Zeyta's Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Kczyslawborth

So brave, you strode across the sands, laying your fingers upon his electric shell.

Ride the Lightning Egg

A thrashing galaxy of fine filaments is caged beneath this enigmatic shell; seeming as a transparent droplet of dead black vacuum, stare long and view the whipping of glowing tentacles, thrashing cords of gas blue that sear to a molten ghostly fuchsia as they fade. Warping as viewed from different angles, they seem to leap towards what unwary fingers caress its surface and deeper, at its core, swimming in the dark behind these bars of light hunkers a nucleus, a spherical source from which these neon bolts erupt. Or perchance it's a mere trick of reflection on the frictionless glass surface. Touch it. See.

Upon first touch, he showed you power…

The moment your fingers touch the gooey, soft egg and you feel that /almost/ give that's not quite a give, it feels as if your hair is standing on end. The racing heart that the last egg left you with only races faster, but this is a different adrenaline rush. You are on TOP of the world as the sands sinks away and you feel pure, blue-white energy rush through your body. Every limb is ALIVE with the raised hair of the delicate peach fuzz that coats your body. Details are ever so much sharper, and in the distance you can see the sands as if you're caught in a great, ball of void. All around you is beautiful, beautiful lightning, hitting the glass dome that is the boundary between your new home and the sands. Power. Pure power and you are THRILLED with it. You drink it in, and you get more and more until it begins to collect around your body, conducting through the soft tissues, blood, and bone. Your muscles quiver and your realize you cannot stop it. Your body quivers as your muscles begin to tear form your bones, pain becomes a very real thing as skin is singed and burned, blackened to a crisp. Your body is lost until you are nothing but another bolt of electricity. You feel the charge building up… building…. building… ZZZZIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG! You whip through the void and hit the sands, pushed back into your body. Oddly enough… every hair on your arms and legs raise, as do the line of hackles at the nape of your neck. Pain is a dull ache as you turn to survey the sands… Are you SURE you are in the right dimension?

…and he showed you destruction.

Hatching Message

Ride the Lightning Egg hums with flashing electric, kinetic energy. Dashing bolts of thrashing lightning twist and grasp along its vacuous central black nucleus, battering brilliant tentacles of light against its glass prison. Thunder and flash! The battle rages on until hairline fissures mark the beginning of the storms end. Pale features can be seen caged within the dark, going about their careful machinations of deliberate violence to achieve their freedom. Higher and higher! The power increases, the light glows bright! The egg /vibrates/, it overloads, it short circuits - it EXPLODES, and finally the seal is broken. Shell shards erupt every which direction and crouched in the decimated remains is Monster’s Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet, the prisoner at large.

Now he’s broken free.

Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet

Phantom pallid, from the forward thrust of throat in froth-cream pale spears a monster’s skull of snarling muzzle and scissoring jaws. Crypt-dust faded hues of washed-out ghostly brown flank spine in faint veins of silver bars amidst the raised razors of tan shrapnel steel, cruel cutting blades of 'ridge pikes, lined as pickets to serrate the elongated sweep from far-reaching neck through expansive tail. Between skeletal white wingbones and haunted billowing of ghostship sails, perfection hangs in svelte cold-carved marble. Low-slung creeping carriage of frost-faded beige is sleek and lean t'wix ripple swells of crouched limb's brutish muscle, bloodless tawny buff water-thinned to uneven shades of waxy once-wheat. Each stealthy foot claims an innermost talon with an exceptional wickedness: the tearing hook of a 'raptor's killing claw. Softer, sweeter, a tomb's breath of heartbroken lilac, dried to faintest dust-kiss of bruised lavender ghosts, imprisoned as but hollow echo-patters of gently decayed footsteps, fleeing the light to the dungeon dwellings of lean underbelly.

Public Impression Pose

Monster's Gilded Cage Brown Dragonet dismisses the churning herds of walking meat that part around him. Dirty waters, he moves apart from them, restrained purely by his own cold inner fortress. Not yet. His mouth hangs open, /breathing/ in these rich smells of fear. Of adrenaline. His is not joy, but surely it could be an excitement, for he catches something else now. The sharp bite of a young girl's hiss. So small. So fragile that baring of teeth, in all of her snowy white and chaste skirt pleats. He descends upon her as a closing iron trap, and it is Yzabet he drives from her childhood cling of candidates. No more. Now, she shall be HIS.

And he’s closed his bars around you forever.

