Sasha's Worshipping the Goddess Under The Full Moon Green Branwyth

Playing With The Kitten Egg

Wild stripes of brown and gray dance delightedly across the smooth curve of shell, tabby fuzz blurring in a shimmer of energy. Amidst the wild swirl of smoke and russet, a wild loop of crimson threads, wound in a tangled knot of scarlet yarn. Here and there, curving creamy triangles, wickedly pointed in sharp contrast to their gentle colors, interrupt the ruby rope. Teeth or claws, it makes little difference, for all eventually becomes lost in the playful twist of fur and string.

Hatching Message

Playing With The Kitten Egg shakes and jumps, a ball of yarn played by invisible claws. Hop-skipping over the sand, the ball of furry eggshell seems determined to escape the rest of the clutch - and then it comes to a halt as it explodes into egg fragments and goo. And since the cat is now away, the prize comes out to play.

Worshipping The Goddess Under The Full Moon Green Dragonet

Triskells of misty green ensnare her headknobs, tattooing mystic power into every line of this dragon's charismatic frame and scribing spirals of stillwater blue across the solidity of solemn oak. She's as lithe and sleek as smoke, this witch of the woods, with the burning strength of incense imbuing her slender limbs with sensuous and seductive curves. Zeal radiates from the glossy mistletoe that spikes her 'ridges and 'spars, while nightshade saves its dark venom for the crescents of dagger-sharp talons. But that poison is drawn by the pristinity of 'sails as white as a virgin snowfall; drawn by the soul-deep mystery that revels her dark-shadowed eyes.

Public Impression Pose

Worshipping The Goddess Under The Full Moon Green Dragonet straightens abruptly as that scent becomes suddenly stronger. Whirling orbs turn toward a pair of girls as her stride lengthens, making a few steps into the length of a royal procession before finally stopping before Sasha….the Chosen.

Private Impression Message

Liquid moonlight creeps over the edges of your mind and spreads like wind-thrown magic dust until there's nothing but those bright sparkles illuminating every corner of your soul. The touch lingers, as dark and silken as a night-time breeze till spring begins to bloom in a flurry of unforgettable flavors: apple blossom, sacred herbs, night-flowers — their pungent scent mingled with the faint metallic essence of purest water. The tastes become overwhelming when a voice, ever so regal and spun together with but the hint of a chuckle, shuts out all other sound « I have come and I am the One who seeks you, Sasha. I am Branwyth and I am yours as you are mine. »

Sasha, dearest Sasha! We were so happy that you waited for us to apply for Search again and we hope you're equally delighted with Branwyth! This is what an inspiration is—your own reference guide for the dragon that we made for you. But keep in mind that a guide is all it is. It's up to you whether you follow this or play her the way you instinctively feel is best. Just know we're glad to have you both!

Egg Inspiration

Kittens! They're lovely, furry little critters, no? I can't count the number of times I've simply sat at home and watched the kitten play with string (or bells, or Christmas ornaments, or my biology notes…) for hours on end. This particular egg was based on our new kitten, a tabby who was avidly attacking a ball of red yarn when I wrote the desc—a blur or fur, claws, and tangled wool that begged to be an egg.

Name Inspiration

BRANWEN (Manx, Welsh, Pan-Celtic) Sister of Bran the Blessed and wife of the Irish king Matholwch. Venus of the Northern Seas; one of the three matriarchs of Britain; Lady of the Lake (cauldron); Goddess of Love and Beauty. Welsh love goddess. In the Mabinogion, She is a central figure in being wed to the High King of Ireland and thereby encompassing the doom of both the Irish and Britons, when her brother Bran invades Ireland to rescue her from the degradation she experiences at the hands of a vengeful Court. A daughter of Manannan and Iweridd whose name means "fair bosom". She is often equated with the Greek Aphrodite and is a Goddess of love, sexuality, and of the sea. She was married to Matholwch, a king of Ireland who fought a battle with Bran after a wedding feast insult. Her son Gwern was put in his place but immediately killed. She died of a broken heart during the war between Wales and England, which began with an insult at her wedding feast, which she believed was her fault. It had, in fact, been the deliberate act of Evnissyn, a jealous courtier who thrived on malicious mischief.

Also: Branwyn There is a lot more info on these pages, it was just to long to put it all in here:


Branwyth's musk is a heady combination of herbs that can only be imagined—even for Sasha, who's certainly smelt her fair share of herbs working in the infirmary. Mentally, it's a similar scent, but subtler in your thoughts, occasionally tinged with wood-smoke or myrrh or spring blossom, according to her mood. It will always be accompanied with colours… the deep midnight blue of the weyr lake at night when only the dimmest glow of the moons provides light, or the rich emerald shades of Nerat's rainforests as a constant presence of her touch. In her conversations with other dragons, she'll often have vines twisting around her words, feelings and images blooming like mythical blossoms. Many a time her voice has a crisp touch of imperiousness to it - and aura of respect that's completely without snobbery. Only with you does she slip into a softer tone, sometimes accompanied by breathless happiness or sly confidence as she lets down her figurative hair in the company of her ultimate confidant.


