Dirna's Devil in the Details Blue Tindraeth

You heard it first, the quiet rhythm, pulsing gently through his shell…

Strike of Twelve Egg

Stately and refined, this egg seems taller than it is wide, the majority of its shell consisting of a burnished mahogany tone. Closer inspection reveals minute details, such as illustrious curls and rings that no mere wood could imitate, perhaps hinting at the magic behind the so-called witching hour. Indeed, the face of an age-old time piece is represented in a sphere of white at the egg's apex, tiny golden i's, v's, and x's spaced about in a rhythmic but nonsensical pattern. Two thin amber lines usually point directly upwards, but when the cavern is lit just right, the hours seem to fast-foward with every tilt of the head. In all, it is a rather majestic orb, gilded markings appearing here and there throughout. Some are rather cog-like, but others are as transient and fleeting as time, leaving their true shape and nature up to the observer.

tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick…

Hatching Message

Strike of Twelve Egg sits motionless save the quiet steady pulse throbbing at its center. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The sands fall away into expectant chaos but still it awaits the right time. Tick, tick (crack) tick, tick, tick tick. CRACK. It splits along the wood grain creases, its time piece face collapsing inward. A glimpse of inky black movement pauses within. Holds its breath, halfway through. tick, tick… tick— Utterly silent. Wait for it. NOW! Dramatically, as if it had all been a great cosmic joke, the whole thing peels outward with a casual ease, spilling forth its rumpled cargo with a loose instinctive flare, and Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet falls into the first few steps of defining his OWN pulsing life tempo.

At first, you think the soft and subtle sound is the beating of your own heart. The fright is certainly real and with the blood pumping through your body, the slight tremble of your hand, at first you think the egg is doing nothing. Until you hear it. A soft… ding… ding… ding…. that chimes with the beating of your own heart. Your breath and heart stall in between the chimes, only to start up again… ding… ding… ding… A tightness squeezes around your throat and you would swear that the egg before you has grown into an object tall and mahogany, a golden pendulum swinging within. Ding… ding… ding… Inexplicably, your breathing begins to race, until it feels as if your heart is tripping over itself in the sudden pitter-patter that only makes your headache worse. Ding… ding… ding… The world's secrets lie open for you to pluck, if only you would but stick your hand in the path of the swinging pendulum of gold. You move to do it… And all is ripped away. Once more you are but a lone girl in a giant cavern full of carnivorous beasts. The worlds secrets lie where they will… secret.

…patiently, he waited for the planets to align, to make the moment right…

Softly, the world grows dim. It doesn't vanish, but it fades. …ding… A single measured note. You see the Candidates slowly reeling from their final eggs, seeming in an unaware tandem. … ding… As one, they either bow or stand up, one foot falls while the other lifts but it is synchronized to the same steady beat. … ding… You still feel it, the longing for what you've lost, the longing to ACCEPT what you have. And here, in the measured beats, you stand at the crossroads pulsepoints of the cosmos and you feel okay. …ding!… Your blood is up, you feel a growing excitement inside you, an exuberance. Yeah. Yeeaaaahh! … ding! The notes are louder now! Quickening! You're happy, alive, aroused, excited - DING! There is a sense of someone with you, watching you, amused, and its from this presence that the chiming comes. …ding. Calm again. You're home. Open your eyes and live.

tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick… tick…

Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet

Darkness pulses in discord harmony, the instigator stands charming as razors and spun of fine glass. His shoulders hang loose as running rivers, his nape soldiered with the bristling ridges of obsidian spears. His elongated body, narrow of chest, tensile of haunch, glistens raven-black, pelted mad will fallen stars. Ultraviolet flecks embed the black ink of serpent's spine in iambic intervals, long and short shrapnel-shreds of iridescent indigo: coldfire apocalypse supported recklessly by long angular legs. Strange nightflowers bloom between dagger’d silver wingspars: the outer edge of darkling ‘sails haunted by oily opal ghosts of gossamer turquoise, sliced through by black ribbons into striations of stained glass. A third eye spearheads his gaze, his face sharply boned and masked in shadow-murk: between the twin spines of jagged eyeridges, it glows as a diadem of searing cobalt, electric and unblinking from his brow, asleep or awake.

And then he came to you.

Public Impression Pose

Devil in the Details Blue Dragonet has been taking his time. But this does not mean he doesn't feel the needful beat. As if aware of the lackadaisical powers of inevitability; he absorbs the ambient rhythms of aggression, hunger, joy, need, standing for a moment, an ancient in miniature. Egg goo has mostly dripped from his abyssal darkness and he listens. Flicking tail keeping track of a tempo only he seems aware of. Lifts one paw, nearly steps - pauses again as a chameleon, rocking just slightly. Disheveled sense of balance topples forward into a stroll now, but now it is /intense/. Now it is driven as if he'd heard a sudden prompt. Or perhaps he'd heard only the sarcastic sound of amusement in the dusky tones of the One. Shift-shift-shift? The timed pacing of this girl he /sees/ now, and he falls into movements as if in dance. Run, sit, sleep, it's all the same to him. But stand your ground? All the better. He has taken Dirna in his sights. Neither explosion nor roar nor cordoning off. He just wanders up to her. And sloppily plops his ass down, long tail slapping down. And becoming still. He has chosen. Was there any doubt?