Private Impression Message

It starts not with a whimper, but a bang. CLANG. The slamming of an iron door and inward washes a chilly stillness. A deathly quiet. A hush, rustling with the dank smell of wet stone and ancient steel. Corroded grout trickles with fine rivulets of unseen water and you /feel/ him here, lurking just out of reach. « Yzabet? » A whispered husky purr of masculine voice from the shadows, rolling your name along his tongue - the last time it will be allowed. « No. I think not. » The chill of dank caves and the sense of hard brick walls close in tighter. Tighter. There are glimpses of long catacomb dungeonways, broken by black rectangles of shadowy caged doors. From above, weak green light filters through a rusted ceiling grate in watery fragile glow and out there, shhhh. Listen. Just beyond your pale spotlight, he slithers, the dry friction of his insidious voice, so softly burred it explores your very skin. « You are Zeyta now. » Abruptly, you are yanked backwards, pinned against a wall of hard rusty bars - the spare barrier that separates /him/ from /you/. He holds you there tight, /embraces/ you through this barrier to whisper softly to your neck. « I am Kczyslawborth. » Below are a million miles of dark stone passageways and spiraling hidden staircases. Keening prisoners wails from behind a million locked doors. But here and now… he strokes your cheek, so gently. So coldly. « And you, my dear… are now mine. »

And he’s placed the key to your life squarely in your hands.

Yzaaaa! Yzabet! Or it’s Zeyta now, isn’t it? You may be Kczyslawborth’s personal plaything now, but you’ve been ours for even longer! Charming the Weyr from Ryan to Y’an to Y’an’s growing offspring, with such long-range writing that covers the whole spectrum of real, human, hilarious and sneakily smart, we just love you to pieces and hope you have fun playing this dragon as much as we had making him and can’t wait to see what you’ll do next with this new and wicked creature under your command. Or will you be under his? That’s for YOU to figure out, isn’t it…?

Egg Inspiration

A plasma ball. Mindless scientific entertainment for hours. Who HASN'T always wanted one the first instant those threads of pure LIGHT grasped towards your fingertips?

Theme Inspiration

The clutching theme this cycle became Old World Inventions, of which, for your complicated monster, we eventually settled upon the small, lovely, sinister shape of the Skeleton Key. Insidious, steel, quiet and so easy to hide, the key is the means through which all doors are opened. Or locked. They seal prison and open shackles, solve mysteries or lock them away forever.

They are freedom, binding, undoing and permanence all in once delicate little length that can be kept suspended from the neck. Or hidden beneath a pillow. Or cast into the ocean and lost for all time. Which is it, that represents your Kczyslawborth? Does he use it to bind you, or set you free?

Perhaps it is yours to turn and find out.


Infused with this tricksy concept is the sociopath and cerebral seducer behind the bars himself, Hannibal Lecter. With light infusions of Dante’s The Inferno, catacombs of all kinds and the dark and the wet of sunken dungeons of the body and mind…


Description Inspiration

Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray

from the straight road and woke to find myself

alone in a dark wood. How shall I say

what wood that was! I never saw so drear,

so rank, so arduous a wilderness!

Its very memory gives a shape to fear

Death could scarce be more bitter than that place!

- The Inferno, Dante Alighieri

The writing style used in Kczyslawborth’s desc was inspired from the morbid writing of repentance, monsters and torture found in Dante’s The Inferno. It seemed fitting for a dragon that will pick apart dear Zeyta for her every inner demon and tempt her to a world of deeper Hell. Or free her from the one she’s in.

His colors are based from the creepy, ghostly-pale browns found in ancient crypts, washed out tans and unbleached bones on their slow, inexorable decay into sand, all buried beneath an irreverent layer of arid dust.


Name Inspiration

Oh boy, you gave us some interesting challenges with your name, Zeyta, and we were more than excited to try and meet them. Was there any doubt that we would also add meaning to the name we selected for you?

Kczyslawborth. Quite the mouthful, isn’t it. It’s harsh and unwieldy, dominating all areas of the palate and then sliding down your throat for more with that drawn out ‘oorth’, it’s a mixture of all of your requests with an dash if The Inferno for spice. First dissected in manners that would do the wicked brown dragon proud are two Slavic names, ‘Kazimeriz’, meaning ‘Famous Destroyer’ and ‘Mieczyslaw’, which means ‘Sword and Glory’ - appropriate, for the unholy union between Kczyslawborth’s destructive ways and Zeyta’s personal, steel-sharp ambition. Complicating the end of the name could perhaps be their shared ground, for the last conclusive third of his name is borrowed from Malebolge: The Eighth Circle of Hell.

‘Malebolge’ means ‘evil ditches’, and is the level in Hell where counterfeiters, hypocrites, seducers, sorcerers and simonists are tortured.

