to the unperturbed nature of his soul, though perhaps rebuffed by his wretched inability to find any use for day-to-day drama.

"Things will go as they will; and there is no need to hurry to meet them."

- Treebeard

That silent treatment he gives you at your ranting will also be given freely to his fellow dragons for most issues, though he seems to be more willing to correct those who ask for his opinion. He naturally gravitates towards the role of the protector, the shepherd, the guardian, though he works not actively towards leadership. That may be in part due to his intrinsic understanding of E’don; he is not necessarily ambitious in the classic sense, in this, but nonetheless seems made for such roles. If dragons were wolves, he would be dominant: not bloodthirsty or powerhungry, but an alpha most concerned with the well-being of all the ones sheltered under his protection.

In a way, this makes him the perfect candidate for aiding weyrling dragons, once he’s grown into his own maturity. He is solid enough to let them make their own mistakes, correct them gently when they go too far — for saplings deserve his attention for correction — and implacable in the face of temper tantrums. Inversely, his approach may be too distant when adult dragons are concerned — whyever should he babysit a tree full-grown? By the point of tapping into the wings, a pair should be solid enough to be responsible for their own actions.

Flashes of rare impatience will strike him at odd moments — while he is unruffled in the face of most irritants, continued troublemakers will eventually get under his skin, chinking the calm armor of his mentality. If only he could spend his time around such serene souls as his dam, Dhiammarath — for he will gravitate to her naturally, as so very much of him is directly inherited from the oldtimer gold. He has her bulk, physically, and the metaphysical weight of her presence mentally, and certainly the tendency to be unperturbed and perhaps a bit distanced from the events of reality as they occur about him. There won’t be much difference between his responses as a baby, and his responses as an adult:

« E’don, I’m not sure why you are making such a fuss over this. It’s just a bit of a crack. Hides crack overnight on growing dragonets… the dragonhealers told us this last week. Be not hasty to jump into panic. A little numbweed, a little oil, and all will be fine. »

« It doesn’t bother me. Extra sweeps in the morning will only make us stronger. Who could consider that punishment, with how pleasant it is outside? E’don, stop pouting. It makes you look like a twelve-turn-old. You were the one who put the hotsauce in Kraakenaeth’s rider’s klah in the first place. Things are as they should be. »

But woe be it when he is finally roused to anger, for then he is the scion of Vossuth, sharp and ire-hearted. Thread will be one such thing to change tranquility to berserker rage, and perhaps the only thing to consistently enrage the bronze; the others will be far and in-between, and typically due from a build-up of irritants until one tiny straw breaks the camel’s back. Chorzeczoyth’s eternal sniffing of his hide, for instance: funny at first, and then just faintly amusing. Finally, just tolerable. But pair a long day of Qian’s precious space being invaded by his loutish brother with someone making a smartass comment about E’don, and you may just have the perfect storm.

The only other thing that will trigger these rages will be if he honestly, legitimately feels that you are in danger. When your safety comes on the line, the true depth of the Impression bond that may otherwise seem almost lacking will roar to the surface.

« I must only imagine that you lack the sense that Faranth gave an ant, for if you’d had a single pair of braincells to knock around against one another, you would be smart enough to move away from my lifemate. » His forest has gone dark and dim, and instead of cheery autumn there is only the dusk: the dusk and the classic sense of a forest, claustrophobic and foreboding. Darkness looms for any who dare approach. « If you harm a single hair on his head you will wish you had never broke shell. I will gut you slowly, and gag you on your own entrails, if you even think about endangering my own. »

If that isn’t love, E’don, we don’t very well know what is.


'When Spring unfolds the beechen leaf,
and sap is in the bough;
When light is on the wild-wood stream,
and wind is on the brow;
When stride is long, and breath is deep,
and keen on the mountain-air,
Come back to me! come back to me,
and say my land is fair!'

‘When Spring is come to garth and field,
and corn is in the blade;
When blossom like a shining snow
is on the orchard laid;
When shower and Sun upon the Earth
with fragrance fill the air,
I'll linger here, and will not come,
because my land is fair.'

'When Summer lies upon the world,
and in a noon of gold
Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves
the dreams of trees unfold;
When woodland halls are green and cool,
and wind is in the West,
Come back to m! Come back to me,
and say my land is best!'