Private Impression Message

They were always there, between form and function; patterns making up the mesh of the universe, from the stacked-rows lining the gallery to the muffled rhythmic crunch of myriad feet churning across the black sands; they overlay in the heat-ripples pouring up from the sweltering inferno below and pulse defiantly in your veins. But now, they are different. Your very mind dilates to a broader scope in awareness, every action, sound and sight around you synchronizing to a single pulsing beat. The cosmos aligning within the metric confines of a single… sharp… rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick. (a trickle of sweat down your spine) Tick. Tick. Tick. /Ding/. There. « Hear that? » A dry voice muses from within your mind, criminally casual as if he had been there all along. Even the tempo of your heart is seized, throbbing thick behind your eyes and hammering in slow yawning spurts through the channels of your veins. « It’s the beat of the world. » Abruptly, a rush of black wings runs past your cheeks, unsettling your hair, stirred up with a single hoarse HAH of arid amusement. In the next second, mirth is gone, replaced by a musty smell of dust and gear oil. Deadpan: « I’m Tindraeth. Hi. Shall we? » Another pulse grips you now, in the pit of your abdomen: hunger, hunger, hunger…

And he reminded you to dance.

Dirna! Dirna-Dirna-Dirna! We kidnapped you, chased you around the Weyr, made you strike weird poses and did strange and unusual things to you with eggs. Is there any doubt that we LOVE you? And you had us laughing to tears every step of the way. What else could we DO but put your head on the spike of ‘riderhood, affix you with a truly troublesome lifemate and then turn you loose on the skies? We hope you’ve been having as much fun as we have and that you love Tindraeth as much as we loved MAKING HIM! Welcome to HRW: RIDERHOOD. It’s like getting a free pony. That eats MEAT and FLIES. ~ SearchCo

Egg Inspiration

This egg is based off of a tall grandfather clock, preferably of the sort that comes with enough bells and whistles to confuse anyone. Not only would some of the cog-work be exposed, but there should also be at least three pendulums (that once touched by greedy child-hands will never be normal again), a crazily-swirled mandala, and a representation of the planets and/or the lunar cycle somewhere on its person… er, clockson. The best grandfather clocks are those that sacrifice function for elaborate form! They become junky all the quicker.

Theme Inspiration

To go along with the Egg theme of Techno Junk & Gadgets, the dragonet theme for this cycle is Old World Inventions. Of which, for your methodically mad blue, we immediately fell into the curious realm of beat-moderation that is The Metronome.

Actually considered highly controversial in the music world, the metronome is a clever little device that emits metrical ticks, represent a fixed, regular aural pulse. What defines a beat? The instrument, or the person that falls into it? Such is the conundrum of Tindraeth himself and his adherence (or influence?) over the beating pulse of existence.

And, of course, this Inspiration would not be what it is were it not for the contribution of the many troublesome, hoarding, thieving, larking avians of the world. Magpies, crows, ravens, jackdaws, mockingbirds and, of course, the grackle.


Description Inspiration

You gather things to you like an old road.

You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices.

I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated

that had been sleeping in your soul.

- Your Breast is Enough, Pablo Neruda

One of your requests was that in some way, the theme of ‘harbinger’ be incorporated in the making of your dragon. And while it certainly doesn’t stop with his description, perhaps it could be called the start…

There’s something romantically apocalyptic about the writing of Pablo Neruda, always swelled with a promise of madness, love, peace, sadness and destruction to come; the style of of his writing was very much the inspiration for the writing style used in Tindraeth’s description. Visually, he’s based on an inky-black nighttime world laying patiently beneath the trampling annihilation of raining blue comets. The glossy-black-embedded-with-blue phenomenon is captured best in the workings of dichroic glass. Imagine something like this spattered in suggested patterns along his shoulders and spine:


Name Inspiration

You’d asked for a name with a bit of syncopation and some nice clean consonants. So we got to digging. The musical term ‘ostinato’ means ‘a short musical pattern that is repeated throughout an entire composition or portion of a composition’… it also means ‘obstinate’ and ‘persistent’. What better root to a hoarding avian of the world’s heartbeats, whose voice and crystal-cut rhythm will be patterned across the composition of Dirna’s life? So we borrowed the ‘tin’ and added a ‘d’, to make a descending softer echo of the second syllable. From there he inherited a brassy, oily-slick slide into the end of his name from his mother, Aevryscienth, borrowing her namesake ‘ae’ before hitting the end of the cord with a clean ‘th’.

Tindraeth, emphasis could run to either the first or second syllable just as easily; syncopation is all about notes catching up to one another in a questionable chase of almost playful hierarchy. Said somewhat like two piano keys hit just shy of one another, a touch flat and possibly with a bit more crass than class, it seemed to fit your enigmatic blue like a fine black glove.