Pronounced ‘kuh-CHEE-slav-boorth’, were you to but count the letters you might find even here, an ominous misfortune in the evidence of thirteen letters. All lined up like a bad omen of things to come.


Dungeon walls speak: blank, dark secrets:

They have unconquerable spirits,

Impending footsteps, no fatigue,

Cold and slimy bodies; these walls have feet,

Instinctively they groan, wiggle about,

As if their thighs are blinking eyes

They do not know defeat!

- The Keeper of the Dungeon, Dennis Siluk Ed.D.


It’s dark and shadowed, sinister and cold. Wan sideways light pours in through ceiling grates to illuminate bent, warped shapes and pitted limestone bricks. Such is the atmosphere you will come to know so well. Kczyslawborth’s inner world is a brittle and unkind place, oppressive and claustrophobic, full of sharp edges, squealing rusted hinges and hard stone floors. It’s the riddled labyrinthine warren of an ancient dungeonscape, timeless, corroded and cruel, and he has twisted it out around him as the mad trapping web of a fat, evil spider.

Here is a forgotten, abandoned squalor of crumbling power falling away to primal nature. This is the end of the line. This is deathrow of the forsaken. None are coming to save those bound to this place and those entombed in these dark rooms will never again feel sunlight in their natural life. In the dim creeping shadows and behind the thick bars of greasy tainted light, illuminating off foggy vapors and lingering dust motes, steel locks click, deadbolts slam home to the soft jingle of skeleton keys. Soft dripping sounds can be heard where water damage has eaten through the ceilings and walls to trickle through the mortar and grout, making the floor sheen eerily, slick and wet, eating away at unseen hidden passage ways. And corridors. Endless, endless corridors spanning deep, deep underground, leading off into a swallowing darkness like the great long throat of an infinite serpent, riddled with trap doors and spiraling, winding stone staircases that lead away into nowhere.


Thick are the earthy, mouldering smells; a miasma funk of ancient decay, growing green moss, iron, rust, wet limestone and what may very well be the pin-prickling smells of visceral animal terror and old dried blood of the Damned. Barred doors clink and clank, slamming open and shut off hidden passage ways and caged rooms whisper the gentle rattling of unseen chains, shackles swinging from gouged and corroded masonry. The ceiling in places will yawn open in high vaulted ceilings, fortified by stained arches and crumbling pillars, glowing with the sad suggestion of light unreachable.


And then just as easily these rooms will crumble, in the face of Kczyslawborth’s slow, crushing anger, collapsing upon the senses like a squeezing fist. Metal will twist and squeal in a slow torture, far below roars up great muffled crumbling like a monster’s growl. But it may take time to recognize these signs as his fury rather than his games… for there will be little other sense that he’s angry at all.

And everywhere, everywhere are bars. They stand out like filthy ribs against the shadows, corroded and rough in texture, hiding away a million unseen shapes. In some cells could be the sense of mouldering hay, abandoned blankets - even an almost sardonic nod to the necessity of unemptied toilets, for when Kcsyslavborth is feeling lewd or aiming for shock value, for indeed, he spares none the full brunt of their reality, including the embarrassing human fact of bodily waste. Other cells will house what look like bones, hidden decimated crypts and catacombs, gaping sockets of eyes and grinning naked teeth.

But that is not all that lurks behind these bars.

For this is also where he dwells.


Always will is presence be felt just on the other side of the bars, prowling low in the shadows as a creature too terrible to view fully with the eyes; only suggestions will come through in the weak light - suggestions of rippling muscle and glowing yellow eyes. The click of talons and an array of white, white teeth. The sound of his movements will be soft, just slightly rasping. A dry slither that becomes his pensive, mocking and wholly masculine voice that rubs along the surface of your skin as if he could touch you even through the barrier of his cage.

But truly… is the cage for him, or you? Bound he may seem but to traverse these dark and winding passages is never to get far from him. His voice drifts from the other side of all the bars, one after another - from a drain grate in the floor where murky water trickles one moment, to whispering against your back when you wander too close to a cell the next.

But be mindful. To get too close is to take a great gamble.

For as indolent and loose as he may be, as casually observing as his manners may suggest, he will snatch for you, if you let him. Snatch to take.


No gentle giant is he, free of kind lines and reassuring contours is the frame of Kczyslawborth’s construction. From menacing jaws to the sleek compaction of his muscles to that one exceptionally prominent hooked talon spurring each foot, to lay eyes upon him can only resound from the hindbrain as a full recognition of a predator creature. He is a flesheater, a taker of lives and he is designed for hunting, killing and eating other living things.

