M'yck's Justice in Street Shoes Blue Oroqaith

There was a time when it was all fire. The deadly swell of flushed fever and the desolated nothing that was your life
once you awoke again.

Broken the Second Seal Egg

Affixed as a weaponed gem, searing focal point of malevolent crimson, here is a polished dewdrop of livid red welling up so surface-smooth and slick as to appear wet to the touch. Hard and cold as steel, a perfected blood ruby, mind that it does not stain the hands, the eyes, that might linger upon it. So brilliant, foreboding, with chilly patience are faces mirrored back through the veil of scarlet as though taking names, one by one as they pass.

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It found you again, the fire. The overwhelming crimson of destruction. And it brutalized you, searched you over inch by inch,
as though searching.

So slick, polished smooth. Your face, your fingers, they reflect back at you a vision of deep crimson, chilled as glass – and then? Plip… So subtle, the contact of fingertips emits a shivery ripple through the red, as though you’ve touched a clear pool. It’s beautiful indeed, this gem, and you’re captivated by it, even when a thunderbolt of sudden /power/ rockets up your arm, shivers through your ever muscle and consumes you – pure bloodrage. You feel the presence in the egg press into you, paw through your mind, it finds your darkest secrets, it drags them out and forces you to watch as your parents, your caravan, they burn away like visions on a piece of paper, crumpled up and cast aside into a consuming red fire. Your knot, your identity, your every pride, it laughs and shatters them and then it takes you, penetrates your mind and body like a puppet of blistering white heat and destruction where for one shuddering moment it’s /exquisite/ death itself in your hands. And then, — what? …where? With a throaty chuckle, it recedes, leaving you unfulfilled, small, helpless… you.

It swept you powerful as a thundering storm, quick and vicious as a strike of lightning.

But patient…

Still building its case, you were released.

Hatching Message

Broken the Second Seal Egg glows baleful hot in flashing crimson pulses of light, like a silent siren screaming out brilliant warning in the heat of the chase. Clashing, cracking open from the thrash of internal combat, the deadly onslaught of wartime bloodflow quivers, glints with a final crescendo sparkle of ruby shimmer, it erupts open like a shower of shattered crimson glass shards, littering the sands around the thrashing talons of its spirited contents. Blue as a cursed streak and tarnished from the start, the law topples free in plainclothes glory to face whatever challenges fate might throw at him.

Until the time was right, and he came again, full force.

Justice in Street Shoes Blue Dragonet

Storm-watcher, sleek as a hound, the tempest roils in the lithe lines and tightly cabled muscles of this lean body, uniformed tip to tip in a royal blue long-since beaten down by bad weather, thrashed again to gunmetal finish. Shrewd features terminate in tapered point of linear muzzle, set atop upright neck in sleek observance and crowned with a sentry pair of back-swept headknobs. From narrow paws tipped by black talons, mud-spatters of dirty copper-bronze pelt up long straight-set legs and stain the tattered train of mantled wings with tarnished flecks. Pride is here yet, beneath the friction wear of storms and thunder: duty hammered stark against battered navy hide, worn to the front of hard chest there blazes a beaten-bronze star. It narrows to its bottom, pouring along underbelly in shreds where thunderstorm blue crackles, thrashed with brassy lightning strikes until it fades fully into the cloudcover enshrouding his form.

And in this search of lost souls passing as howling ships in the night…

Public Impression Pose

Justice in Street Shoes Blue Dragonet is restless, his deceptively lazy gait betrayed by a /hum/ of high-pressure storms beneath his gunmetal hide, the abrupt snap his head makes in the direction of any unexpected sounds. Prepared, /coiled/ for anything, he broils and storms, narrow-eyes evenly marking and then dismissing every face he passes. Until? THERE. He marks one tall, suspicious character with a long look across the sands and decides. Then he's OFF! Long whipish limbs striking like bolts of lightning, sending up roostertails of black sand in his wake and then coming *skid-d-d-ding* to a stop with all four-feet sunk into the ground, spraying Myckren's legs with black volcanic grit. Target acquired. This one's mine.

… he found you, feverish, for the final time.

Private Impression Message

It comes down on you all at once, like an iron curtain. A single solid sheet of soaking rain, pouring onto your head and shoulders, sopping through your clothes instantly and sinking deep into your bones where it will forever stay. The world has turned to night, full of wet smells and the oily flash of puddles in the darkness of an alley. Far above, a thick roll of thunder trembles the ground and a corresponding delicate trickle of water rivulets down your spine. Suddenly, there shines a light, stark and baking hot, focusing intensely on your face with a blinding glow. Behind it comes a sharp, unfamiliar, authoritative voice. « What do you think you’re doing here? State your business. » You’re left to simmer on the spot for a terrifying moment, trapped in the custody of these alley walls, pelted by the rain. Then: a single dry laugh. « Hah. Got you, didn’t I. Kidding. Myckren, right? Naaaah, M’yck suits you better. Let’s do that. » The spotlight shines out of your face and the rainy night is more soothing for it, like a clap on your sopping wet back. « I’m Oroqaith. Let’s scram, I’m /starving/. »

And he’s made you his partner in crime. A life sentence, for two restless souls.