The beat of the world. All part of the song, I just hear the music.

- Jacob the Pathfinder, Ink

Envision a solid sheet of swallowing abyssal black stretching clear across the sky. It’s so dark that its deep, a glossy infinite pupil swallowing the land. Superimposed over this dark vision is a soft insistent sound, a steady, persistent, offhand ticking, infused like a thorn in the pulse points of your throat.

Now Don’t Blink.


(tick tick tick tick) You can feel it. A soundless moment, an unseen cue. Slowly hairline cracks form across the sable heavens, radiating out like spider webs, fracturing the sky. (tick tick tick tick) The vacuum begins to fragment apart like midnight glass, no, like shredded bits of dark paper, thrashing in a sudden tempest that tears away chips and pieces and flings them spiraling like shingles. Another sound is picking up now, throbbing, a dry rustling, clapping sound, like wings… (tick tick tick tick) You realize now that this solid sheet of black is actually alive, not a single living thing but millions. As they break apart, you see finally it’s a thrashing wall of pitch black birds in legion flight, all scattering and overlapping until their dark feathers rain down in a thick cloud with the heavy smell of clock dust, dander and gear grease. (ding)


There it is. You feel it. Behind this churning cloud of birds in flight is the heady throbbing beat of the world.

This is the base of Tindraeth’s mindvoice.

In and of itself, it’s the throb of blackwing birds taking to flight. They’re almost so opaque and dark at times they seem more thrashing shadow’s partially melted together, conjoined and then breaking apart again like snapping bones. Winks of dark that skid in and out of the peripherals like bats. Other times you will perceive such unique and meaningful details from each individual bird you will all but feel the small individual encasements of lean muscles piston-pumping against hollow bones; some huge and majestically churning, others small and manic, zesty, cheerful or even hysterical. It’s a cacophony of rustling, feathery-rasping sounds, overwhelming end-over-end snapping motions that swell up to the cusp of true saturated chaos and topple off the other end of insanity into their own curiously and somehow organically regulated tempo: care-worn, smooth, tarnished rhythmic order. It’s not a neat, shelved, man-made order. It’s darker, more primal, ancient: a subversive discord harmony, all pressed into a hot adrenal liquid that shoots in heavy pulses through your veins.

…If he feels like sharing, that is.

In a more difficult, petulant or disregarding mood, Tindraeth can also be but a single, lone black feather, curled upon a surface. Rocking gently to an unseen wind. Just an idle pendulum, back and forth, back and forth. Entertaining himself. Or a small V of a single distant bird in flight, showing you his tail as he soars off to go spend time on his own. To do his own thinking.

It’s not just about keeping the tempo. That’s the easy part. It’s about making one so that it can then properly be broken. The single bird, flapping in perfect rhythm shattering like a black firework into a million little shadow-sparrows at just the right moment. The steady quiet tick that occasionally erupts into hind-brain throbbing at irregular, but meaningful moments. He is chaos, but there’s a method to his madness, a fractal cosmic propriety to his choices of tempo, fitting well to a scene and paying a gut-deep adherence to the large and the small with equal attention.

Sometimes, he’ll send out his murders of crows and flocks of fairy-black shapes to fill up the sky, numerous and patient as inverted stars, idly overwhelming your senses with a breathless sense of expanse. Other times, when frustrated, when impassioned, he constricts like a clenched fist, a sense of heightened, agonizing crescendo. He cages in, squeezes and cramps and compacts this avian population into a single impossibly tight containment, until physics of mass and matter creak and there is a desperate, overpopulated churning. A crushing, unfeeling panic. A soft rapid gasping. Frantic wings hammering against one another in a tight confinement, the rhythmic scratching of small taloned feet on tin or glass. Choking. Soft, muffled peeping and seared ragged crow caws, all locked inside your rib cage and swelling hellishly in your heart. Until there is only a solid black wall of ink, no brighter than Ysvarth’s own abyss.

And always that insistent, infernal ticking. The count down of some mad unseen time piece. Patient. Methodical. Scientific, somehow, but equally, diligently, laughingly insane. It could be a light, speedy click of a small pocket watch one moment, whiling away details at an efficient clip. Other times, it will deepen, slow. Broaden out to be the heavy brassy swings of echoing pendulums, until you cannot tell if it’s your own pulse or his. With it there is that accompanying, lingering scent of clock dust and gear grease. A fine, coppery-metallic smell of cogs and the subtle acidic suggestion of avian dander clogging the back of the throat. And the dry smell of bird dandy. Always, always those troublesome birds.

It’s not a comfortable place. It’s eerie, haunted with dark shapes and uncanny for how it molds like a parasite into fitting, chasing, fracturing the environmental tempos until you almost can’t tell if he’s just dancing along to the world’s primordial music or if he’s composing it.