Between long, engulfing wings tipped in elongated spars, he is bristling in deadly severity; his neck ridges are the long slips of precision-sharp knives and Zeyta may curse Ysvarth day and night for the genes that make such uncomfortable bruising during prolonged flight. Expect bruising on your poor tail bone. Also from Ysvarth comes a terrible, seeming endless length and the low slung set of his creeping body. In shape, he is inspired by the form and function of the now-extinct dire wolves, whose short, impossibly muscular legs carried a body so low they seemed almost like alligators crossed with wolves, and then blown up huge.


Slinking, sharp but wickedly sleek without any of the fanfare of classically ‘handsome’ features, his body is lean, long and constructed to slice like a razor through the air. His wings are expansive, his neck dropped forward to match the low setting of his body, the muscles of his haunch and shoulders - his crouching, pouncing muscles - are rippling in contrast to his lean body. But these are not the most ferocious of his features even yet. Where his body is the svelte ripple of a silent, hunting feline, his muzzle is almost too long, fixed in a permanent, heartless snarl and he is positively teeming with teeth. Like a crocodile which, as seen here, even shares in his pale coloring:


Even his talons - the natural arming all dragons may wear - are exceptional, and exceptionally evil. Each foot’s inner claw carries an overgrown spur talon, where the nail has extended, rounded, curved and hooked into a terrible gouging tool to accompany the rest of his arsenal. What might look like just an overgrown toenail when he’s younger will prove to be a cruel addition to his hunting tools for the extra gripping power it allows him in clinging fast to his prey while he renders it.


His coloration is just as striking, just as disconcerting. Where-as in shape he is in all ways his father’s offpspring, the apple not fallen far from the Monster’s tree, in color Kczyslawborth prowls in the dangerous snowmelt footsteps of his dam. He is spectral-pale, as ghostly as he is ghastly, the lightest shades of pale brown, all washed out ecru and unhealthy, faded-wheat colors. His flesh tone is not solid - he is marbled, sickly-white and milky-cream and crypt-dust pallid hues all intermingled in faint puddles and irregular patches which would look unhealthy were he not so wickedly virile with all that muscle and sleek tone. As it is, he appears like a great statue of a haunted, wraith-like monster-god, carved of fine marble and then buffed impossibly smooth and polished.


Breaking up these subtle pale colors, his mother’s genetic foresight has laid bars of silver caging his spearing neckridges, imprisoning what cannot fully be imprisoned with a cage that cannot be unlocked. And below, lurking as the sweet kisses of the the afterlife, softly he is gifted with a gentler touch: the dried and faded pattering shapes of the palest dried lavender, ashen in his otherworldly washing.


His movements are deliberate, stalking, prowling; his low-hung body gliding past by the rolling terrible power of his predator-limbs so that he looks almost to be climbing across the surface of the ground. Crawling in hunt, with his head and neck set to fall forward rather than be carried aloft, he moved in a perpetual prowl between the undulation of his rolling shoulders. Seeming eternally just slightly crouched, just slightly bristled, his every shift is deliberate, liquid rolls of powerful muscle twisted hard and bracing his contours in all ways both deadly and masculine. Deliberation does not mean, however, that he does not also indulge a sense of deliberate insouciance; it’s loose and creepy, but he often will go about with his mouth just slightly hung open, huffing slowly as if tasting the air through his teeth as he crawls.

His growth will not be a beautiful process. He is hard twisted muscle from birth, no squishy baby fat, no clumsy gamboling. A small flesh-eater he will be from day one and his hunting tools will develop long, long before he will be physically capable of hunting - which will make him look somewhat like a walking handbag overflowing with weapons. His claws will be huge on giant feet; he will need to grow into the cruel length of his body but never will he be without the twisted, compact muscles of his limbs. He will look bulky for it, disconcerting, with a massively developed jaw and clicking talons which you may need to file down for him a few times before he evens out. An experience he will very much enjoy, as will be his bathing and oiling. You may expect him to demand this maintenance at the least convenient times when he’s younger - his tact will be a thing acquired with age, after all, but even when young he will want to exercise his control of your schedule.

« In a hurry to get your dinner, are you? » A soft friction-chuckle rattles along the chains dangling from a caged recess. « You had better finish oiling me then, hadn’t you. I am but half done. »

He is quite large for a brown and for a dragon’s proportion his wings are exceptionally sized. They’re sweeping huge and glossy-ivory white and he will fly as a golden eagle - slow, drawn out, gradual take offs, gradual build up of altitude. But once he is aloft, he will be just as deadly as any great raptor-bird, with wings as silent as an owl. He will be a precise hunter from above, and don’t be shocked if, after circling for an almost obscene time selecting just the right kill, he swoops down, latches onto it with those spurred inner talons of his and takes off without ever touching the ground.


