Rysta's Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Finmaraisth

You worked hard to get this far, striding through the dirt and the shit with a smile on your face.

Spiraling Infinity Blossom Egg

A thousand fragmented colors unravel delicately outwards in precise shards of an impossible bloom. Slivers of sumptuous red stack up between wheels of vibrant green, shavings of buttery yellow are shot through with sparkles of electric blue. It's a window of stained glass shattered and reformed into an ovoid chapel, fitted together in a radial pattern bursting from the eggs highest peek to cascade in complicated networks down the egg's gentle curves. Holding together these splintered colors is a fine web of silver soldering, a Tiffany lamp caged in glittering filigree.

You never backed down, resting your fingertips fearlessly upon the ritzy face of his egg.

Your finger pricks — but painless. It warms and tinkles, a soft encroach of points. You gaze into the eye of a dazzling impossible bloom, glowing unearthly from within and it is MOVING. Enveloping you, this new strange world kaleidoscopes up your senses in a dazzling array of unfolding colored gypsy glass. Sharp-edged petals housing rich glowing colors unfold, click, press in, connect, reform, all backlit by golden light. It pours through this swallowing technicolor world of cobalts and brilliant green, searing orange, burnished crimson until you have been engulfed. And for one exquisite moment, all is quiet. Encircling you from all sides are the high cathedral walls of a temple of stained glass, pouring long bars etheral light down upon you. Bathing you in tie dye and nostalgia. And then, it begins to collapse. Reform. Not break, but withdraw. Fold up on itself. Shrink. Diminish. And it's gone.

And he dazzled your mind as you never knew it could be done.

Hatching Message

Spiraling Infinity Blossom Egg spins and rotates, faster, faster. Its brilliant network of colorful shards collapse together, fold apart and then bloom anew into a thousand fractal geometric patterns woven together and then /unwoven/ by the next rotation. Changing, expanding shrinking - they glitter and sparkle as multicolored funhouse mirrors, glimpses of gypsy glass slithering in illusions - lo, a crack. The pretty glass-tinkle shatter of crinkling windows and this egg seems less to break than it does unfold a dazzling carpet of a million colors upon which to pour loose the dynamic, spindly shape of the master of illusions, Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet.

Like a winking stars, he recognized you…

Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet

Ornate spired ‘ridges crown a fraudulent glamor; in a shifting veneer of flamboyance stalks forth the master to his stage, stretched serpentine long and whip-thin lean. Gemstone glitz glosses this lanky shadow of darkling head-to-toe copper-brown with a thousand coats of showman’s dazzle: insidious patinas cast oil-slick flickers of iridescent trickery, faint firelicks of emerald and amethyst skating in whispers of murky magic and twinkling mayhem. Elongated limbs snatch limber-quick below the dynamic reach of pearlescent wingsails, their dragonfly shimmer flawed just subtly with faint surface crackles of violet veining, circumferenced in gold gilt. Illusions reign from bony underbite of face, where elusive refractions of silver hint a mirage of mask that flashes like tinsel and then winks from sight, to the final inch of over-long tail, slipping away as but a lingering tendril of witch's smoke.

…And made you his partner in crime.

Public Impression Pose

Incense'd Streamers of Shadow Brown Dragonet stalks like a whisp, trails like a panther. Oh ho ho, these boys and girls are marked, tagged and PROCESSED as he passes them, long limbs all but frisking here, sinking loooow there. Kicking and scuffling, backbiting - oh, these candidates are JUST his style. But he needs more. The dazzling showman's cape of his trailing wings flutter flamboyantly, no, no, not you either. He doesn't want the little chickadees, he wants the /momma/ bird. He sees her there, his other half, the accomplice he needs, tending to her own with that eternal laugh he knows so well. Or maybe he just likes all that hair - dazzle camouflage, baby. He edges in to QUARANTINE Rysta aside, huffing a warm breath of her scent. You. You'll do JUST fine.