« Well. That was refreshing. »

For how visceral and moving this throbbing tempo may be, his voice itself is, by comparison, criminally casual. It leans just slightly towards a monotone his sire might appreciation. But while Ysvarth’s voice is cold and neutral, Tindraeth’s voice is, while wholly unmystified, infused with a sort of game, private humor. It’s mildly caustic, often wry, classically sarcastic and, maybe if you’re really lucky, he’ll quiet down for a while into thoughtfully introverted mutters. It is, essentially, as dry and salted as the rustle of dusty feathers, mismatched with a short, flat, barking laugh that tends to erupt abruptly and then end just as quickly in a harsh slap-to-the-face caw before returning to classic monotone as if it had never occurred.

He has a habit of picking up tempos, colors, smells, sights and rhythms from his surroundings as well, repeating them to himself over and over in a cyclic undertone. You’ll often be plagued with the wet churning suction-thwuck of someone chewing, or you’ll find yourself dusted with a fine falling mist when he communes with the rain. The rolling biff-bam-bomf of daisies bobbling against one another in a passing breeze. He has a flare for inherently finding the dynamic apex of a pattern, sewing them into his mind voice like a parasite, heightening, communing, interacting with his environment… or fraying it from the inside out.

This might become disruptive if he does it in the middle of a conversation with another dragon, unapologetically getting wrapped up in a specific series of sounds or patterns he likes from their mindscapes, chewing them over and strewing them with feathers. Perching a large glossy-dark bird impossibly amongst waves borrowed from Ligryth, or tossing a few stark red rose petals across a quick-sketch of Ysvarth’s gray desserts. It’s not that he, by nature, requires this background cadence, nor is it that he’s particularly invasive of other dragon’s mental scapes (though he might deliver messages to his fellow dragons sometimes by raven, as it were. Randomly flocking in with a swarm of black wings that topple together into a single… dark… bird that then just perching there out of nowhere, grooming under a wing and then glancing around. Checkin’ it out. Pecking at things.) It’s that his mindscape is just… sticky. He falls into a given tempo and the rest just falls into HIM. Small random things just attract him. Like a magpie, he compulsively collects, builds upon, secrets away, plucks apart, rejects and otherwise randomly retains environmental influences like a nest made of pilfered findings. They get stuck in his head like music and whenever he breaks contact with another dragon (or, haha, takes to wing again) expect him to often bring home a little swiped sample on exit.

And oh, he’ll share it with Dirna as well, whether she invites it or not. Or another dragon. Or the Weyr. Over. And Over. Again. But mostly Dirna. Expect long hours of trying to sleep at night while having the staccato hammering of water droplets echoed inside your head from when Tindraeth heard it four hours ago. Or the rattle of cages picked up from Kczyslawborth banging around through the early hours. And good luck trying to explain why it’s still there the next morning when you two reports for drills.

This magpie habit of swiping various and entirely unpredictable environmental knickknacks crossed with the eclectic disbursement of ink-black promise of birds and the heavy pulse and tick of his ingrained cadence can lead to some strange and surreal results. A sort of aggregated, formed-by-committee compilation of himself, others, reality, surreality and sometimes just an inappropriate dash of humor and color to what otherwise really shouldn’t have it. Sometimes clever, sometimes subtle, sometimes camouflaged in. Other times… there are no words.



He’d be called striking long before he was called handsome. Jarring would probably fit even better. His face is almost avian-sharp and unsympathetic, his long legs are lean but not willowy nor light - they’re straight and angular like a canine, tipped in the sharply contrasting silver talons that could only have come compliments of his dam, Aevryscienth. For a blue, he quite huge and slick-black as a bad omen, one of the many traits inherited from his sire, as is his long snake-like body and tail and the exceptionally long, bristling neck ridges that spear up from his neck like the ruffled feathers of a dark bird.

The obsidian of his body glistens with a polished oily sheen, covers him tip to tip, his tail a dark tendril, the majority of details in his face lost to shadow so that only the swirling glow of his faceted eyes stand out in livid detail. For his significant size, he could just as easily be mistaken for a small midnight brown dragon were it not for the evidence of his blue coloring showcased in the spattered, piercing but oddly orderly blue flecks embedded down his back , between shoulders and haunch, as if he’d just been surface-pelted with high velocity blue meteors. Outside of that, there is only a brief repeat of cobalt blue in the center of his forehead, a small piercing blaze like a third eye, and in his wings, where a livid, iridescent turquoise lines their edges between bands of darkness. Essentially, his wings are inspired of this:


As he grows, his quirks will begin to really stand out. When he’s young, he’ll be oddly easy with his balance. Long gangling wolfish legs look awkward but carry him with a padding, floppy ease which will remain with him for all of his life.

Tindraeth is a weird dragon, you already knew this. But some things he just can never seem to acclimate to, and the weirdness just kind of bursts forth in little manic spurts. This will be the case in terms of oiling and washing him. It will be a trait he off and on revisits through his life but it will be especially prominent during Weyrlinghood. Not only are you on an oiling and bathing schedule (which he will either pursue you to stick to or else he will insist on breaking in the name of being contrary), but once you get him submitted to his oiling… he just won’t be able to always keep his shit together. It’s like he’s mentally ticklish to the naturally rhythmic feeling of being roiled and washed.