'Cause I want it now

I want it now

Give me your heart and your soul

I'm breaking out

I'm breaking out

Last chance to lose control

It's holding me, morphing me

And forcing me to strive

To be endlessly cold within

And dreaming I'm alive

- Hysteria, Muse

He will grip, you, Zeyta. And he will be gripped by you.

This is our one warning unto you. You will need to be clever and you will need to be brave. You will need to be strong and you will need to forever cling to what is yours. For Kczyslawborth is a true predator in every sense of his personality, a vicious hunter caged in a thin veneer of sophisticated brilliance and he will stalk your thoughts from behind the bars and shadows and he will grip you as an velvet-lined iron band and possess you wholly if you let him. Some of these times it will be the deft spectral hand of a master manipulator. But it will not always be gentle. It will not always be delicate. Such is the unkind nature of your lifemate, and you will acclimate to him, for there is a code to his actions.

Always, always he gives you the choice - in a way, the very fact that you have human choice and he could make you choose only him is the most important part of his game. He is not out to ruin your life, just remake it in his own image, and regardless of the circumstances he will be there, terrible, spectral and bristling with knives and cold, cold silence to protect you as his. Your priorities are not his priorities, but this does not mean isn’t on your side. He is brilliant, he is strong. He is capable and he will aid you in your journey… so long as you give back unto him the things that he desires.

He will dig, Zeyta, from the very beginning he will dig into your every recess. Chisel. Polish. His heart is not one of love nor compassion, but this does not mean he is not interested in the wet inner guts of these strange warm meats of your human make up and he will want to explore you. You are a gem in his palm, cut clean and clear as glass and around you, his hand has closed for all time as his prize possession. His claiming of you can be felt from the first instant his prison doors slammed shut, capturing you as his little butterfly, where he nimbly, coldly stripped you of the trappings of your former name, your former life, and rebranded you in the image of his desire and you will forever now walk beneath the insidious weight of his long-reaching hand.

« Tell me about the day, Zeyta. » He trails the dry whisper of his voice down the line of your spine. Somewhere down the dank corridor a door slams, the echo resounding in a startling, lasting patter. Like unseen footsteps. But here, it is only him. And through the bars, he is watching you.« Tell me about the day on the Star Stones… »
You frown distrustfully. “I already did.”
« No. » An indulgent ‘tsk-tsk-tsk’ of dripping water onto ancient limestone. « Tell me about the day. Were you smiling when it happened. Did he scream when he fell… »

And depending on what you give him, he will reciprocate accordingly. The more you give him, the more you expose - the closer you let him, the deeper you permit his creeping hands to sink into you, the longer period of time will he indulge your own whimsy. He will keep his word in helping you pursue your goals in the social arena, he will follow through with the responsibilities of the drills that he personally cares very little for. When this exchange is balanced, the two of you will be a terrible force to reckon with, twisted partners in an eternal game of mutual give and take.

He will open you up and dissect you; fixating on your every secret, your every private thought because something is wrong with him - something is right with him. All of his cruel cunning, all of his brilliance all seems to take up the place where sympathy would reside. So he picks instead of instinctively supports. A true deconstruction of your living being, all in the name of better keeping you, better having you, better understanding your every heartbeat, that it might beat more fully for him. It will be almost romantic, the soft velvety manner in which he watches you unblinking. Fixated and pressing, wanting to be close to you. In you, worming deeper and deeper as a parasite. He will press you for your innermost details, rake you across the coals of his rough cat’s-tongue manipulations and when you are raw, when you are bare, he will descend upon you not for the kill but to finally sooth, the sweet soothing numbness that is the safety and breathing darkness of his caged mind. Surely he cannot harm you, through the bars.

…but perhaps the bars are there to make you feel that way.

Who is in control? Who is not? You have the key, Zeyta, always its in your hands he sets the key, but what it locks, what it unlocks… that is for you to understand. Will unlocking a door within you set you free, or only let him in?

Maybe it will lock him up tighter.

When he is younger, his manners will be more heavy-handed. He will be demanding, pushing. He will act too quickly and too clumsily - even a genius will need to learn finesse to perfect his craft, and when younger, he may very well be prone to terrible tantrums when he cannot get his way. When you choose others over him, when your self-possession wins out. But be cautious… it will not be obvious, when he starts to gain control of himself. It will be a subtle and controlled process, and you might find him having what appear to be tantrums on purpose, just to keep your guard down. A show of vulnerability when there is none - as in body, his personality is one fully, entirely and shamelessly that of a carnivore and what carnivore is successful without some semblance of camouflage…

Hannibal Lecter: “And how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer, now.”
Clarice: “No. We just …”
Hannibal Lecter: “No. We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?”