And now you have a friend…

Private Impression Message

It all starts in laughter. Rich, full-throated performance laughter, burbling up from a wet below. What is first a mere echo grows louder, ping-pongs down upon you until he is /here/. The high galleries and dry heat of the sands decay, collapsing into a lush gulping underworld-swampland, strung in beards of Spanish moss and small blinking eyes behind every shadow. Humidity settles on your pores like a wet blanket and you become aware of /sounds/. A whine of insects. A soft chirping. A click. The damp squelch and *plop* of something soft-bellied falling below the brilliant algae. « Just relaaaaax. » That laughing voice speaks against one of you ears, and in your other ear it choruses, different pitch, changed tone, « Just re/lax/. You’re in /my/ world now. Are you ready? » Abruptly, smoke and swamp lights erupt just behind the trees and you are drawn in by a husky, musky push from behind, amusement dripping down your shoulders from every word. « The name’s Finmaraisth, sister. What say you an’ me get away from allllll this NOISE. »

…on the other side.

From Salen to S’len to Rysta, you’ve been with High Reaches Weyr long enough to have gone through the crazy times, the crazier times, and the even crazier times! It’s never a dull moment around here and you’ve stuck with us and you’ve thrived. We hope that you continue to enjoy and play in this crazy place and that your Finmaraisth is everything your heart could desire! Have fun with his trickery and his thievery, and try not to get into too much trouble, but then… trouble… might just follow! ~ SearchCo

Egg Inspiration

Kind of techno-LITE, a kaleidoscope is a nifty little gadget all the same. A tiny window into a small, simple world of geometric beauty.

Theme Inspiration

The clutch theme is Old-World Inventions, and from that arises: Incense, which your Finmaraith is based upon! It’s a heady thing that can be strong or subtle and plays shadow-light with curling smoke upon ornate bases. The use of incense dates back to ancient times and may have originated in Sumerian and Babylonian cultures, where the gum - resins of aromatic trees were imported from the Arabian and Somali coasts to be used in religious ceremonies. It was also used by the Pharaohs, not only to counteract unpleasant odours, but also to drive away demons and gratify the presence of the gods.

This just fit with both form, and function; there’s a mystery about incense from Ancient Egypt to the opium shops of Victorian England. It also fits well into the personality of, to use your own terminology, ShadowDragon!

Also accredited as inspiration would be the wild world of New Orleans, Mardi Gras, Voodoo and of course that granddaddy of tricksters himself: Dr. Facilier, The Shadow Man and his own inspiration: Baron Samedi - the Haitian Loa of the Dead and subsequent reincarnation are the making up of this sly devil. It’s a tough job but hey, someone’s got to do it…


Description Inspiration


It took a lot of thought to find just the right inspiration that could match your requests! We wanted trickery and we wanted flashy, we wanted quick and we wanted a hint of mystery beneath the magic. There’s a bit of ringside circus dazzle and a healthy dose of subversive witchcraft. But to find just the right iridescent creature of flight? It hit us suddenly that a dragonfly was all things we could need. A true flamboyant swamp creature, long and lean in body, clever in motion, adaptive and quick with huge wings and plenty of attitude. Just look at that purple-on-red! There are even faint markings of dragonfly wings along his sails, but those could easily be just a trick of the eye…

Name Inspiration

You had asked for something that sounds French, with an unusual pronunciation. You can’t begin to imagine the long list of various possibilities we amassed trying to find one that flowed just right.

‘Marais’ is the French word for ‘swamp’. It has a nice, growly ‘r’ in it and a sort of whimsical tapering to the end, but it wasn’t quite enough by itself. We wanted a name with a sort of rhythm all its own. Wanting to add a hiss to that growl, something drier than an ‘s’ (thinking gator more than snake) we went hunting for just the right ‘f’. ‘Fin’ in French means everything you could need. ‘End’. ‘Death’. ‘Sharpness’. ‘Thin’. And there we had it. Finmaraisth.

Pronounced “FEEN-ma-rai-th”, it has all the rich flowing consonant that, if he had a human mouth, you would just love to watch him say. The starting ‘F’ setting his teeth dimpling into his lower lip in a low hiss of ‘ffff’, which is then slung sharply against his upper pallet in a sharp, short, teeth-baring “een”. Oooh and then his tongue just melts along the final portion in a warm, thick gulp like swallowing honey, ending just so when his tongue-tip hits the back of his teeth to cut it off… but only when he’s done rolling in it: “marrrrrrraai-th.”