And now your life will never be the same.


Oh, Myckren, Myckren, Myckren… Or it’s M’yck, now isn’t it? You washed up a mystery on our shores with nothing but the clothes on your back and a mild case of the plague. And you skulked through a million miles of mud since then and got raked through a few hundred beds of coals. And along the way, you showed us such a wide range of highs and lows in your character’s arsenal, humor depth and everything in between, it shouldn’t be a surprise we wanted to impale you on the spike of ‘riderdom the instant you gave us a chance! Here is your Oroqaith, a partner in - crime? Law enforcement? Perhaps for you two the line won’t always be so clear, but may he be the backup poor M’yck needs on the bumpy road ahead. Hope he’s everything you wanted and more!


Egg Inspiration

This egg is inspired by our buddy the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, most commonly associated with War, Bloodshed, Fire and Mass Slaughter.

'When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, "Come and see!" Then another horse
came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other.
To him was given a large sword.'

— Revelation 6:3-4

Sounds like a party guy!

Egg desc itself based off a doodle illustration! (Seen in intro.)

Theme Inspiration

The official clutching theme this cycle is centered around Harbingers. To this end, what could possibly embody the hidden threat of your plain-clothes-cop of a blue better than St. Elmo’s fire? A nautical phenomenon that appears at sea during thunderstorm, it’s described as a glowing light along the masts of ships, caused by a heavy build of electricity in the air. Named after St. Erasmus of Formiae, patron saint of sailors, its known to interfere dangerously with compasses and other vital navigational equipment, and is thus considered by sailors as a harbinger of bad luck and terrible weather to all that see it.

So does this sound familiar?

Al Powell: What's this about?

John McClane: Oh, just a feeling I have.

Al Powell: Ouch. When you get those feelings, insurance companies start to go bankrupt.

- Die Hard 2

That’s right, from this inspiration, we’ve extended dear Oroqaith’s theme to include a law enforcer of negotiable tactics, the man that may as well be considered the walking embodiment of St. Elmo’s Fire himself: John McClane of the Die Hard series. Blue collar to his core and fearless in the face of getting his hands dirty, never seen in his uniform, but never seen without his badge, gritty, driven and only negotiable sane, you know damn well that if you have him at your back, you can count on him with your very life. When he’s not, you know, risking it!

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Description Inspiration

Your boy in blue is based off many things, from the body type of a Doberman Pinscher to the NYPD colors worn by officers through the generations. In full force, however, Oroqaith’s actual desc was written and inspired to embody the might of an electrical storm. Powerful, chaotic, dangerous and lightning quick, it felt a sudden and apt portrayal of all things your blue might possess in his arsenal.

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Name Inspiration

Okay, okay, give us a chance to explain! We know you asked for something shorter, and we swear we meant to, but somewhere along the lines we got a little excited. It was Zeyta that started running through the mottoes of various police forces across the world, and we picked out a few that had a good feel (and meaning!) that would suit your… well, unconventional blue’s idea of law enforcement.

Oroqaith’s name came from the following three that we all agreed fit or sounded best:

San Francisco Police Department: Oro en Paz/Hierro en Guerra - ‘Gold in Peace, Iron in War’

Maine State Police: Semper Aequus - ‘Always Just’

New South Wales Police: Culpam Poena Premit Comes - ‘Punishment Follows Close on Guilt’

Even in pronunciation each of us saw something a little different, and while they are certainly not the only possibilities, they’re at least a start, ranging along these lines:

Zeyta:O-row-kee-zoth
R'yst: Orro-kay-zoth
Dirna: Oro-qai-soth.

We have toyed often with Oroqaith as a second option, so as you’d have it, so would we!

Mindvoice

It was still nighttime in the city of endless rain. It was never not nighttime. No sun rose here.

Thud, Terry Pratchett

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Shadowed, heavy, weighted down. From the instant he shares his mind with you, Oroqaith’s voice will be alive with the eternal slap of heavy rain on stone, resounding in the night. It will be thick with dirty rainy smells, the trample of beaten Hold roads, the back-splash of wheels shooting up rooster-tails through mud puddles and it will be the distant, dirty-haloed street lamp standing at the end of a confining stone alley.

The sense of it is relentless, crackling far above with unseen thunder and the damp, oppressive weight of air pressure. All things are stone and rock and bricks, free of greenery save the cling of moss or creeper-vine just barely eking out toeholds in the dark heart of an urban sprawl. It’s a moody, dark place, only lit with the faintest promises of glint when water twinkles as it passes by the glow of lamplight. Always, always the eerie glow of lamplight, blurred by rain or fog as an ominous focal point, the single source of illumination in his abandoned, stormy world.