'When summer warms the hanging fruit
and burns the berry brown;
When straw is gold, and ear is white,
and harvest comes to town;
When honey spills, and apple swells,
though wind be in the West,
I'll linger here beneath the Sun,
because my land is best!'

'When winter comes, the winter wild
that hill and wood shall slay;
When trees shall fall and starless night
devour the sunless day;
When wind is in the deadly East,
then in the bitter rain
I'll look for thee, and call to thee;
I'll come to thee again!'

'When winter comes and singing ends;
when darkness falls at last;
When broken is the barren bough,
and light and labour past;
I'll look for thee, and wait for thee,
until we meet again:
Together we will take the road
beneath the bitter rain!'


'Together we will take the road
that leads into the West,
And far away will find a land
where both our hearts may rest.'

As Qianvaelth matures, E’don, there will come days where you’ll find him yearning for something unknown, unseen. Ask as you might, however, he either might not want to answer: or maybe he can’t quite put his finger on that which is missing. The integral piece that he can’t find alone. Then a green will rise, and understanding will come forever how long. Greens infertility will never give him what he seeks: but they will give him the chance to hone his finesse and skill to capture the true prizes: the golden queens of Pern.

The golds of Pern are as to Qianvaelth as the entwives are to the ents in Lord of the Rings: the mothers of their entlings, and the piece he misses throughout his life. The day he catches a gold for the first time will be the proudest day of his existence: and he will linger with the gold until he is either chased out or she takes to the Sands.

Once a clutch is laid, he will be the doting father, and provide everything she may need with instinctive precision. Whether it be a herdbeast or some other provision, your Qianvaelth might just get it before she even realizes she was wanting it herself! It will be hard to coax him away from the Sands for drills or anything else: because the eggs are the most important part of his life, and he will do his best to ensure both that they are safe, and that their mother has everything she needs.

For some golds, this attention might be a bit much, but others will likely adore it!

After his first flight, Qianvaelth will likely keep a better eye out for that telltale shine, and as soon as he spots it upon the hide of a dragon he wishes to court he’ll become actively charming. He’ll bring the lucky female gifts of many different varieties - which means you’ll have to help him obtain them in some cases, E’don, because he chooses his gifts based upon what the particular female he’s courting likes. He will be the charming, persuasive, considerate, and romantic dragon that most dragons will enjoy having around.

When he takes to the air after that female, his charm will be at an all time high; and where some dragons - like Raxsonath or Desmeth - might attack the other suitors Qianvaelth recognizes that the more there are chasing, the better the chances of her making the right choice: because all of those other dragons are just so unsuited for her.

This isn’t to say that he’ll start catching gold dragons right away. In fact, the first decade of his life will be a difficult one because unless he happens to get really very lucky, he probably won’t catch one. But as he hones his finesse chasing after those greens, he will become more confident. More sure. And then one day, finally, he’ll catch her, that particular gold he’s been courting.

The joy he feels will overbound through you as well, E’don.

When darker spells of lament find him, to remind him that he’s found a mate before who’s given him eggs will be like a balm to the soul, and a comfort he’ll thank you for when he snaps out of the dark mood.


“There was a great inrush of those, burarum, those evileyed - blackhanded - bowlegged - flinthearted - clawfingered - foulbellied - bloodthirsty, morimaite - sincahonda, hoom, well, since you are hasty folk and their full name is as long as years of torment, those vermin of orcs.”

— Treebeard

It may feel like it takes forever, E’don, for the two of you to finally face Thread together. But that day will come, and you’ll wonder how you ever looked forward to it. You see, E’don, flying Threadfall together…well. Your Qianvaelth will become pretty predictable in how he starts every Threadfall. Threadfall is to Qianvaelth like orcs to the ents, and the fury that blooms within him upon seeing the ancient foe is fury to behold indeed.

Up until the first strand of Thread is spotted, he may seem quiet, and even calm. But as soon as those first strands are spotted, your Qianvaelth will become one of the most furious, bloodthirsty, determined defenders Pern has. His flames will decimate in thick swatches, lacking the finesse to catch the smaller bits - but then, that’s what the lower levels of a Flight are for. Qian will be too busy being a frenetic, terrifying force of destruction against the thicker places of the monstrosity.