Even a name can be a five start performance when slung just right. And that’s what your dragon is aaallllll about.


In the silence came the drumming, making the music that had gone before seem as insignificant as the chittering of crickets. This was the real blood music; every other music that had ever been written was merely a pitiful attempt to sing along.

It poured into the room and with it came the heat and the warm, vegetable smell of the swamp. There was a suggestion of alligator in the air - not the presence of them, but the promise.

Witches Abroad, Terry Pratchett


Creeping, humid and riddled with a thousand hidden paths and unnavigable water ways, Finmaraisth’s mindvoice is based on the marshy bayous of Louisianna. It’s wet, sunken in and oddly down home, full of humid smells and wild gurgling greenery. Humps of mossy tree roots clump together, forming gnarly hammocks, all surrounded by thick boggy water, brilliant with invasive green algae. Warped branches sag in demented snarls, bearded over with gray-blue Spanish moss and laced with flossy suggestions of spinner webs.

Far from drab, these swamps are flamboyant. Teeming with dank sensory input. Something is always, always happening in here: Big, fat muggy smells will suggest both blossoms, new budding shoots, moist decay, death and, just rarely, now and then, this acrid suggestion of incense in the trees. Lingering just in the wake of something that might, just might have been passing magic. Unseen pools chuckle wetly amidst the foliage.

It’s teeming-alive, swarming with extravagant suggestions of life. There are dark gator-green movements under neon algae, hidden burrows dug under rotting tree trunks swarming with insects. Little phantom-shapes flutter by in the thorny leaves above - birds? bats? firelizards? they move so fast! - and behind every blue-green shadow there are little glowing eyes, peering out at you that blink out of sight when you try to look back at them.


Charming no, but in a soggy, boggy sort of way, where occasionally sunlight will pierce dappling shapes through the mist, perhaps it could be called enchanting.

And all of this? All of this serves as Finmaraisth’s elaborate stage.

When he speaks, his voice is rich and dynamic, lightning quick one moment and then slow and thick as molasses the next. It seems to come from all directions and any direction, speaking from the left one moment, the next from the right as if you were surrounded by hundreds of unseen presences all taking turns to murmur in your ears from just behind. His words carry themselves along with an eclectic and paced sort of flow, like the winding course of a waterway, fast and nimble one moment, darting around rocks and slipping smoothly over sunken logs and then the next moment expanding out into great swallowing bogs of deep, thick, viscous pools. And just as the waterways are the force that keeps the whole swamp unified, so too will your dragon use every element of his swamp to turn even a normal sentence into a performance.

When he’s really getting into the act, fey will-o-the-wisps stand aside - Finmaraisth’s swamplights flare up in brilliant lightning and electric with colors, spotlights and dazzling shimmers behind the leaves, adding a magician’s dazzle to the background orchestra of unseen jazz accompaniments, showcasing the very essence of his mercurial mind.



So very much like his sire, Finmaraish is lean, mean and serpentine. And this brown isn’t just robbing his sire of all his treasures, he’s robbing the family. That gem-stone dazzle might be but a monochrome hint from Ysvarth, but the real bling your dragon wears like a well-tailored coat of jewels is his granddam, Talicanitath… with just a subtle difference. Where Talicanitath’s brilliance is in the sharp purity of cut gems and precious metals, Finmaraisth’s is all tricks of light, fickle mother of pearl and winking fool’s gold.

His base color beneath the shimmer is true to form: he is a brown, after all. A chromatic dragon beneath the metallic glam. A dark, reddish-brown, coppery base that uniform-covers his entire body. But you could practically forget this fact because over this simple solid color he is lacquered with a film of flashy, opalescent shimmer, an oil-on-water rainbow harboring subtle hints of green and purple. A good example of copper patina showcasing these colors would be this:


Though on Finmaraisth it’s both a darker tone and not nearly so stationary! It slips about like liquid shadows, the red-brown of him rich and bruised enough to suggest almost purple in lacking light while these opalescent hints pull all stops completely when it reaches his wings. They lightening to an even more brilliant show curtain of colors - a stunning gift of glam from granddaddy Aojadinth himself, these… if crackled just subtly with dragonfly-wing veining, thin lines of violet cracks that may or may not make themselves visible beneath the dazzle and the trim of the wings is a lining of gold.