And here alone, he will dwell, prowling. Boots stamp through the mud, released with a *squelch* to trod on stone. Handcuffs rattle, keys jingle. There is bulk to the way he moves, the way his presence is known. Sounds drift behind him too, the cobble of hooves as wagons pass by, churning the water around the side-walk of streets so it sprays passersby — and you, perhaps, if he feels you’ve said something he feels was particularly counter to what he was saying or doing. The crunch of broken glass as you explore the stone alley. Otherwise, all is flooded constantly with torrents of dirty water washing detritus down gutters, corrosive currents that chip and chink away mortar and tear down walls with a bull-headed, stubborn, almost mad drive to question and overturn all things. He’ll question you, he’ll question others - a cop is suspicious by nature, and there’s nothing more dangerous than a cop that only conceptually believes in warrants. And then only on good days.

And then, of course, there is his voice. You would think with all these gritty senses and noir moody weather, he would be a terse, hardboiled speaker, but you’ll quickly find it’s just not so.

John McClane: Hot in here, or am I just scared to death?

— Die Hard: With a Vengeance

Instead, Oroqaith’s actual voice will be a perpetually clench-jawed humor. It will be exceptionally dry, rarely prone to true laughter but he will snark, as any cop walking the edge of the law would be expected to do, and his humor will spare none, not even himself.

“You alright?” You might ask him after a particularly harrowing emergency landing outside some one's weyr.

« Think you better get out that pitchfork, M’yck. » The twinkling rain pulses with his adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, panting
somewhere between hysteria and laughter, but calm about it. « I might have just fertilized this guy’s ledge. Hoo. Some fun, right? »

Even when he ‘comes in out of the rain’ so to speak, it doesn’t get any more comfortable, and it only happens when he’s hauling you, M’yck, or possibly some other unfortunate into the back room for some more in depth cross-examining. In those times, the rain vanishes, the bricked up walls of the alleys close into a tight, claustrophobic cell. The smell of wet wood and stone stales to the dry sweet smell of cigar smoke, which may blow into the eyes while he waits for his answers. The only sound is the tattoo of fingers drumming on a table (all that remains of the pattering rain) and that single street lamp cranks up the heat, casting the sense of a baking light upon the face and shoulders that does more to heighten the thick darkness than to illuminate the shadows.

Other dragons aren’t going to enjoy it much when he cranks this one up. Once he’s got a hunch, a bone to pick, a suspicion, an inkling — he’s sticking to it until he wrestles his answers from the accused. Even long silences from the less social dragons find themselves engaged in a patient waiting game, full of the sense of him staring straight at them from the other end of a table, smoking like a chimney with thick curls of unraveling smoke while he waits for the natural breakdown of uncooperative resolve.

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And he won’t reserve this treatment to his own questioning, either. Nor will it be only other dragons subject to it. No one will ever accuse your blue of being polite, M’yck. Sad but true, he never cared much for the rules if they get in the way of results, and any suspicious people you find yourself talking to, don’t be surprised if they sweat a little more with your partner playing badcop just beyond you, adding just a bit of stuffy wet pressure or a sense of hot spotlight to your otherwise benign questions.

Zeus: What the fuck are you doin'?

John McClane: Interrogatin' him.

Zeus: Well, what's he gonna tell you, ‘I'm dead’?

John McClane: Well, I ain't gonna know 'til I ask him, am I?

He’s not chatty, and he certainly isn’t the nervous type that needs to hear the sound of his own voice. But when he has something on his mind, a particular case that’s been troubling him or some small detail that he feels doesn’t add up, good luck sleeping at night because he’ll be playing background ambient noise through both of your minds endlessly until he wears himself haggard or finds his resolution. Snippets of conversation, someone’s posture that he’s remembering, a stupid detail or a troubling dead-end, he’ll rehash, mull, rehash again and mutter. Oh boy, does he mutter to himself a lot, keeping a running monologue of his thoughts as they come to him, inane or ridiculous as they might be.

A woman’s face flickering in a puddle, ripples of rain shattering it into an image of her empty basket where bread had allegedly been stolen. « …but why wouldn’t someone have just stolen the basket, too? This doesn’t add up. If I were trying to take something — … a food? — without getting noticed what would I do. » Long pause, filled up with the background noise of hammering weather and a dozen feet traversing wet cobbles in the dark. « How the hell would I know that, I’m a freaking dragon. Hey, M’yck- »

“GO TO SLEEP!”

Like he’d listen to that. Better start learning to take naps while you can, bluerider, because sometimes, you’ll just have to get your old rainboots on, get out there and join him.

Physicalities

The reason lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place is that the same place isn't there the second time.

— Willie Tyler

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Thunder crashes and bolts of piercing lighting soon follow. There’s a streamlined viciousness to your Oroqaith’s physique. Lithe, tight muscle forms a hard, thin sheet around his skeleton, his legs long and straight, his chest narrow but solid, he’s fit with a lightning-strike athleticism from nose to tail and every knifing inch between. His base coloration is an ominous royal blue, darkened so slightly as if by cloud cover; you might be surprised to find this slight rippling of shadows is gifted unto him from his dam, Talicanitath, whose own pristine golden hide has a subtle dappling of shadows as well.

Think of it as that kiss of duty from his dear no-nonsense mother.

His overall shape, from pointed muzzle to narrow paw pads, lean hips, narrow but deep chest and long legs are heavily reminiscent of a Doberman Pinscher - as well as, you will quickly find, many of his mannerisms.