Kneeling beside him, bucket at your side and wash rag in your hand, you scrub.
He mimics the scrub, the scent of wet bird and water on oily feathers shifting. Agitated.
You scrub.
He mimics the scrub. Shifting. Squirming.
You scrub… sloooower?
He scrubs… FASTER.
You stop scrubbing. “What are you doing?”
Shadowed avians erupt into a sudden wild flurry and for a single moment you are both hammered with a fist-into-palm power of SCRUB-SCRUB-SCRUB. « I just lost my mind. I’ll be right back. » Tick-tick-suddenly silence.
You roll your eyes and go back to scrubbing.

When in motion, it’s hard to put a finger on it but there’s something… rumpled about him. His posture is often distracted and a bit irreverent, his movements sort of toppling into a rough approximation of what he needs them to do, the spiky jagged points of his neckridges seeming like the disheveled feathers of a ruffled black bird. He’s not altogether clumsy per say but he could probably be accused of moving in a somewhat slapdash and incidental manner. His long neck is highly animated, and might cross over itself in the name of looking around in a darting avian ease - all the better if he doesn’t have to move the rest of his body while he’s at it.


This incidental perfection of placement will carry on with him when he takes to flight as well. For such a large blue, he will be surprisingly nimble… especially for how sloppily he seems to throw himself about. He’ll have a sort of flighty sense of mad-scrambling in flight, though he won’t seem to personally notice. There will be no indication that he’s troubled by his own thrashing, bobbling, chaotic patterns - it’s not bumbling, it’s just wild. He flies much like a butterfly would, or an avian not built for long-distance flight. The existence of thermals will be useful, sure, but he will seem to fall into no more liquid ease than he would seem to fall out of his rhythms in the presence of turbulence or bad weather. He is, essentially, untouchable. He simply reads, interprets and responds to the air around him without ever seeming to try. And he will be deceptively fast for it.

He will be remarkably versatile in drills because of this, able to sub just as easily for a brown as he would a green, and he’ll dart here and there where he’s needed most like a frog hopping from lily-pad to lily-pad. You will want to invest in very sturdy straps as well, and possibly straps that involve handles on them in time, because he will also have a nasty habit of taking breathers by just latching onto the sides of cliff-faces, which will have the unfortunate downside of tipping your seat horizontal. Get ready to cling!


Every time I move

I’m in another dimension

Every thing I do changes what I want

I see a choice I make

Explode in thousands of pieces

Every time I choose

I become a choice

- Forever Growing Centipedes, The Faint

He'll be a contradiction from the start, your Tindraeth. Born of chaotic times of famine and plague, in the wake of your personal loss, he will be a defiantly blithe star in the sky of otherwise predictability. Capable of great understanding, great sympathy and great callous in turn, all bundled up in a genuinely laid back and curious package. A living oxymoron, he’s a caustic bite in the robes of easy-going whimsy and right off the bat, he will break shell with the instinctive desire to counter the nature of conventions. He is a hard rain on a sunny day and a patch of heat in the cold. He is your lifemate. Your friend. And he will be your greatest ally and your most aggravating challenge.

Tindraeth is, in all ways, enamored with the lovable fallibility of the bigger picture, of sticking his fingers in the holes of a story to see if he can’t maybe make them a little wider. It’s not that he’s malicious, and it’s not even that he’s rebellious, it’s that he curious and, by a sort of backwards moral code, he doesn’t much care for complacency. It throws off the complexity of a flow and turns his world into white noise. Sometimes he can be almost embarrassingly blunt when pointing it out.

He’ll encourage Dirna to appreciate the ridiculousness of what should otherwise be considered destiny and spit in its face, not just carry on but skip along in reckless rebellion. He just… gets it, he feels it. The entire world is threaded along in a steady secret heart-pulse and he happens to be the only dragon with a finger on it, trob-throb-throbbing to him its simple, gorgeous secrets of reality. Sometimes driven, sometimes with a mad undertone of bitter mirth, sometimes with a lighthearted slip of lackadaisical unattainablity, other times with an affable lethargy, and every once and a while possibly, a strained subdued brittleness, he will always seem to have this one nebulous goal of setting things off, wanting things changing, flowing, pulsing to the rhythm of cosmic disorder - otherwise known as the seat of primordial creation. He makes a study of fragmenting a sure thing, of dissecting what’s been set off and finding the crazy-ass DNA structure of the impossible. Of celebrating the entropy of the unexpected and then dividing down the disorder into the universal patterns of organized-chaos that subsequently form in the aftermath. What makes a good flow, what makes a good story, what makes a few more kinks down the old cat’s tail.

Also, at entirely random intervals, coincidences might make him lose his ever loving shit.

Talking to someone you’ve just met, “Oh, you know Rikane, too? Small world, he Impressed with me-”
« WOW. » Dead silence. Tick. Dead silence. Tick. « HOLY CRAP. »
Perfectly derailed, you turn to look at him, startled.
He looks back.
» What the shell was that?! «
« …What. » tick-tick-tick-tick… « It’s interesting. » Flap-flap-flap, tick-tick-tick, he takes is leave. Done eavesdropping. For now. (lies).