And from his dam? Did he dare rob even those fiery hallowed ground? Well, here, he is more delicate, isn’t he - none want to be caught with a finger caught in the cookie jar by a mother that would burn you alive. In a subtle slight of hand, he borrows just a suggestion of his proffered purple and, so much more valuable yet, just a sip of pure silver, hidden with hardly a shrug. Like a clever illusion slipped into layers beneath a piece of dichroic class, he wears a subtle silver mask that sits upon his face, reflecting light one moment, but gone again the next. A fine parlor trick or a hint of his hidden nature? That’s for others to find out.

Matching these quicksilver glimmers are an equally skating and tricksy manner to his movements. He does them effortlessly - almost too effortlessly, he seems to just kind FALL into quick-steps and semi-dancing motions to his swagger. It’s not that he’s sloppy and it’s not that he’s lazy; it’s just that Finmaraisth never seems like he even tries. He can topple out of bed (well off his couch) with more pizazz than some dragons that are given a whole morning’s work out to limber up by. He’s lightning-quick, those long limbs striking like snakes when they want to, slowing to a liquid roll other times, his huge flashy wings trailing behind him like a showman’s cloak. For all his quick movements, he’ll have stealth in abundances as well, possessing this uncanny, creeping tendency to emerge from the shadows at just the right moment to appear next to people, large, in charge and dazzling. He is a walking embodiment of funhouse mirrors, carnival parlor tricks and the very slithering gaudy celebration that is a Mardi Gras parade.

Sadly, this uncanny shock-and-awe genius of motor skills does not carry on with him once he leaves the ground. Great for a show, the exceptional reach of your brown’s wings will make aerial maneuverability almost painfully difficult from the start, and take offs and landings will always be a hassle, huffing and puffing to get himself high enough into the air to let gliding take over. But oh, once that boy gets flying, he can do it forever. Just… don’t expect him to get there quickly.

He will have immediately a natural affinity to flaming, taking to it with the dramatic flare of a fire swallower, the reflection of those great flames illuminating so many of those subtle undertone shapes in his coloration, ever shifting and readjusting those long spindly limbs for just that right angle makes it a truly fantastic show. Long bursts, short bursts, incredible marksmanship and that last natural talent he has to make it all appear effortless. And in the end, his fire will taper off to a fine cloud of cigar smoke that he will bite off to let the world know - this show is over.


Give 'em the old hocus pocus

Bead and feather 'em

How can they see with sequins in their eyes?

What if your hinges all are rusting?

What if, in fact, you're just disgusting?

Razzle dazzle 'em

And they’ll never catch wise!

- Razzle-Dazzle, Chicago


Get ready to pair up with a mother trucking rockstar ‘cause there’s no getting off this glitter train.

This is a showman and this is a snake, flashing plumage may be a mirage in the dark or it may be the truth - who’s to say? Just because our eyes may see what they want to see, it doesn’t mean we’re not seeing something…

You will quickly come to find that your brown’s thing above all else is taking care of Number One (and, y’know, you!) and, sugar, that’s no easy ticket to punch. This isn’t just a matter of survival or comfort; he’s not just out to keep the two of you fed, your Finmaraisth - as far as he can see it, petty questions of shelter and creature comforts have more than the capacity to solve themselves. No, he wants the curtain, he wants the spotlights, the shuffle of cards and the quick-step from one mask to the next. When he plays the field, he wants to play with the field, and you better be up for the challenge because he’ll have you right in the thick of it with him.

And gracious, child, the imagination and versatility he will employ to accomplish his never ending spectrum of eclectic desires have no bounds. He’s a performance artist, dynamic and bursting with soaring highs and dark and dirty lows. Cunning and lightning quick, he’s a barrel of laughs with a bite. He doesn’t just want the mic, wants the stage, the audience, the full trunk of props and the key to the backstage wardrobe while he’s at it! This boy loves the whole process of the song and dance, the placement of a careful word here, a sympathetic ear there, a rough shove another time to get something moving. He loves it active, he loves it happening and he loves it NOW, let there be fireworks and let there be chaos and he will coast along the top as the fire-juggling ringleader… Or perhaps he’ll be backstage and out of sight completely, lurking in the shadows in plainclothes undercover, pulling the string and working the smoke machines. Either could be fun, sure, oh, either could be real fun.