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His angles severe, his lankiness is as tensile as it is casual. He’ll radiate a sort of off-hand readiness to spring into action at any moment, but everything up to that moment will be spent in an almost obnoxious ease, settled down on his hip and stomach, long forelegs folded over at the wrists, his black talons drumming on the ground. He’ll yawn an awful lot, exposing an insouciant scoop of long tongue and blinking his inner eyelids so that at times you could be sure he’s about to fall dead asleep… until a single movement below his ledge, or the sound of someone yelling across the bowl snaps his head in that direction, abruptly alert.

So very much like the lazy calm before the storm, where air pressure drops heavy and slothful, all that easy-going draping around is just a conservation of energy, camouflaging his unique plain clothes law that those around him might be put at ease as well. It’s not so calculating as that to him, but it works the same - he’s a creature of instinct more than manipulation. Deep in his stormy heart, he’ll dwell meandering somewhere eternally between on duty and off, day or night. And he’s got just the tarnished badge to prove it.

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Okay, okay, so it’s not so obviously star-shaped as that, but the front of Oroqaith’s chest is emblazoned with a tarnished bronze star, as is often seen on canines, and it will fragment away towards the bottom in slashes and bolts of electric metal glints along his underbelly.

This tarnished bronze color appears again on his feet and in his wings, all of them a worn-out, low-down dirty copper-gold color hammered hard and permanent in a staining your boy in blue will never be able to remove - nor will he want to. This coloration is inherited from his father, in fact, whose copper-penny brightness got wind-whipped and weathered along the way, so that it looks beaten-spattered up his legs. All too easily could you imagine these spatters occurring from hard chases through dirty alleys, especially the muddy spatter-spots streaked across the fringe of his wings like soiled coat tails.

And oh! The chases he’ll have! In movements, he’s more than capable of padding along as a sedate pace, economizing to a downright lazy stroll along his beat. He seems to even rather enjoy being on the ground just as much as he’ll enjoy flying - there’s less to patrol in the sky, after all. But while his trot could go on forever, it doesn’t always stay that way — sometimes, you just gotta run. And running, in rapid rolling-unrolling sprint, is something Oroqaith does very well. Those long legs and narrow paws, his whipcord lean body, sleek head and long tail will make him one of the fastest dragons in the Weyr for foot racing. He can lower his head, arch up his back, sleek down his wings and once he springs into pursuit, son, this boy can travel.

« What are you doing, asshole, let your stride out! Let’s roll! »

Which, naturally, means he’ll be wanting you to run with him. Expect to be playing a lot of catch-up, because Oroqaith is a training machine. You don’t get into the sort of shape Oroqaith keep himself in without a lot of hard work and discipline. But we’ll tell you, M’yck… it ain’t gonna be pretty in the start. As a young dragonet, he’ll be painfully gawky and while that wealth of kinetic energy will be in him even in youth, it will be a horrifically off-balance, floppy, over-eager exudation of misplaced enthusiasm. His neck will be over-skinny, his paws and wings too large, and worse - this will not stop him. He will run, he will fall, he will crash and he will burn, he’ll trip over his clutchsiblings and send the whole of them toppling over into a daisy chain of fail and he will then scramble wildly to his feet and go right back into running again.

Only through discipline and growth will his sleek neck, straight legs and masculine grace find him. Faranth save you all, until that happens.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Oroqaith loves flying. No, no, we mean he loooooves flying. From the instant he opens his wings and takes to the air, that’s his New Favorite Thing. It’s like giving a policeman a motorcycle - he almost can’t marry how much fun flying is with the other secular activities of law enforcement, because in flight is the one time he’s not going to be shifting between lazy to on-point.

In the air, he’s 100% pure MAD MAN. (Well. Mad dragon.) As one of the smaller blues, his stamina is never going to be his greatest asset, and thank Faranth for that because once his wings are out, it’s all hairpin turn spirals upward and suicidal freefalls cut short by abrupt banking left or right like a one-man dogfight, ballistic high-speed whirls and dramatic dive bombs will get him a reputation quickly as a high flier out to give Cimarroth a run for his money. …if they don’t end up teaming up! And he’ll want you right there with it sharing the rush with him. You might want to invest in some extra padding for the old family jewels.

If. Y’know. You’re ever planning to have kids.

Personality

Black and whites along the lights,
plain clothes and Miranda Rights
At the right place but in the wrong life,
some days just ain't so easy.

Someone may have done you right or done you wrong
Or kept you down from the day you were born
There's no need to apologize
for the riot in your eyes
Some days just ain't so easy

Somedays, Audioslave

From the start, your hardnosed blue will be a cynical bastard, perhaps made more so because he actually believes in justice in an unjust world. Which will be hard on you both, because he will also believe that people, by nature, are probably going to suck, laws are always going to be broken, the system is easily corrupted, the downtrodden are going to be neglected and forgotten and generally things are going to be dark in this world, and the only thing you, he or anyone can do is rage against the darkness with everything in your collective souls, to shed what raw, smoldering light you can from the wreckage of fire. And he’ll light these fires with a smile on his face.

