Post by Briahg on Jul 18, 2010 5:50:54 GMT -8
Name: Brogan
Age: 41
Gender and sexuality: Male, Heterosexual
Family: Son; Brok
Weyrmate: N/A
Wing: N/A
Rank: Wherhandler, Journeyman Blacksmith
Appearance:
Brogan is what you would consider "rugged". His looks are those that have been carved out of weathered stone, and often appear so stoic that when he does actually smile, he tends to 'crack' one. His skin would likely be ruddy were it not for the soot and metal that have worked their way into his pours. Instead, he constantly appears gritty and gray, especially in places where sweat beads, on his forehead and arms for instance. The left side of his face and body have been disfigured; appearing as a mass scar that makes one of his green eyes appear somewhat opaque. His hair is unconventional for most men, but unlike his skin, it's very well tended to. It's a deep russet, a little long in the back but kept neat by a thick braid. So, too, is his beard braided. Two heavy plaits that end at mid-chest length.
His attire is the sort for work, and is hardly made for fashion. While not a fat man, Brogan is certainly girthy, and broad of shoulder; quite tall, as well. An off-white and often smudged tunic of medium gray sits belted over his upper body, accompanied by a well broken-in pair of breeks crafted from various hides. His boots are sturdy, and his belt boasts many tools of his trade, including a rather large hammer that has, like the rest of him, likely seen better days.
Personality:
You'd expect a large man to be either jolly or pompous. Brogan is neither. An unsmiling face is what greets the outside world when anyone new comes across this gargantuan man. His is a no-nonsense style of life, and he prefers to keep to himself. Married to his work as he is, it's no wonder he doesn't have many friends, and if you ask him, he'll announce (loudly) that he LIKES IT THAT WAY!
He has little tenderness in him, and what of it does manifest is reserved for animals, and occasionally his son. Brogan is a drinker; when in his cups, he tends to be more relaxed, but his iron grip on his temper is also a wee bit looser under the influence.
History:
Were one to judge this man and his past by the world map of lines on his face, they may find them self spending a decade trying to successfully navigate. Wrinkles aplenty have furrowed their way into Brogan's face, and many of them are far from recent.
His family were hard workers. For generations, starting with his great grandfather, they were the sootdogs of the Blacksmithing profession; following old schematics and sticking to the letter of pre-defined and prooven successes. Until his father, at least. Brogan's father moved away from the traditional set of smithing and began developing newer, more versatile designs for his metalwork. It caused a bit of an uproar with the older, experienced smiths, and for many turns, Brogan's family were looked down upon as rabble-rousers and upstarts. Until their work was being noticed by ranking members of the Hold. It took a few more turns for Brogan's father to perfect his designs and consistently prove them sound and workable, but the long hours he spent in the middle of the night eventually paid off. Metal that could contain and even generate energy sources from heat and water. By no means the first man to do this, Bronan was the first that his Hold had seen, and that made the novelty of it rather intriguing.
Brogan spent his early years ferrying tools and supplies to the elder smiths. Building his body up to be proper for heavy smithery, as did his forefathers. He learned the basics early, and by the time he was in his mid teens, he was already working alongside his father, furthering and developing the 'new' smithing that the Hold had been pioneering. Bronan took ill during the winter of Brogan's seventeenth turn, and it was left to the son to make sure work continued as it was meant to. A daunting task for any young man, but Brogan proved able, and continued the work while his father's health declined. A turn later, shortly after Brogan took a wife, his father passed away. Many in the Hold mourned his passing, for a while, but as the years progressed, those quieted by the Holderfolk's demand for 'new smithing' began to convene in secret. Shamed by their resistance to change, they soon sought to discredit the young Brogan in an attempt to regain their status as crafters.
An 'accident' was arranged against Brogan, one meant to put a halt in his productivity. Driven by jealousy, the older smiths set fire to Brogan's family forge, and the adjacent house Brogan had made for his bride. His bride safe, Brogan went back in to rescue some of his family's heirlooms. By that point, the structure had been so weakened that the beams were beginning to crumble. One foot out the door, the roof caved on top of Brogan, trapping him halfway in the blaze. Realizing their plan to set him back may actually take his life, the arsonists raced in and helped remove Brogan before the rest of the house toppled upon him. The damage had been done, however, and Brogan's crafting would be changed from that day forward. Heavy burns on the left side of his body would take turns to recover from, and with the last two fingers on his left hand missing, he would not be as steady in the hands as he once was. Stubborn as he was, however, Brogan returned to the craft a turn later. Very slowly, however. Instead of taking to his own forge, he went to work for a neighboring smith. Having it all and then losing it to accident. It was likely at that point where Brogan began to nurse a bitter stone in his soul.
At the age of twenty-one turns, the Hold was visited by a pack of migrating Wherhandlers, on their way to a neighboring Weyr. The Hold hadn't had a Wher in many turns, and the Handlers decided to gift the Holders with a pair of eggs. Security measures, they had said. Whers were apparently good guard dogs.