Fast-talking and smooth as oil, half the time Finmaraisth seems to be playing by ear where he even wants to go with any given scheme and figuring what he wants to get out of it along the way. He’ll pluck the fruit while flying by the seat of his pants; all he knows is he wants the two of you to get a lot. He can be charming and he can be charismatic, even friendly. He has a lot to offer when he offers it and as long as things are going his way, he’s not even going to be faking those smiles. He does for himself and he does for you and what a man can get with honey, well… why not get it with honey, then?

But don’t let that fool you. What he stocks up in sweetness, he keeps an equal reserve of vinegar, ready if things turn out to need a little detour down the ‘hard way’.

It would often be hard to pin him down on it, for how quick he is to chuckle, to bump a chummy shoulder against a fellow dragon, to play a card or two of camaraderie, but Finmaraisth has a covetous, jealous side a mile long. He’ll hide it under the glitz and the laughter but oh ho ho, he wants. He wants it all. He wants it especially if someone else has it that’s not the two of you. You’ll find he rather often targets those with more than himself, working his manipulations to exact what he would swear to be an almost Robin Hood-esque brand of justice, robbing from the rich to… well, keep for himself. It’s not the having, it’s the getting. And maybe, on occasion? It’s also the taking that drives him.

His temper can run on an impossibly short fuse but his recovery time could almost make you forget that he had ever been angry.

Swamp lights erupt! The explosive bombast of flashing carnival color sending gnarled swampgrowth into a black relief. « Can you believe! How DARE Tindraeth interfere with my plan! Why, I’ll-! » A sudden tapering out of rushing waterways, dangling branches trailing idle ripples along the flowing course. « …No. Noooooo, why? I’m glad. Why, I think I’ll go over and… THANK him. Right… Now. »
» …Wait, what? «
Turgid water gurgles up a rich chuckle, all signs of anger gone. « Nevermind, sister, just never you miiiind. »

But oh, he’ll remember. Unfortunately, the slippery thing about his temperament is that by the time he realizes he’s incensed, he might find himself delighted by his own anger, drumming his fingers in a displacement of energy while this new angle begins to blossom forth its new possibilities. This is where the excitement is, after all, and while Finmaraish might be quite devoted to the preservation of his own skin, in terms of temper, well… he might gamble a little, if his humor is right.

This is a dragon all about grudges. He loves them. They are his Favorite Thing. His whole motivation may sometimes seem to be about grudges, keeping them, forming them, collecting them like playing cards, choosing enemies of his enemies to side with, fostering grudges between people or dragons that had once gotten along, turning friends on each other, sewing enemies together just to spite them. Hell, he’ll pick Rysta’s brain and borrow her grudges while he’s at it. And he can somehow manage all of this without ever seeming even hateful about it - well, perhaps brief solar flares of fury - because ultimately grudges are another sort of entertainment, not a curse. He might sit and stew for a while, he’ll bruise and he’ll brood, but in the end he always bounces back, and bounces back with a vengeance because even grudges can be a sinister game. Even his own. Just another variety of spice, handicaps or bonus points to a game he’s gonna be playing anyway. Getting Dhioth (who will likely always vex Finmarasth with his troublesome moral dilemmas) to thwart one of Cervilaevarth’s plans is fun, but if you can spite Lakenheath while you’re at? Now that, sister. That is living. It just adds another dozen dominoes he then gets to knock over when the time is right.


Much like Baron Samedi himself, representing both Death and Resurrection in one, Finmaraisth is a dragon that jives entirely outside the confines of simple human morals. To align him lawful would be much much too orderly for his eclectic tastes, to align him chaotic would be far too disorderly, because he never doesn’t know what he wants even if it contradicts what he wanted an hour ago. He has more than enough capacity to plan out his schemes from grandiose extravagant to the most infinitesimally small with an attention to detail that will leave your head spinning. Amoral in action but not necessarily immoral in intent. He’s not evil, he’s just… himself! He’s no more opposed to good than he is proponent to bad. Hell, he’ll even help a brother out from time to time, should they make it worth his while.