As if retaining the hidden metric tempo you ‘met’ when you first touched his egg, he’ll always have a powerful beat to him, a sort of bopping, jiving tendency to fall into the patterns of whatever is going on around him as a second nature, tending to enter scenes as if he’d always been there, fetched up against some wall with proverbial arms crossed, possibly even vaguely baffled about his own ease, as if he hadn’t known he’d always been there all along either - playing ‘catch up’ to his own beat, as it were. It has nothing to do with calculation - just instinctively, he reads a scene and will just slip in on whatever fiber of the tapestry would make the most interesting affect and untying a few knots of it while he’s there. It could almost be considered infectious, even charismatic, if in a highly incidental and almost dorky, sleepy, casual way.

As the harbinger of fate defied, it may feel at first difficult for even Dirna, his lifemate, to bond with him. Even beyond his dry humor, harsh as a cat’s barbed tongue, and his infused sense of shock-value callous (which you’ll never quite be able to tell if he does on purpose), where so many of her fellow clutchmates will be struggling with the difficulties of enforcing boundaries against the heady allure of their new mindlinks, Dirna may feel as if she has Impressed a stranger. A kind of… crazy one. One that doesn’t seem as fascinated with his new bond or lifemate as many new dragon-rider pairs are. He chose you, you are his lifemate, and so? To him, the Impression part is now over (BORING). Now that he's found you, as far as he's concerned the two of you carry on with your sacred duties of knocking order on its kettle, throwing slinkies down stairs and otherwise tossing into disharmony the soldier rows of circumstantial dominoes. He just expects Dirna to be ready for adventure, has faith in her elasticity, her ability to spring back and does not even try to hide his confidence in her that she will be strong enough to rally.

And that's not even saying anything about the labyrinthine dynamic potential he will have with the rest of the world's population. He’ll could come off easily (and often) as a cacklingly callous bastard, mercenary, flippant, cheeky or even a little awkward and gross with his offhand tendency to offer the occasional TMI or chew with his mouth open. But his reception by any given man or dragon will have little to no impact on his opinions of them at all. Surprisingly, he’d understand Dhioth’s path of the middle ground easily, though possibly not why his bronze brother finds it difficult (even if, consequently, he might then encourage him to question himself.) He'll be able to appreciate equally Cervilaevarth's practical planning and Finmaraisth's sly plotting with an equal affability — or just as easily foil either of his scheming brothers if the fancy strikes him. He will even have the rare ability to absently tolerate Kczyslawborth’s maliciousness in the name of cyclic philosophical or hypothetical conversations. He is, in many senses, just a temporary resident, a drifter, walking the outskirts of common draconic norms.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great

to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

- Walking Around, Pablo Neruda

A watcher and a seeker, a proponent of glorious forward momentum and a saboteur of the mundane and regulated, his own path is one squarely on the fence, but not one of inner strife - is is one of a curious, mercenary alacrity, and even when he is caught in his own struggles there will very likely be a ferocious and gutted appreciation for the challenge.

In spite of difficulties at first in understanding his motivations, Dirna will be an eternal source of entertainment to him from her magpie interest in little details, exacerbating a situation to exaggerating a story and otherwise demonstrating her daily manners (or… just as frequent, her lack thereof.) On a surface level, even without that first tacit understanding of a bond, they will be a fascinating counter to one another. Tindraeth's fingers work a delicate madness to compliment (and complicate) Dirna' s path; the sandpaper-prince to the queen of petty marauding. She will always be in on his plans, his intentions. His humor, too, sardonic as it is.

After your clutch has just been chewed out en mass by your Weyrlingmaster, you might feel the developing pulse of a thoughtful ticking, measuring a timely period of silence before, suddenly:

« Well. Good to know Ligryth's rider isn't completely insane. There still seems to be some bits missing yet. I guess why would you be difficult when, with a bit of effort, you can be completely impossible. » There's no sense of him departing. That was it. Like a cat turd, he just dropped it and wandered off.

It'll be hit or miss whether Dirna might enjoy it or not. But his sense of wit is razor sharp and disarming, and before she gets to know him, Tindraeth's offhand monotone commentary might inspire a grudging laugh from Dirna from across the distance - like a stranger making a snarky comment to you on the bus or in the elevator. It is kind of a breath of fresh air, isn’t it…

The Devil is in the details.

-German proverb

He is not deviled by details. Tindraeth is the devil in the details. He has an amazing eye for the small threads that need to be plucked to unravel the weavings of his existential tapestry. Not because he is a lover of destruction, nor an anarchist, but because chaos is, to him, balance. Things would be boring if there wasn’t that eternal push and pull of life’s contention; just as there needs to be both white and black in the perfect balance of a yin yan, your blue tends only to push for the side that will tip the scale into keeping the balance. But before you start thinking he’s a paragon of order, diligently maintaining the status quo, you might want to know just what his definition of ‘balance’ is.