It is here where you will either lose your way… or you will finally, after all of your life, find it. For his works at the heart of their unfeeling nature are not specifically with the intent to harm you. He wants to keep you, surely, have you wound deep in the netting of his sociopathic possession of you. But to ruin you, to remove you from his life would be a loss to him. He is fond of you, in so far as he is capable of fondness - he enjoys your manner, your spirit. His predator’s nature selects its favored chew toys and you are certainly his. And anything that should treat you careless will fall into a very dangerous place with him. He is contained in his cells, controlled and very even, calm, calculated. But this does not mean he is incapable of fury. Or vengeance. And when he does it can be terrible; he is not afraid of entombing others within his cell to have a few silky words with them, or of corning dragons and their lifemates.

I've no plans to call on you, Clarice. The world is more interesting with you in it.

- Hannibal Lecter, Silence of the Lambs

You are his, his favored possession and to damage you would be to undo his greatest accomplishments. In his own detached and malicious way, this is his way of helping. Helping you come to terms with the hard truths that you may hide behind, and while you are his, while he protects you as his favorite toy, he can get quite cold-blooded with it. Quite sadistic. But if you are truly careful, if you watch yourself, cling to your own self-possession, you will find this is not always a bad thing, to have your rib cage so deftly opened that you might be forced to view your own heart. How long has it been since the girl named Yzabet cried, Zeyta? How long has it been since you tried? He will force you to analyze those things you would not, he will tear you open and show you to yourself.

You could grow.

Or you could lose it all and be subsumed by him.

The key is in your hands.

Your brown will not like sharing you. It’s not exactly a jealousy of your time (though he will want your time, oh yes.) It is more that, as his most treasured item he is reluctant to trust any others with your heart. Colder people, those less inclined to get behind your shields will worry him less - they cannot harm you and can possibly harden your heart to outsiders even on their own. But oh… those few, those brave. Those capable of yet saying your name and getting through to you, he will have a cold disdain for them. Though he will not be so vulgar, so obvious as to forbid association. He will merely subtly point out their flaws - never all out lies for truly, why lie when the truth is to your advantage? Lay out bread crumbs for you to come to the conclusions he wants you to come to entirely on your own.

Your father, your brother, any friends you might accumulate along the way, any lovers you may take, they will all be subject to a scrutiny nearly as harsh and deep and perceptive as the one he turns on you… But theirs will not be to their betterment. And you will need to be able to forgive the flaws of those few close to you if you intend to keep them. As always, it will be your will against Kczyslawborth. The cage which holds his link to your mind has very strong bars… but very thick shadows. He is only going to let you see what glimpses and insights that he wants you to see, but you can protect yourself from him. There will always be some things in the shadows.

Socially, Kczyslawborth will be off, he will be wrong and he will be disconcerting. He is lacking in much of the emotional spectrum other sentient creature’s are, the gaps filled with sentient predation and you can never expect him to lead a normal dragon’s life amongst them. He is disconnected from understanding the structure of classic emotions - at least from a first hand perspective. He lacks all grasp of empathy or sympathy; he does not fully understand the nature of caring for others nor does he have any interest to. But this does not mean he won’t be willing to explore a moment’s communication. He is an intelligent creature, brilliant in fact, if cruel and selfish with his genius, and there are times when he has a very strange appreciation for a dissection of the hypothetical. He will very much want to learn whatever other dragons know that he doesn’t. Such things are as valuable of weapons as his teeth and talons, and you may well feel his pulse elevate, a chilling thrill of husky breathing behind his bars when he barbs his fellows - a response so similar to when he is in the throws of hunting.

He will indulge on occasion the study of philosophy or follow along in an experiment of another. In many ways, he may even be amused by what dragons function in full honesty of themselves. Or annoyed by him. Tindraeth may be a particular creature of equal vexation and fascination, but all of his siblings will be coldly interesting to him in one way or another. Indeed, there can be times when he is highly, highly curious, especially as regards the potential to view another living thing’s sensitive underbellies. Dhioth, whose struggle is so evident, will be a preferred subject and an object of nearly infinite study.