So much of this neutrality, this careful scheming and what surely must be called a brand of ambition, could very well have come down from his sire, Ysvarth. But while that bronzen papa’s designs from hatching were to climb to the top, Finmaraith’s reflect every zig-zag, up-and-down, inside-out, loop-de-loop outta-this-world direction you could imagine because he plays top and bottom, and he plays them against each other while he’s at it. He might strive for rank, but he’d strive for it out of covetousness, to try and take what someone else might already have. Underhanding his way over people’s heads, so to speak. But he’s drawn to the low places by nature, the freedom of shed expectancy that allows him to move unseen when he doesn’t want to be seen. His ambition will very much depend on what else he can get out of it…

Shake my hand. C'mon, boys, won't you shake a poor sinner’s hand?

- Dr. Facilier, The Princess and the Frog

He is, essentially, the trickster in full, dazzling, manic manifestation. He loves the doing, the watching, the bending, the playing. He sees the humor in the irony, the fly in the soup, the smudge on the window. He’s social, even friendly, impossibly curious and shameless when it comes to wheedling in for questions. He’s drawn to the underdog, the down and out, the desperate or the heart broken - those in need. He likes to know what they want and he likes to figure out how to make them get it… but it’s a coin toss as to whether he’ll help them. Or why.

Some days, he might just be hedging his bets, making allies, tallying points; if someone’s benefit falls collateral to a grand scheme, he might be so generous as to toss out a favor. Other times? Well… you never can tell, can you. He’s capricious and he’s demanding. A free favor one day might be altered the next when he comes to collect a favor of his own. He’ll see your dreams come true… but you better hope he finds his own fickle satisfaction from it the first time around. He isn’t a Fairy Godmother, he’s the Monkey’s Paw, and he can just as easily show a person how much they didn’t want their dreams to come true if it suits him.

Even you, his favorite accomplice and partner in crime, will rarely know the full extent of his schemes. This will make Weyrlinghood an especially interesting learning experience; where everyone else is trying to control the potentially overwhelming sensory-input they receive from their dragon, you will need to work hard to monitor what Finmaraisth is up to at any given time or you could find yourself taken by surprise when he suddenly springs his latest plans into action. This might land you in trouble a few times, before you better learn to predict and recognize those tell tale little signs that he’s up to something. As he grows, you would do well to limit these shenanigans… or help him learn now to not get caught.

For a creature with a limited long-term memory, you might think it impossible for Finmaraisth to keep track of his ten thousand schemes he keeps running at a time. And it’s true, on his own he might very well forget half of what he starts off, but you see… he does account for that as well! He doesn’t have Cervilaevarth’s uncanny memory (which might annoy him; Cervilaevarth more than most could very well be a foil to his plans and fall within Finmaraisth’s ire frequently), but what he doesn’t have naturally he will steal. Or borrow. Or pinch.

Finmaraisth is a collector, you see. Petty larceny is no more of a priority to him than food or shelter - he has a pride! Why just steal when you can swindle? - but he does take from people. Oh yes. It doesn’t need to be anything major, anything important. He’ll want you picking through their trash or challenge you with swiping bits of their hair, or a sock or shoe - little pranks or harmless mischiefs, mostly - just something that can help remind him. Mementos to represent a person that has angered him, tokens of people he has already visited his vengeance upon. He wants them. And he will want them displayed in in his couch and possibly all through out your weyr, hung from the ceiling and walls for reminders to him. You’ll find him curled up like a wilted spider and brooding beneath a million random and almost eerily assorted items strung for him to consider with his slow spiderwebbed mind. A wagon wheel from that tithe wagon that had failed to bring you the cloth you’d wanted, a pair of Rikane’s pants, a discarded set of straps Dhioth had grown out of…

It will be his Wall-o-Grudges, decorated like a strange little pagan alter for him to lie beneath when scheaming, but also serves a practical purpose - if he can remember who is on his List, he can prompt memories from you at least as to why. Which does mean that once someone gets added to his collection, they might stay there for life. That doesn’t mean he won’t occasionally let them fall into his temporary favor if it suits his other purposes, but he’ll still remember. And it can always come back another day to bite the unsuspecting right on the ass. Get ready to swipe a lot of hair cut off when you first join Weyrlinghood - he will want it, precious!