A single dark feather falls slowly from above, rocking gently with its own see-saw musing until it lands with an abrupt question: « What is the opposite of death? »
» Uh. « You will need to get used to him occasionally springing these questions on you, while you go about your life, whether he's physically present or not. » Life? «
« No. Death is a part of life. Well. Haha. Until it stops. Death is stopping. What is the opposite of stopping? »
» Not… stopping? «
« Noooo. It’s continuing. INFINITY. Balance is the state of a world that has not fallen down and *stopped*. The opposite of death is infinity. And infinity can only keep going if it has *directions* to go. » A pause is taken, a moment of compulsively following the waves of the lake in and out of the sandy beach, until you could almost assume he'd derailed himself. Until he suddenly states bluntly. « Infinity is choice. The nature of balance is the infinity of living choice. Remove all options and there is no choice, there is no movement, balance is lost, the whole thing topples into nothing and thus: Death. » For just a moment, the acrid ticking has reached a hard, painful throbbing, like a needle in your heart. A sense of the passion behind it. And it resounds in rhythmic echoes onward into brooding silence. « Life is choices. »

Such is the balance he maintains. He is not the lawful philanthropist of justice, he’s the devil’s advocate. He’s not the clinical mathematician, he’s the monkey wrench, the prime number that cannot be divided. Balance is options, options are fragments, divergences in a path, divergences in a path is the fraying of a rope - it's a pattern conquered, unwound and then liberated by fire. And so? He contradicts, laughs at what is serious and he mourns what no one cares about. Onset of famine or in the face of personal punishment, he can carry on as always with that blase casualness. The sight of starved Holders grudgingly paying their tithes might get only a callous curiosity in what they brought. But let him come upon the small shattered body of a dead sparrow, unnoticed, fragile and tossed to the side like refuse and you might well find yourself awkwardly touched to see him giving a moment of silence for this tiny thread snipped from the tapestry of life. Quiet and touched by the passing of such a subtle fire.

…except this is Tindraeth. And while touched and reverent, he could also then just as easily follow this up by eating the bird. Because why not, it’s there.

//‘You know the downward spiral is essentially a chain reaction…

A man has a weakness, he's flawed. That flaw leads him to guilt. The guilt leads him to shame. The shame he compensates with pride and vanity. And when pride fails, despair takes over and they all lead to his destruction. It will become his fate.
Something's got to stop the flow.’//

- Jacob the Pathfinder, Ink

There is something fractal to that blue’s logic. It’s repetitive and rhythmic, spiraling in on itself, upside down and backwards until it pushes far into the surreal - and then, suddenly, it make perfect sense. Like an equation caught in an infinity loop. But for how jarring and coarse it can be, for how comfortably shattered and disinterested in trying to please it may feel, there is a sort of ugly aestheticism to the way your dragon functions. He can look a terrible problem in the face and digest it. He can face the impossible, the heart breaking, the tragedy and see it for the turn of course it is and press on long beyond a time when others might give up. He’ll have the rare ability to keep a sort of flighty calm even when you are hurt, and if he finds himself in pain or distress he’ll probably get on your case if you seem to be panicking.

This sort of complex reasoning will also make him a rather brilliant tactician in terms of drills and flight patterns. Expect him to enjoy long conversations with Cervilaevarth on the topic… or just vexing him. It is Tindraeth, after all.

In this way, don’t be surprised if he’ll be capable of falling into authority with a a sort of sideways ease. Tindraeth, in his own way, would actually make a fine, if somewhat unconventional, leader. Not because he has any sort of ambition to lead, but rather simply because he sees where something should go and has no shame in pointing it out.

Dragons may have short-term memories (and truthfully, for Tindraeth’s tendency to live almost entirely in the Now, this is a preferable state regardless), but what your blue has, he uses. He’s the antonym to Cervilaevarth incredible long-term memory, in that his short-term memory is shockingly shrewd, nearly eidetic, photographic, and his subsequent snap-conclusions tend to be remarkably accurate. In a single glance, he can recall for you any minute detail with a sort of off-hand immediacy that can both put a heart-wrenching humanity (to use the world lightly) to something Dirna might personally find dismissible… and then just as easily admit its own irrelevance without even pause between.

“What a complete hussy,” you might grouse of someone that’s just insulted you.
« She had bruises down her arm. » Vague disinterest drops light words as descending black feathers, a dry ticking as of fingers drumming impatiently. « Her eyes were red. She’s probably been crying. »
“…do you think something happened to her?”
« Does it matter? She’s a hussy. »

And it’ll be really hard to tell if he means it, if he’s making fun of you or if he’s making a rather painful point. He won’t try and explain it or push you further; once he’s said something, he rarely repeats it. He’s moved on, leaving poor Dirna to have to puzzle out her conclusions on her own. Tindraeth is her accomplice, lifemate and wingman for a lark. He’ll celebrate with her and really, for how lovely this little puzzle-game is, he’ll get excited in his own flaky, flighty way about the little things that distract Dirna from her own darker thoughts, rather preferring her to be dynamic and part of the cosmic flow. Possibly, he may come to be a friend. But he’s not her teacher and Dirna’s life choices, just as anyone’s life choices are ultimately her own. That’s the whole point of life and he’s not going to micromanage her or try to change her to fit his own designs. Assuming he had any.