Physically, Branwyth is going to end up fairly medium-sized, but she's got an incredible amount of charisma for a green; she'll seem huge. Plus, there's a real solidity to her frame that will enhance that aura. She's no whispy, weensie slip of a green; she is Green. And even though she's nothing remarkable, size-wize, she commands attention within her very being. She'll be hard to overlook.

She's a nice blend of sharp edges and smooth lines, between those prickly, thorny neckridges and wicked talons, and the more feminine curves of shoulder and throat. It's handy for you, that, since even in silhouetted profile, those spiky ridges over such otherwise flowing lines will make her hard to mistake for anybody else.

Coloration-wise, she's all the colours of the darker side of the forest. Of mistletoe and nightshade and the oak that was so sacred to the druids. And she'll wear those shades with an inherent sensuality that she can't help. If you're into astrology, she'd be a stereotypical Scorpio*, in that sense, at least. And then there are those wingsails — one of her most striking features. They're as purely, perfectly white as any bit of any green dragon could ever hope to get. Though she won't make a show of them, flashing them at any given opportunity. They are lovely, 'tis true, and she's quietly proud of their beauty. But she doesn't have any need to draw attention to herself; she gets enough without trying.

Ruling the House of Sex can either be a blessing or a curse, and a lot depends on how the wily Scorpion deals with this erotic burden. Those mystical and magical creatures born under the sign of Scorpio are quick to channel their raw energy, power and strength into an exploration of their lover's emotions and sexuality. The Scorpion is intuitive and wants to get to the bottom of things, so there's no keeping secrets from this sexy Sign (although they'll surely keep a few of their own). An alluring resourcefulness and self-confidence is also evident in Scorpios, these folks being keenly attuned to what's best for them and how to get it. Anyone willing to take on the Scorpion will be engaging a cosmic power with plentiful sexual urges. The good news? A caring and devoted lover awaits. On the flip side, don't cross them, because those stingers can leave a heck of a welt.
~ Scorpio


So passionate, so strong, so mercurial in her moods. Life with Branwyth is life with the wind - from the wildest mistral to the softest zephyr. There's an air of mystery about her - perhaps in the way that she never quite looks at anybody directly. Her head will always be slightly tipped, not by design, for she is not crafty in that respect; it's just the way she is. There's the way she moves as well - she's not as calculatedly sexy as Alymath is - no deliberate waggle of hips - but it's her sheer obliviousness to the way the male dragons look at her that makes her so alluring. That distant glide of her gait—she's unusually graceful on land for a dragon, and her measured steps seem not borne out of necessary care, but her own nature.

Yet she is no fragile flower to be crushed by a careless foot. Branwyth can take care of herself. Should she be sunning in a prime spot in the bowl, and a Catiminith shuffles up next to her hopefully, she'll first tactfully place her tail along her chosen border of her personal space. Should that be ignored, she'll either look at him sidelong, or politely request he move over. Should he still press his luck, her tail will move again - this time to give him a slap around the face for his presumption.

She can't help being what she is, nor would she want to. She's not the sort to make less of herself for the sake of others. As we've said, she's not the in-your-face sort in the slightest, either, but she won't apologize if, for example, the wrong eyes should happen to follow her on her way to the feed pen; if some male has an understanding with some female, that's their business. If he can't keep his eyes to himself, that's his problem. Not Branwyth's. And she won't lose any sleep over it.

You see, she's not a flirt in the standard sense of the word. Not in the sense that she actively pursues attention. But then, she doesn't have to. She gets plenty without even trying. And perhaps it's simply because she doesn't try. Branwyth is the mysterious stranger; the virgin high priestess within a stone circle. There's something untouchable and unknowable about her that speaks to the contrary side of draconic (and human, for that matter) nature. "You always want what you can't have," is a cliche that could have been penned for this green.

Not that she's truly untouchable. For she'll fly, oh she will. And oh but she'll want to be caught then. But perhaps that innate charisma is a little daunting to the average male. It will take someone with an equal amount of confidence and self-knowledge to catch this green; she'll not be impressed in the least by the tired old lines and trite gestures. Forget the flowers; forget the moonlight; it's the unique that will impress her. The rarer gestures; the things real and meaningful and true. She can see straight through all the more standard sorts of fluff and fussing and she pegs it for what it is. « Blueth thinks to win my favour with his offering of vegetation. I think not. » And yet, the meanest weed could strike her fancy, should the feeling behind the gesture be sincere. That's what will impress your Branwyth most: sincerity, no matter what form it takes.
However, having said that, she's hopelessly susceptible to subtle flattery. She's too wise, even fresh-cracked from the egg, to fall for the obvious stuff. « Browneth, I heard you tell Imbriath the same exact thing yesterday. We can't both have "eyes brighter than the twin moons", or nobody in the Weyr would ever get any sleep. » But the subtler sort will have her falling like a stone enchanted. Should Browneth, instead, suggest that there's a Miss Green High Reaches contest going on, and that it would be a shame if Branwyth were to let Zizth and Vespurath enter, without putting herself forward as well, well, she'd take the bait, hook, line, sinker, fishing pole, fisherman, fishing boat, et cetera.