He will go through bouts of being bitterly dedicated to pursuing what’s right (by his own standards of definition) as he will be in pursuing those that have done something wrong, curious, asking question, watchful of where people go and why they’re going there. And everything in between? Well… you might be surprised, but he’ll mix up his long hours with equal amounts of casually lounging around. But it will be an alert sort of lounge, M’yck, where you’ll find he often props himself lazily upright and sharp-eyed at particularly well-trafficked areas of the central bowl. Or sometimes he’ll designate his free time to watching the less trafficked areas, if he has an idea they might be a little too coincidentally private for too long. He’s driven, this tarnished official, and he’ll expect you to be driven with him, insatiably curious to downright nosey, suspicious of all things inconsistent and highly skeptical of anything that seems too perfect.

He’ll be obtuse if someone tries to call him out for it, as well. Rarely will he ever admit he’s standing guard, or on duty at all. He’s difficult, almost childish about being told what to do by his peers and prone to muttering when given orders by his superiors, if they’re not what he, himself, wanted to do. Oh, he’ll do them - he’s a creature of great discipline, married heart and soul to upholding the threads of society… but only just that far. And he knows himself well. It may be that your sense of duty, M’yck, is sometimes the only remaining shred holding him back from outright rebellion, outright chaos, when the fires of entropy burn so brightly in the night.

“He created me. Quis costodiet ipsos custodes? Who watches the watchmen? Me. I watch him. Always.
You will not force him to murder for you.”
“What kind of human creates his own policeman?”
“One who fears the dark.”
“And so he should,” said the entity, with satisfaction.
“Indeed. But I think you misunderstand. I am not here to keep the darkness out. I’m here to keep it in…”

Thud, Terry Pratchett

All too intimately aware that he’s sometimes hanging onto the side of the law by just his bare fingernails (well, talons), he often has a difficulty accepting praise. He has this sort of backwards self-esteem where he’s fearless, cocky, unhesitating, insinuating… but also pretty damn aware that he is, in fact, difficult and prone to outbursts of pique or bullheadedness. And his knowledge is power… in that he’s immune to all insults and might well say them before you get the chance, just to get it over with so you can carry on.

“You told the Weyrleader’s bronze to shove it? WHY? Why would you do that?”

« I don’t know, M’yck, ‘cause I’m an asshole. C’mon, we got latrine duties. I got you your favorite mop. »

Been there, done that, here’s a cookie, now let’s move!

Which also means that, in spite of all his rough edges and flexible interpretations, Oroqaith is an almost painfully honest dragon, with himself, yes, but you as well. He’ll a great impatience for your recalcitrance, M’yck old boy and, eavesdropping in on your conversations, you’ll find yourself hard-pressed to stop him from snarking creative ‘translations’ for you if it seems like you’re doing too much beating around the bush.

“What?” Jedi might be hounding you after a prolonged argument the two of you’ve had.

“…” your teeth grit down and you look away. “…nothing.”

« What. » A drip of water leaking through the ceiling of your thoughts. Pat-pat-pat-pat.

You say stronger, “Not a damn thing.”

A blustery wet wind carries Oroqaith’s snort outward. « Hey, Llioramasith. I think what my knucklehead partner here’s
trying to say is that the only reason he hasn’t knocked your rider’s block off is because she’s a girl and couldn’t weight one-ten
soaking wet. »

*facepalm*

If he doesn’t just straight-up bespeak the person, himself. Your dragon is not so conventional or polite as to keep his thoughts to himself, and you can expect to need to keep an eye on him, that he doesn’t go off to question suspicious people entirely on his own, asking them so poignantly what their business is out there in the Bowl so late at night, oh, you don’t have a reason, well you may move along

John McClane: Drop it, dickhead. It's the police.

Tony: You won't hurt me.

John McClane: Oh, yeah? Why not?

Tony: Because you're a policeman. There are rules for policemen.

John McClane: Yeah. That's what my captain keeps telling me.

— Die Hard

Even while he’ll be driven to gain it, (and he will, M’yck; his natural work ethic will find your blue naturally gravitate towards leadership) Oroqaith has an inherent problem with authority. And his problem is that no one else has a problem with authority. The more status and clout a person has, be they rider or dragon, Weyrfolk or Lord Holder of a visiting Hold, the more they can get away with things. White collar crimes are real, and they will be a particularly troubling to your unconventional blue and he will be drawn to step out of the boundaries to catch them at it.

The comings and goings of the Weyrleader’s dragon, or even Ligryth, or your own future Wingleader will all be subject to a great deal of scrutiny. Even the golds will not be exempt of this default screening, and you’ll be surprised to find that this natural scepticism will make him so fearless as to be casual with these fair queens. He’ll address them with an almost suicidal pragmatism that may or may not get you thrown into demotions just as quickly as promotions. Not necessarily rude, but you won’t find him scraping either.