In the quiet of the dark, in the middle of the night, for he will get his penchant for night-time activity from his sire, Ysvarth, you will find yourself unable to sleep. Unable to concentrate on much but that is him. Vague memories will haunt you all of your life of that first touch. The twelve soft, thrumming dings that wove through the essence of the egg. In the night’s secret, in the very visceral feel of your heartbeat, you will be reminded of that soft, dinging. Melodic, and yet strong. It is no dainty sound, it isn’t even part of his mindvoice. It is something entirely and utterly different.


On the cusp of your understanding, and of his, will lie the secrets of the world, of your world. When the moons’ light caresses the wide expanse of your ledge, and the shadows stretch into things of another world, of another story, you will find the night settle and with it so will Tindraeth. When there is no force of opposition to spur the desire to counter balance it with his own choices, the inner workings of Tindraeth’s mind will settle like silt at the bottom of a snow globe. When you are left with nothing but silence…

… ding…

… random facts of the day will emerge. Floating up through your memories like a leaf in the wind. It is not the act of Purpose or even Duty, but it is a desire to keep you moving forward. Each step is choreographed that you’re in time with each other, on one end is he, and on the other lies you. Life’s great see saw…

… … ding …

Come what may, it is in this dark of night that you find that the days spoils are reviewed and should you lean towards sullenness and mulishness, it is in the dark of night that the secrets unfold. The reason behind the desire to burn the house down is exposed — and sometimes this is hard. Sometimes, he will be so perfectly balanced against Dirna that all there can be is an impasse.

“I can’t believe R’yst punished us for that. It’s not my fault that I suck at wing drills!” You might complain after having gotten called to task for not entirely watching well your wing formation was when practicing the weyrling wing drills.
Beady dark bird eyes flick to you, silent behind slow, brassy swings of a pendulum. Contrarily, a voice muses flippantly. « Didn’t like that, did you. »
« Really piiiiissed you off. »
“Yeah. Thanks. Shut up.”
« He really just called your ass out. »
Just as it starts to feel like he’s tearing you apart, “Are you gonna rub it in all night?”
« Dirna. » The whispered brush of many thousand black wings hum and throb at the back of your mind, their wings stirring the air and bringing a chaotic, and yet rhythmic cadence to the voice, « It doesn’t matter. Even the stars flicker at night. I might have a crappy memory but you’re not gonna remember this forever either. »

On and on, from your first love, to your first wingrider’s duty to your first flight and beyond, it is the dark of night that secrets will be laid bare. From your soul to his, and while he may often take the opposite stance to counter balance your own, his drive is to push Dirna forward, marching against the beat of his life rhythms so that were you to look back, if you had left foot prints, the pattern would be random, chaotic, and yet musical. Every hitch is followed by a higher bar than before.

… … … ding.

In this way, even your life is ever moving forward, ever musical, and never predictable.


At Tindraeth’s core is the essence of rhythm. It’s the heartbeat, the pulse, the blossoming of heat, life and passion and this will be especially true during flights.

From that first moment of synchronized blooding, first by the green then by her suitors, when that heady pulse strikes both female and the males alike, he will find himself drawn to them. Without even knowing it, this blue will form a subconscious plan; the vision of dragons all flying in tandem not by logic but by the visceral pulse of lifeblood instinct will sear the flow of organic motion into a true visual tapestry and he may very well be drawn into it more to complicate the equation than to catch the green… though he will want her, as well. Oh yes - she will be the cherry on top of a delicious orchestral sundae.

Very similar to certain conducting patterns, Tindraeth will adjust his trajectory based on the lady in question and her chasers; he may very well join a flight because he feels like screwing with one of the males, in fact - or playing with them. Or teasing them. He is a very versatile dragon, after all, and this is a glorious machine to get his little fingers into - let the maestro take the stand! Another chaser joined? Add another beat! The female is picking up speed? Adjust the pitch of his croons. Always dead center of his measure is the staccato, accented notes that complete his musical score, unraveling reality into into its natural musical flow. If he doesn’t catch the female the first time, it is time to revise the score. Da capo! From the beginning! Take a few measures to rest and try again. His short term memory won’t leave him to sulking, there’s always more work to do.

He’ll be alarmingly good natured about losing as well - that was fun on its own after all! Unfortunately, his heady draconic lust does not fade just because he’s not mad about it. If anything, expect both his and your own subsequent arousal to last for quite a long time because all that throbbing…

Well. That’s Tindraeth all over.



* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

…or at least, that’s how we were interpreting it! Any and all aspects of this inspiration are entirely yours to take and and use as you see fit - or do something else entirely! What it all comes down to, Dirna, is that we adore you, want you to have fun with Tindraeth and continue to let us watch you learn, grow, do a little dance and then break the universe as you’ve been doing all along.


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

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

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