After all, E’don, there is little worse than something that would do his forests, fellow dragons, or those he loves harm - and Thread would destroy all of it if it is allowed even the slightest chance. Qianvaelth would rather fall than allow it to have that chance. Were he a dog, all of his hackles would be raised from the mere proximity of Thread while he attacks and defends his home.

As the rage fades from him as the Fall progresses, the frenzied attack will change. Your dragon will still be determined to defend Pern from her enemies, but he’ll flame the Thread in a slower, more ponderous way - with all of the bloodthirst and power from before. When he reaches this stage of a Fall, he is more able to catch the smaller bits as well - but some may still escape him.

He is big, and bronze, and he definitely has the stamina to last throughout the whole Threadfall - but his size is also his biggest disadvantage. His maneuverability during a Fall leaves much to be desired. That won’t bother him, however, because that’s why greens and blues exist, right? Despite it all, his flame will be incredibly effective against the Thread he does encounter.

Once the Fall is over, how he’ll react will change depending on the losses of the Fall. He may just want to sleep and regain his stamina. Or perhaps a bath will be more appealing. Each time will be different, but the one constant is that when he finally does sleep, it will be the sleep of one who has fought a long battle - and won.


After a hard rain, as the clouds part the lingering scent of ozone lingers though it yet fades. The wet earth is a clean, delicate scent that winds ‘round and brings with it the green touch of growing things. This is Qianvaelth’s scent. It’s delicate and discernible if you’re up close to him, but more than a scent, it carries a feeling of renewal that leaves you unconsciously feeling refreshed. Others may notice his scent, of course, but they would need to get quite a bit closer and even then, they wouldn’t get the particularly refreshing feel from it that you will. Strong emotions will leave a stronger imprint of ozone to linger in the nose, overtaking the scent of damp earth and greenery that comes after a good, strong rain.


For Southern’s first cycle, Bailey and Hannah wanted even the dragon’s dbref # to have meaning. Not only is it a ‘special’ number (often referred to as ‘magic’) in how easy it is to type, but this time we strategically chose a number that reflects some aspect of the inspiration. Donner — wait, wait, E’DON, for your Fangorn bronze, we chose #8118 because those 1’s look like trees. TREES, E’don, trees.

Hannah: “E’don should get #8118. Look! Those 1’s look like TREES.”
Bailey: “OMFG. YES.”

From top to bottom, he is everything an Ent could ever be! And provides the yin to Chorzeczoyth’s yang.


It’s All Been Done - Barenaked Ladies

I met you before the fall of Rome
And I begged you to let me take you home
You were wrong, I was right
You said goodbye, I said goodnight

It's all been done
It's all been done
It's all been done before

I knew you before the west was won
And I heard you say the past
was much more fun
You go your way, I go mine
But I'll see you next time

It's all been done
It's all been done
It's all been done before

And if I put my fingers here, and if I say
"I love you, dear"
And if I play the same three chords,
Will you just yawn and say

It's all been done
It's all been done
It's all been done before

Alone and bored on a thirtieth-century night
Will I see you on The Price Is Right?
Will I cry? Will I smile?
As you run down the aisle?

It's all been done
It's all been done
It's all been done before

That’s right Donn… E’don. A song just for you. We think it captures that strange sense of disconnect between Qian and E’don while still having that thread between them; and we thought it was more appropriate than Afrojack’s ‘Because I Got High’… though let us all face the elephant in the room: if Qianvaelth was a human of our current time, he would be especially fond of 420.


Name: Bailey, Hannah, Jedi
Egg Desc: Bailey
Dragonet Desc: Bailey
Messages: Bailey
Puppeteer: Bailey
Inspiration: Bailey, Hannah, Jedi

D’tri (Dimitri) and bronze Chorzeczoyth
Kaia (Kapia) and green Salanaith*
Yules (Yulena) and brown Desmeth
S’yn (Sytin) and bronze Iaxryth
T’ral (Taralde) and blue Esanth*
Maosa and blue Osweith
D’cen (Daycen) and bronze Raxsonath
Cerise and green Jiamoth

Harper’s Tale 66th Clutch
(New) Southern Weyr’s 1st PC clutch
Hannah’s Gold Dhiammarath x Th’seus’ Bronze Vossuth
October 17th, 2013