The dry, rasping echo of slithering motions bombards off pitted walls with a dry, pitiless chuckle. « It bothers you, doesn’t it, Dhioth… Why? Why do you think you yearn so for such things as you cannot manage? Will you give in, I wonder..? »

He can even be made to laugh at times, though it will be wholly inappropriate or… too pleasant to be right. Much as a marauding carnivore might gamely pad along behind a wounded calf even if they are well-fed and not hungry, if he sees someone insecure or struggling, he might find it fascinating and pursue that person to great lengths for the raw entropic curiosity of seeing if they succeed or fail, possibly even offering an indulgent, utterly meaningless little ‘good job’ golf clap… But he was really there to see if they’d screw up. You don’t go to a NASCAR race to not see things explode in fire, after all.

Pain has its reasons, pleasure is totally indifferent.

- Francis Picabia

Kczyslawborth has no more interest in mindless rebellion than he does in falling in line - but in the name of doing what he wants, the only dragon that can truly force him to obey will be a gold. This could vex him. But it doesn’t. His treatments of golds are almost purposely, uncomfortably, tauntingly smarmy.

He is a creature of decadent indulgence. Even outside of his mercenary quid pro quo exchanges with you - which, even these, he will treat as delicious cerebral feasts - he devotes a deep and merciless deliberation to his every life enjoyment. He will not merely sun on the dirt, he will want to sun up atop the Star Stones, his pale skin supping upon the first warm light of the summer sunrise, or he will want to lounge in the meadows during autumn when the distant trees have begun to turn their sumptuous reds and golds, watching quaint children go about their simple-peasant lives for his deep, indolent amusement. He will want to watch you brush your hair, to see it plaited. He may very well enjoy seeing you dressed up in fine gowns with your face painted, though his indulgence of your political agenda will be just that: indulgence. Silly quaint games that seem to amuse you, and he will observe aloof, cooperating only insofar as you can entice him with small nudities of your soul in exchange.

Be warned, Zeyta, of just how troublesome he can be for you if you do not. Certain quirks of his can be the fodder for some very juicy gossip amongst the Weyrfolk and dragons alike. So be prepared, for all of his appreciation of subtlety and finery, Kczyslawborth is in his roots a killer, utterly unafraid of dirtying his hands. In hunting, he is ruthless and takes a inordinate amount of time premeditating about what how he will kill and eat his prey. Sadism and games are not uncommon. He is very fond of cornering a group of herdbeasts as a small, rather sweet little cluster, listening to their frantic cries as a fine music and then picking them off and eating them, one by one as delicious, thrashing grapes.

There’s just something about it that is especially intoxicating to him, the smell and taste and presence of terror. Alone with his kills, he can be wickedly efficient, but he may appreciate an audience to observe his symphony of destruction - humans, especially. The younger and more easily frightened the better. Pets and other beloved animals will be an especially interesting forbidden fruit to him.

Soft wet drips of water echo into stagnant pools nestled in ancient grout: the thoughtful tapping of consideration. « I’m giving very serious thought right now to killing and eating your father’s canine. »
Zeyta looks up, frowning, “Why on Pern would you do that.”
« Just because. What do you think, bowels in or bowels out? »
“Neither. Don’t eat my father’s canine.”

And, Zeyta… wing duties, weyr duties — these will not be enough for you. No. Not out of some desire to be in any way weyr-oriented but in that they simply will not provide the amount of funds that will be required to keep Kczyslawborth satisfied. For he will require finery, he will require rich appointments. It may take you turns and turns to get your weyr into a state of perfection.

Lendai’s confection of finery? Her diamond-studded weyr? Will pale in comparison to what you will eventually accumulate. Disdain will drip from every, sharp word uttered in the privacy of the mind-link should he have to suffer. And by suffer, we mean, should he have to rest his bulk on a ledge that is in any way spartan. From his straps to his couch to what you wear, the requirements will be steep, and to even have a hope of affording this, you will either need to take up shady adventures…

… or work your tail off. Silks, velvets, plush appointments. This is one common ground between your brown and Cervilaevarth. However, in the very spirit of contradictions of this cluch, Kczyslawborth will be like the sun to Cervilaevarth’s cultured finery. The Duke to his Baron. This is the very essence of Talicanitath coming through in this longing for the richness of fine things, and during the time it takes for his needs to be worded and their actual fulfillment, he will give way to long moments of near-whimsy, longing for such lush and quality features as can satisfy his desire for complexity. For stimulation. Mere service-items are a stagnant bore, he needs complicated and clever - his brilliance, so cold-blooded and refined, will desire for aesthetics to muse, to ponder. To inspire a severe, detached artistry in his complicated nature.