He’ll also want little snippets of his environment as well, to help remind him of other things. A handful of seaweed from the lake when Sh’z and Lakenheath splashed him or a handful of grass from the meadows from that time Tindraeth dared tease him for his poor take offs. He might want the pelt of an animal he was eating when Eriphyliriuth tried to eat HIS kill, or even the skull. All decorating your home as strange, strange items hung from the ceiling in cluttered, pack-rat, mindless arrangements.


“I mean, really. Do you have to keep R’yst’s broken fishing pole? This is trash!”
A smokey chuckle response from beneath opaque, gurgling waters. « Oh, never know, sister. You never know. Sometimes you just never can TELL… »


Probably the flashiest, craziest time for Finmaraisth is when he chooses to chase. Gold or green, he is indiscriminate in his choices. It’s about the party, the fun, the craziness that comes of the heady sensations of a proddy female. In many ways, Finmaraisth is like the grand adventure of Mardis Gras! In the crush of dragons that fly for a female, he is there, barreling his way through the crowd, crushing the competition with the sheer voracity for the flight. This is likely the only time that streamers and beads will fall through the swamps of his mindscape, for he is the epitome of flash and dazzle, and will use all of the tools at his disposal to catch a female.


This means that, yes, he will use the beauteousness of form, the lure of his mindvoice, and his prowess in the sky to win - or at least his stamina, his lacking acrobatics considered. But he has other devices. Underhanded tricks, knocking the competition out of the sky, and dastardly deeds in order to win? Absolutely! You will find it hard to even concentrate on the other person because… hell… who doesn’t love a party?! And when Finmaraisth flies, it’s alllll about the party. The beautiful babe that he’s chasing, and knocking the others out of the sky.

When he wins, he will party alllllll night long. Cuddle, snuggle, entertain; you name it, and he’s doing it. Rysta will despair, some days, of ever getting him away from the female he caught. He likes to leave a good impression; it’s good for business and means that next time, why, it might just hedge his bets in favor.


Lo… when he loses, oh how he will lose! We’re sorry to tell you this, but if you haven’t picked it up by now we’ll lay it down easy: Finmaraisth is a poor, poor sport. He is a gloating winner, rubbing the noses of the other chasers into the remains of their failure while he sits atop the prize (the female) and gloats to everyone the entire time the mating act lasts. But when he loses, he will spin into a rage. Gone will be the brightly colored beads and streamers; the gaiety and revelry. No longer will this be a party! Loss is a thing that’s not taken lying down and woe will be to the winner who will find a storm upon their ledge or during drills. Finmaraisth will do everything in his power — and against any and all attempts of Rysta to contain him — to make the winner’s life hell.

If the winner was New Orleans, Finmaraisth is Hurricane Katrina. From dumping random debris and trash on the winner’s ledge, to undermining the winner’s authority, to ordering Rysta to make the winner’s rider’s life hell… he will do it and more. The sky’s the limit, and he is one dragon with a devious mind.

Until… one day he will come awake and have forgotten it, and once more his world is normal. That is… until the next time he flies. Then it starts alllll over again.

Good luck, Rysta, somehow we think you’ll be juuuuust fine.

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These are all, of course, just suggestions! Our own interpretations of what your ShadowMan dragon could possibly be to take or leave as you see fit! Finmaraisth and all of his schemes are yours and yours alone to do as you like with. He is yours, he is Rysta’s, for the rest of her natural born days and we’re so so happy to have the two of you poisoning-er- joining the ranks of dragonriders in our Weyr. Or maybe, maybe we should just be afraid.


Name: R'yst, Eth'n
Egg Desc: R'yst
Dragonet Desc: R'yst
Messages: R'yst
Puppeteer: R'yst
Inspiration: R'yst, Eth'n

Sh'z's bronze Lakenheath, Shea's blue Cervilaevarth, Zeyta's brown Kczyslawborth, Paige's green Eriphyliriuth, Dirna's blue Tindraeth, Nika's blue Atmanth, Syriene's green Zhizusikolymuth, and K'ane's bronze Dhioth

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