This isn’t to say he won’t still like people, because he does. He will. He thrives on crowds, on watching and listening and questioning and offering his two cents. He’ll be protective, even, in a conceptual way. The word Police originates from the Latin word for ‘city’, and he very much is a dragon of the civilized world; he cares and he has a great capacity to be happy when the honest hard work of his fellows earns them the rewards that they deserve. It’s just that… well. No one is perfect, are they. There is always temptation, and even if someone he likes has never committed a crime, he can mutltitask in his opinions and still like someone while all too easily acknowledging that they have potential to commit wrong-doing, same as anyone else.

If anything, he might be drawn to the company of more lousy people. He’s a jerk that gets along with other jerks and there’s not a lot of personality types he can’t put up with, callous as he is. If someone has given up the pretense of being a good person, there’s a sort of crusty honesty there that Oroqaith may even find rather attractive in a general live-and-let-live(until you can arrest them) association. He’ll also quickly learn that the closer you keep your enemies, the less likely the chance of them surprising him. He won’t come upon it right away, in fact, but after a while, the more places he realizes crime happens, the more tolerant he is of the small time crap. Is it really worth it to put a stop to Finmaraisth’s petty thievery when allowing it to continue also means he can be called on for a tipoff later on down the line? Chump change is a bargaining chip and the petty infractions are so predictable to your plainclothes blue he’s just not prone to sweat the small stuff.

No, the dragons and people that make no pretense to be altruistic are fine. It’s the dragons of genuine chaos that you will never be able to predict. How he gets on with his uncle Tindraeth or aunt Eriphyliriuth is wildly up in the air day by day, as their own internal logic skips merrily in and out of consistency and he’ll be downright uncomfortable with how close Ligryth likes to touch free of anything other than idle experimentation to his boundaries. He won’t like when he can’t tell what a dragon or person’s motivations are, and might very well take a crook over a mystery, when it comes to the people he feels most comfortable with.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate the kinder side of nature (both dragon and human alike) as well! It’s just that it wears him out. Qyth, so brimming with vigorous good intentions could leave him worn out and aggravated just from trying not to spoil her mood. Morkarth’s sedate tendencies might put him at ease, or they might strike him as tedius. Vulkasinth may be good company for Oroqaith, but his inclination to a path much straighter than your blue’s winding in and out of his own concepts of justice might make them awkward at times and flat-out, it’s not likely your blue will ever fully trust Llioramasith. He’s picky. It’s part of the job description. And he has a hard time getting along with others. He knows he’s bad at it, too, so expect him to be in and out of the red with most dragons around the Weyr and probably half the humans while he’s at it. It seems the only person he gets along steadily with (if you can call it getting along!) is you.

Oroqaith’s one exception (or closest thing to an exception he’ll make) will be his golden sister, Elicheritath. Not that he won’t be honest with himself — haha, when’s he ever not — and acknowledge that sometimes her meddling nature can have its negative effects. It’s just that he believes in her intentions. Genuinely. He and she may often collaborate in the name of solving problems amongst your clutch during Weyrlinghood. It will be a strange dynamic, for he won’t necessarily enjoy when she turns that ‘helpful eye’ on him, nor even you, M’yck. He’ll never admit it out loud but he is protective of your privacy as much as his own. But he will appreciate the attempts she makes to keep the peace, and will see her as, if mismatched and a little overbearing, more of an ally than a suspect, and expect him to compare his notes with her often, possibly even after the two part ways after graduation.

Chopper Pilot: What's the matter, cowboy? Ride too rough?

John McClane: I don't like to fly.

Chopper Pilot: Then what are you doing here?

John McClane: I don't like to lose either.

— Die Hard 2

If he had his way, your blue would do everything himself. You’ll struggle during Weyrlinghood because he won’t like that you need to moderate his feeding, he won’t like that you have to help him figure out how to chew his firestones and he especially won’t like having to sit still for being measured and then fitted with straps. As he gets older, however, he will expand his ‘if you need something done right’ philosophy to reluctantly involve you as well. Before you try to thank him for this, you’ll have to understand… this means he’ll want you to do all the things that he, as a dragon (handsome, swift and nimble as he may be) can’t do. This means if he wants to know what’s going on in that cothold over there? Yeah. He’s a dragon. He’s too big to sneak up to it and peek in the window. He’ll need you to do it. That refuse bin where he thinks evidence might have been dumped? Sorry buddy, he’d climb in there if he could, but he can’t so… Expect to do a lot of squirming through tight places and digging your hands into all sorts of less-than-desirable substances.

Your comfort will need to come in the knowledge that he’s not kidding — he would do it if he could.

Where mysteries abide, Oroqaith will not let them lie. Be they at the Weyr or simply heard about through idle chitchat, your blue will be forever on the alert for a case for you two to dig into. You might protest that you’re only a guard at High Reaches, but Oroqaith is a policeman in essence and he won’t accept such a pitiful excuse not to pursue a case. And wherever you go, M’yck, there will be a case. Where there are policemen, there are crimes, and wherever your blue goes, expect him to point out all of the crimes that may or may not have happened or be about to happen in the vicinity.

There’s lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there’s no one out there arranging little meetings
where you can stand up and say, “My name is Sam and I’m a really suspicious bastard.”

—Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett

Dragons do not, by nature, have good memories. But where convention is in place, Oroqaith is ever out to find his loopholes. His inability to remember something important will trouble him greatly and when something important comes up that he doesn’t remember, he’ll worry at it for just ages. In a pinch, he’ll pick your brain about it too, bugging you to remind him of what you can, and wanting you to full-on share your memories if it’s at all possible, where he’ll possibly then pick out details even you forgot off the surface of you mind.

« Why didn’t you say his shirt was torn when you talked to him? »

“What. His shirt wasn’t torn, was it?”

« It was. » The rain drips sardonically from the eaves of a building as someone would tap impatient fingers on the table.
A mental sigh. « You were looking right at it for five minutes. Remember? »

“Was I? I guess now that you mention it…”

It’s amazing what we process subliminally into our memory without ever realizing it, and he’ll go through it all with you as though they were surveillance tapes if you give him half a chance. And he’ll go deeper than that, too. Depending on how much you’re willing to share, he may as well make you his walking filing cabinet for your lifetime’s worth of case details and miscellaneous trivia he, as a dragon, would not otherwise know.

« Zeyta has a brother? » The background noises fade as Oroqueazoth listens more closely.

“Yeah. A twin. Name’s N’ayl.”

A pause in which raindrops thrum in chaotic, searching rhythms, pelting faster and thicker, and then for a moment they turn to
ice as his certainly recrystallizes on a shared memory.

« He’s the one with the brown…? Yeah! That’s right. He crash-landed on that island with you in the hurricane. »

“Alright, now that’s just creepy, knock it off.”

Even when he doesn’t have your help (because you have to sleep sometime!), if he spends enough time chewing at something, his persistence may eventually be rewarded: he might actually be able to recover fragments of what he’s forgotten — and a good detective can do a lot with just a fragment. It’s not usually sudden flights of genius that help him figure things out, though; rather it’s that dogged determination to pursue answers even after everyone else has given up looking.

He’ll turn things over in his mind again and again, mentally review a crime scene until he makes you want to strangle him. Even if he didn’t see it, he’ll expect you to describe it all to him, in excruciating detail. Every little thing could be dire, and he treats your reports the way a blind man might explore the surface of a braille sheet, running them once, twice, thrice, all the while with a sort of gritted hope that you may either be concerned with… or, in the privacy of your weyr, you might even feel heart-pangs for its simple, hard-working honesty.

It wasn’t by eliminating the impossible that you got at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of eliminating the possibilities. You worked away, patiently asking questions and looking hard at things. You walked and talked, and in your heart you just hoped like hell that some bugger’s nerve’d crack and he’d give himself up.
— Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett,

If even he can’t find something to investigate, Oroqaith will go on the hunt. He’ll push you to explore every contact you have, and every contact they have. He’ll want you to talk to Traders you knew of old, before you washed up at High Reaches. And oh, yes. Don’t think he won’t notice those other grungy wealths of back-end knowledge and resources you keep un-utilized on your shelves.

“Damn. The trail got lost in the South Reaches Pass. There must have been another way through we don’t know about.”

« Guess it’s time to ask our nine-fingered friend. You know the one. »

“Yeah, I’m not asking Cullen.”

« Why not? He might know. That bastard sure talks enough about knowing this area. »

“Because it’s 3am and NO.”

« Fine. Know what? Don’t, then. You just sit here with your thumb up your tailhole. I’m gonna go fly out to Herder
and ask him myself. »

Root out cold cases long buried. And always, always keep an ear out for something that’s not right. Sure, you don’t legally have authority over the whole of Pern … but sometimes you have to take a stand for what’s right, right? This dragon knows exactly how fallible laws and political systems can be, especially when it comes to protecting the people who can’t buy their own justice. He feels deeply compelled to stand up for them, even when the laws are not, to be picky, technically on his side. If the corruption runs deep and there’s no legal recourse, he might be inclined toward vigilantism. Of course, his fervent belief in laws, even while he questions them, will lead to a lot of agonizing over whether to actually make a move at such times. In the end, you may decide whether the two of you work outside the law when its utility runs out. Good luck with that!

His predilection for pursuing mysteries will undoubtedly lead Oroqaith to want to pick up the cold case that’s closest to your own heart, M’yck: your family. Your own restlessness about not knowing what befell them will be magnified tenfold in your blue. He’ll urge you to pursue every lead, no matter how small it might seem, and he’ll want to cover old ground with you, even places you’ve already looked, to see if there’s something you might have missed Turns ago. He’s every bit as dogged as you are, and until you know their fate he won’t likely want you to stop searching. Unless you let him forget, of course. But be warned: if you do, he’ll be very, very suspicious about your motives once he remembers again. Expect to do a lot of forced soul-searching under the glare of that glowlight.

John McClane: Listen, you fail I cover your ass. I fail you cover my ass!

Zeus Carver: And if we both fail?

John McClane: Then we're both fucked!