There's a story in Irish Mythology called "The Champion's Portion" or "Bricriu's Feast". You can find one version of the full text at:

(though I personally prefer Lady Gregory's), but in a nutshell, what happens is this:

Bricriu (who could teach classes in the art of subtle flattery), invites all the champions of Ulster, and their wives, to a feast. Before the food is served, he quietly takes each man aside in turn and tells him that he hopes that the "Champion's Portion" of the feast goes to him, seeing as how he's the most powerful warrior, the wisest scholar, and the most handsome of men in all Ireland. So of course each of the heroes falls for this and there's one almighty squabble then when the food comes out over who should have the Champion's Portion, which takes several days to settle.

But that's nothing compared to the knock-down, drag-out catfight that springs up when he repeats his little trick with all the women, explaining to each that the rest should all walk at her heel, and that none should preceed her back into the banquet hall.

Now we don't suggest that your Branwyth is going to make a habit of getting into catfights with any other green, but should she have the misfortune to run into her own Bricriu, and should she be proddy at the time, and should some other green or two think that they're better in some manner than she is herself and try to rub Branwyth's nose in it, well, somebody's headknobs might just get slapped.

In this, her self-knowledge and wisdom are her downfall in a way. You see, she's wise enough to avoid false modesty. She's beautiful, and she's aware of that. But this also means that, should some male also acknowledge what she, herself, knows to be true, she'll assume that he's only saying so because it's the truth. She's also honest enough herself that she'd never stoop to offering any false flattery of her own, so she assumes that others operate under generally the same moral standards and that even though she's starting to glow, they couldn't possibly have any ulterior motive to all those nice things they just said to her. « Or could they. Could they? » … « Sasha? »

As we said, she'll have enough sense to avoid the obvious, over-the-top sorts of flatterers, but when it comes to these subtler males, she'll need a little bit of feminine advice from her rider. Your opinion will be her deciding factor in most anything anyway, so it's only natural that she come to you for assistance.
For at the end of the day, if Branwyth had to be a high priestess to someone or something, it would be to you. You are her earth, her moon, her sun and stars, and without you she'd never survive. She'd never want to survive.


A proddy Branwyth is near indistinguishable from the one you see every day, and her flights may take you by surprise more often than not. Sure, you'll get some hints… Her hide tends to take on an ethereal glow, and indefinable sparkle that's almost-but-not-quite there, like the twinkle of a star: when you look right at it, it's gone. This tends to occur closer to her actual rising, so looking over her hide with a fine-toothed scrubbing brush isn't going to do you much good. Just as she's subtle about her beauty, she's subtle about her burgeoning sexuality - whether it's the first time, or the fiftieth time; you'll most likely hear her clear as a bell voice take on husky undertones, and her scent will become more pervasive than ever. Other than that, you'll know little until she's gone to blooding in the pens.

Then - and what a "then" it will be! - will you find your otherwise sedate green no longer the mystic, spiritual presence, but a fanatic caught in the throes of forces beyond her control, namely that instinctive lust for blood, for chase and for the winning male that will drive her to the skies over and over again. While in the pens, she'll blood with ritualistic precision - the neck sliced just so, each fallen beast made into a sacrifice for her energy - an offering to passion. When she takes to the air, she'll quite literally fly like a bat out of hell: those fantastic wings will give her bursts of speed, and she'll lead those males in a merry game of keep-away to the end of their strengths and sometimes to hers. Not one to be outsmarted, those who fly her will have the luck to be agiler, faster or stronger than herself - and though she's capable of emotions deeper than the Great Easter Current and just as tempestuous, she'll not suffer an arrogant victor without soon putting him in his place. Yes, those Beltane fires will flare high when Branwyth rises!

After the flight is done, and passions cool, Branwyth will return to her usual self, and the catching male will be viewed with the same detachment as before, as if it all had been a dream. This may be infuriating for him, but it's simply her nature.


Name: Daeyn; suggestion from You!
Egg Desc: Ciera
Dragonet Desc: Saoirse; Nuff-tweak
Messages: Thesy, Tyara, R'gis
Puppeteer: R'gis
Inspiration: Lis, Pyrene, Saoirse

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