Should you come to him with straps that are of lesser quality than he knows you have access to… expect to find them shredded. Not in the spoiled fit of a child, but in the way to make a point.

Dark shadows gather in the subterranean corridor, the crumbling stone falling as if the belly of the earth itself belches. « Zeyta. » Each sound carries the crisp condescension that cuts to the very core of your soul. « Try again. I know you can do better. » Assurance is in every syllable shrouded in silence, and carries with it the dank spoils of a forgotten tunnel; faint, moist and fraught with grave moss greenery. « I dare say, I shall not want to have to see you fail a second time. » The last of the shadow’d dungeon falls away into the soft abyss as his touch leaves your mind…

Should you fail again… well. The consequences of that would be in the far reaches of your imagination, Zeyta. In this regard, you will struggle to please a lifemate that has elegance in his blood. Not just the glitz and glamour of Talicanitath, but an old world sinister elegance that will give him the insight to know the difference between nouveau riche and old money.

Never expect to be able to pass off mere price to finery. Never expect for anything to be successful unless it truly is fine. Antiques are a good start, and should you scour all of Pern, eventually you will fill your weyr with that which he’ll find acceptable. Though it will take a lifetime.

This is a burden that you could fight him on… but is it a battle worth it? When choosing the direction of one’s life, one must also choose their battles; the question becomes, of your life’s story, which battle will you choose?

Which battles will you concede?


Kczyslawborth is not a chaser, as he's far too interested in other aspects of life. However, sometimes, you might be able to coax him into a Flight — though it will come at a cost. What that cost will be … well, it will vary. So be wise to pick your battles for sometimes he will fully exact his revenge upon you should you enforce the bond to have him go after a particular dragon that you, Zeyta, would have him chase.

Now, that being said, flights bring about the temptation to a suppressed predatory nature that's shielded behind bars. He will start the flight within the confines of the elegance of a suitor flying after a female of his own desire. As the flight progresses, Kczyslawborth will slowly lose control of this elegant dance of courtship, drifting into a savageness that might give you the shiver of fear that he'd go after the dragons chasing rather than the green or gold that's in flight. However, as that's not really within a dragon's engineered nature, he will but come close to losing sight of the glowing female, but a flash of hide, a flicker of moonlight, and he is back on course.

That is not to say that he won't shred the males that chance to come too close to block him from the female in question. Then, and only then, will he employ his claws and teeth against the suitors.


As with everything, it comes at a price. For as soon as this happens, he will lose all interest in the flight. You will find yourself lost in the glow of all of these aroused feelings only to discover that Kczyslawborth is dropping out of a flight, intent upon violence. Into the pens he will go and shred the beasts that linger there. He will skin them, shred them, rip them apart — the skies the limit for his vengeance will be exacted upon his food. Every beast he shreds, he will kill.

Which means that… the more flights he participates in, the larger the danger there is of him getting fat. So pick your battles wisely, Zeyta, for the consequences of failure are high, even to the health of your Kczyslawborth.

Dragons do not fight other dragons without cause, and even a mating dance is not cause to shred his own kind; but he will absolutely let this lose upon the poor beasts of the pens should he ever lose. It is the same as if he dropped out of the flight all together.


Oh winning. Never will he have warm feelings towards the green or gold he's caught. Nor will he care to ever sit on yon sands should he ever win a gold's flight. His offspring are as disgusting as anything else that is not you. Once the flight's done, he's done too. Though, unlike Dhioth, he does not leave immediately. Nay, he will revel in the glory of winning, antagonizing the female he has so recently conquered in a cold, dispassionate manner, not allowing her to leave for a little while even if she tries to and otherwise chuckling at her misfortune - for that green or gold is, essentially, just one more variety of prey, captured deliciously alive for his entertainment. Winning appeals to a soul who likes to sadistically best those around him, whether physically or in conversational thought, males and females alike. It's the philosophy of it. So be prepared to feel this rushing glory overwhelm you. Your own experience might be short-changed because your focus will be so caught up in his. Or prolonged.

He is a beast, yes, but well within the range of dragonkind.

Just… don't expect him to win you any favors either.

  • * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus, here lies the briefest sketches of a personality that could-be! An elegant sadist, a monster in a gilded cage, Kczyslawborth is yours now, Zeyta. And you, in turn, by the powers vested in the sanctity of a binding Impression, are his. What you take from this Inspiration is entirely up to you to decide! We just love you, want to keep you and hope you derive all the pleasure from RPing your brown as we did in MAKING him!


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

Rysta's brown Finmaraisth, Sh'z's bronze Lakenheath, Shea's blue Cervilaevarth, 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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