— Die Hard: With a Vengeance

Ultimately, if you boil it all down, you will find that Oroqaith is there for you as well. His concern can be terse and dry, but that’s just how he is. It may take a while, but when all the dust settles, you will have no one as loyal or devoted as your boy in blue. He has your back, twenty-four hours a day and as hard as he pushes you, he will push himself for you. He’ll support you in pretty much anything you want to do and he’ll always want to know what you’re up to, what’s important to you, what isn’t important to you. You’ll butt heads, we have no doubt about that, and you’ll have your hands full keeping up with him. But possibly, possibly that’s appropriate.

The two of you can find your way on the path of what’s right together, tripping, sliding, falling, fighting, screaming and taking naps and everything in between.

Vimes: ‘What is it I’m always telling you?’

Carrot: ‘Er … er … Never trust anybody, sir?’

Vimes: ‘No, not that.”

Carrot: ‘Er … er … Everyone’s guilty of something, sir?’

Vimes: ‘Not that, either.’

‘I mean … I’m pretty sure I’m always saying something else that’s very relevant here. Something pithy about police work.’

Carrot: ‘Can’t remember anything right now, sir.’

Vimes: ‘Well, I’ll damn well make up something and start saying it a lot from now on.

— Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett,

Flights

In flights, he’ll devote all the crazed adrenaline of Hot Pursuit to capturing the fleeing green — and he’ll be righteous about it. Whether he sees her as miscreant, witness, or just a fine dame he’s worked hard to win, he’ll feel there’s no justice in the world unless he comes out of this flight the victor. Pretty quickly he’ll find himself attracted to the greens of greatest challenge, the quick and dangerous frenzies of Eriphyliriuth or the suicide-march long Siren song of Ligryth will get his heart thumping powerful, drawn to that edge, the dangerous unknown, and he’ll leave you gasping, M’yck, with his every life-threatening stunt, convinced this time, this time he’s going to splatter himself against the Weyr spires, you can just tell

But for Oroqaith, this is exactly where it needs to be. This is what makes the thrill. This is Really Important, and should he lose, his faith not only in himself but also in the order of the world will be shaken.

He’ll sulk and snip and try to heal his wounded ego by being utterly dismissive — but he won’t be able to hide it from you, M’yck, if and when he does lose a flight. Back and forth he’ll go, from cursing himself to muttering about that broad being no good, to assigning nefarious motives to the green or her other suitors, trying to figure out how he could possibly have lost. If he’s taking it particularly hard, he might even have a tantrum or two, scratching at the ground and prowling furiously about the outskirts of the Weyr, growling to himself — and it’ll be worse if you don’t feel like keeping him company.

« You’re some friend. Know what? I don’t need you either. Just like I don’t need that no-good— »
A huge torrent of water is thrown up where he chucks a stone into it. « Her loss anyway, stupid— »

Even when the anger fades, he’ll brood for awhile… He may end up returning to your weyr without you — and refusing to come back down to pick you up.

You might find yourself engaged as thus:
= » No really. I want to go home. I need my change of uniform. I smell. «

Thunder and lightning crash as dirty rainwater streams down your mind.

« Yeah, shut up, I know what you’re trying to do. Go away. »

» No, I mean I REALLY just want my clothes. «

« Nice try. I want to be alone. » He trickles off the side of a curb and down a drain pipe.

» …. «

If he wins, of course, it’ll be an entirely different deal. He’s a cynic, your blue, but for that brief time after he catches, he’ll feel like everything’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be. He’s fought long and hard for this, and he’s finally gotten the girl, so his intensity will be focused for once on celebration! His jokes and laughter will be more benign and less biting, and he’ll urge you to chill out and see things in a new way — at least for a little while.

Just like the hero who’s had his heart broken by a woman and then wins her back, Oroqaith will, despite himself, remember all the good things about love and girls — and he’ll tell you all about it. Don’t worry, though — it probably won’t last long. While he might assume he and the green are “together,” now, she’s not likely to agree. True to draconic nature, she may not understand his idea of fidelity, and will end up distracted (or turned off by Oroqaith’s own numerous faults — but when in doubt, this blue is likely to blame the dame!). Cue the return to cynicism and/or broodiness. Girls suck.

Right, M’yck?


…or at least that’s how we picture him, your street justice champion! In all ways, M’yck, Oro is yours and yours alone to use and abuse (or more likely get abused by!) as the two of you might see fit. All words written are merely suggestions rather than rules and what you choose to give or take from it is entirely up to you! Now that you two have found one another, we hope you have as much fun laying down the law together as we did writing him! Good luck, buddy. You’re gonna need it.

Credits

Name: R'yst, Zeyta, Dirna
Egg Desc: R'yst
Dragonet Desc: R'yst; Zeyta tweak
Messages: R'yst
Puppeteer: R'yst
Inspiration: R'yst, Zeyta, Dirna

Clutchmates:
S'erc's bronze Vulkasinth, Tuli's gold Elicheritath, H'ris's green Qyth, Mal's brown Morkarth, and Jedi's brown Llioramasith

Harper's Tale's 62nd PC Clutch
High Reaches Weyr's 23rd PC Clutch
Lendai's gold Talicanitath and Sh’z's bronze Lakenheath
March 22nd, 2012

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