MORRGAN
"Hello," he says, voice rich and deep, like his skin -- dark and smooth. "You're the harper. Good. Come on in."
You enter his weyr, careful of the many leather tack and doo-dads that are scattered around.
"Sorry, normally it is not this messy in here... I was looking for... something," he says, rooting around further. "Ah! Here it is."
He holds up a long, flat strip of dark green leather, apparently a sinch strap for a runner. At that size... the runner must be as barrel chested as the man!
"Would you like to come see? I'm fitting Lightning with his fine tack today. It's probably the last time, but he's being put to stud after this show."
He leads you down outside, his weyr opens directly to a small path, since it is not very high off the ground over the lower caverns. There on the grounds, are a number of extremely beautiful steeds!
"No one told me that the runners were having a show today," you mutter, and he laughs.
"Well, you've got a more importand job, don't you?" He smiles broadly, and leads you to the stables, where Lightning is kept. The runner is simply gigantic. And though you'd think his name is because he's quick or something... It is because he has markings on his deep black coat, in white, of what looks like a big bolt of lightning! Probably one of the most dramatically colored runners you've ever seen! You remain at the edge of the stable door, watching as Morrgan puts on the nice tack. The deep green color works perfectly with the rest of his fur, and he leads the stallion out into the daylight where his black and white fur glistens.
"That's one fine steed," you mutter again.
You watch as Morrgan leads Lightning around the weyr grounds, riding with ease and talent. The other riders are almost cowed by the sight of this beast: Lightning is almost as tall at the shoulder as his rider's! More than eighteen hands high at that! Finally, though there are other competitors, all eyes are on Lightning. The runner is simply beautiful, and wins the award which is given out that day.
Along with a number of others you watch the cerimony, and applaud when it is time. Sweat glistening on Morrgan's brow from the heat of the day, his broad smile indicates to you that he loves the work that goes into this process and surely he will make a great dragon rider! If he cares this much for a runner, whose mind is closed to all people, a dragon would get some superb care!
"Now, I suppose I ought to get out of these clothes, and bathe before we talk," he tells you, but you shake your head.
"I can take notes as we walk, if you want to just bathe in a moment. How old are you, and who are your parents?"
"I'm 19 turns old, my parents are B'rrin of bronze Hudeth, and Grema of gold Shermth. I was fostered by Journeyman Beast crafters Haris and Kyloa, you can see them there, down in the stables most days. I was searched last turn, but the eggs ... didn't turn out the way the weyr hoped."
"Ah, that clutch by the green?"
He nods. "It was a good clutch for greens and blues, but there were no stronger dragons in it than the dam and sire. So I stayed along, once a candidate I suppose, always a candidate."
"So you expect to impress bronze or brown?"
He looks at you with a kind of half grin, "of course I do. But that's beside the point. If I wished hard enough I still wouldn't be riding. It doesn't take wishing or wanting, to be a rider. It takes guts and soul, and I think it takes hope. And practice." He tosses his favorite green strap over his shoulder, and walks into the weyr again.
Over 19 turns old (by almost half a turn)
Stands 6'6" at least, and his shoulders are very strong, he's a barrel of a man
His skin is very dark, shiny and well kept, his hair is black and kept in sort of dreadlocks which he keeps tied back behind his head with a white strap; his eyes are deep brown, a different shade than his skin
He wears working clothes nearly all the time, and while he looks great in formal wear, he seems uncomfortable with them
Morrgan packed away his bag. The search rider had been and gone, and only the slightest nod his way was needed. Beka, rider of blue Reth, smiled at him and he knew that the dragon could tell he had already been searched before. Just not for such a great weyr as Talor!
A pang of anxiety struck the large man. What about the runners? Well, he'd been searched so they were just going to have to be tended by someone else. He knew that, from the start. It was just like a formality that he actually would have to leave them behind.
He had to remind himself that the runners might be too tempting for food items for the dragons! So different than looking at them and seeing a prize runner or a beautiful status symbol.
Smirking to himself, he bid the others farewell, and headed off to the weyr. This would be perhaps his only chance to prove his worth to the world. He would impress this time, he had to.
He didn't like remembering it. It was quite painful. But then, as the eggs here began to break open, the excitement of the hatching took over the dark skinned man. He watched as the first of many candidates threw their arms around their new impressed dragon's neck. It was so wonderful he thought he might run and hide...
Then, after a lull... one of the queen eggs started to break. It dramatically found a girl to attach to, and that settled a lot of bets going on among the stands. Morrgan would have liked to have been in on some of those, but he...
Looked into a whirl of red and blue. Eyes with skin that nearly matched his own in brown around them.
Suddenly, a voice came into Morrgan's head.
You are my friend! M'rgan, did I surprise you? I like surprises! I think. I know I like to eat. What is eating? Have you ever eaten? How do you do it? I am Roketh! Do you like me?
"Roketh!" M'rgan said, and added his triumphant laugh to the cheering in the stands.
He grinned. The weyrling master was positively petrified to learn that their camping trip wound up being the first real Fall for his students, but they had gone out prepared, just in case! And they came back vetrans! With only one of them getting scored, and that only a little, they could all claim victory over Thread, and over the fear of it that usually distressed weyrlings so much that some never came back from between.