When the eggs began to buck and pitch, many of the men gathered around with meat. Brogan, among them, had a mug of ale in one hand and a piece of dried meat in the other.. Which he was eating from. He had intended only to watch, and got his wish. The first egg split and delivered a small, creeling green. So awkward on its feet, the green stumbled for several moments and collided with the other egg, causing it to shift and break. Ambling awkwardly forward, the green staggered into a patch of men and, mistaking an arm for food, latched onto one of the kitchenboys and began draining his blood. The bond made, many of the other men began pulling the beast off of the boy, lest he be sucked dry. During the ruckus, the second egg burst open and the green's much larger bronze sibling began his search. Brogan was watching the calamity of the green with mirth when a large nose dropped into his mug and began INHALING his ale. Startled, the man turned, fixed on yelling at the sorry sod that was after his drink--and came up short. Big, ugly eyes stared at him, ravenous, over the top of the mug before removing its dripping maw and attaching it to the man's left hand where the jerky was, and where his mangled flesh had healed. Blood and jerky moving over the beast's tongue, the large bronze slammed into Brogan's mind like a hammer on metal and stated, firmly, ~Brogask.~
Yet another turning point in the man's life, and this one was both blessing and curse. He was given new duties, on top of aiding the senior smith. His sleep schedule went completely backward to accommodate the gnarled beast that bonded itself to him, much to the dismay of Brogan's wife. Despite the inconveniences, Brogan took his duties seriously, and even prevented a few unpleasantries from happening to the hold, here and there.
Near the middle of Brogan's thirty-turns, his wife gave birth to a son. Shortly after the birth, she took ill and succumbed to a deep sleep before passing away. Brok, their son was named. While still in his infancy, the boy and his father transferred from the Hold to the Weyr where, Brogan had heard, children were more likely to be raised communally and received better educations and opportunities. The transfer approved, Brogan, Bronze, and tiny son moved.
Now in the early start of his forties, Brogan continues his work as a Wherhandler and a smith, performing minor repairs that are needed in the Weyr, along with participating in his son's learning.
Pets: Canine, name unknown but often referred to as 'mutt, dirtheap, soggy cloth, good for nothing'.
Dragon/Wher name: Brogask
Dragon/wher age: 20
Dragon/wher color: Bronze
Dragon/wher appearance:
All whers are ugly. If this single truth is abundantly clear in any other Wher, it's more than pushed to the limit with Brogask. Hideous may actually be an appropriate word for the gnarled Bronze, in this case. Large for a wher, Brogask's build is marred by several odd growths that seem to shape him in an unpleasant manner. A 'hump' of sorts sits at the back of the wher's neck, against his shoulders. This forces his head and neck down into a permanent, almost vulture-like hunch. His hide would actually be stunning, were it not so gnarled and twisted in places. In some areas it seems there is too much hide, and others, not enough. Like it were stretched too tightly over the unseemly bulges of muscle and flesh. One useless wing is larger than the other, but is thankfully balanced out by the fact that the foreleg on the lesser wing's side is thicker and longer than the other. His running is fast, powerful, but unsightly. The lower jaw is slightly crooked, and his bottom teeth are exposed in what would be an ugly grimace were it not for the upward curl to his lip. Instead, it comes across as a rather unsettling 'grin'.
Dragon/wher personality:
Brogask is very single minded. What Brogan says, goes, and he knows his duty down to the piping of his bone and ichor. Brogask relishes in simple tasks and activities, and does not enjoy complex instruction. 'Go eat that thing' is more favorable to the Wher's limited mind than 'Go retrieve THIS thing from THIS person and take it to THIS location'. The latter has ended horribly on more than one occasion, and Brogask simply doesn't understand why on earth he gets reprimanded for doing what he was told! By no means an intellectual giant, Brogask is very aware that he is a bronze, and a large one at that. Among whers, he asserts his dominance where need be and tends to suffer when surrounded by too many. Way too many directions to snarl in at once.~Brogask not like.~ He tolerates people. Unless they are well known to his bonded and his bonded's offspring, Brogask regards most newcomers with heavy suspicion.
Age: 41
Gender and sexuality: Male, Heterosexual
Family: Son; Brok
Weyrmate: N/A
Wing: N/A
Rank: Wherhandler, Journeyman Blacksmith
Appearance:
Brogan is what you would consider "rugged". His looks are those that have been carved out of weathered stone, and often appear so stoic that when he does actually smile, he tends to 'crack' one. His skin would likely be ruddy were it not for the soot and metal that have worked their way into his pours. Instead, he constantly appears gritty and gray, especially in places where sweat beads, on his forehead and arms for instance. The left side of his face and body have been disfigured; appearing as a mass scar that makes one of his green eyes appear somewhat opaque. His hair is unconventional for most men, but unlike his skin, it's very well tended to. It's a deep russet, a little long in the back but kept neat by a thick braid. So, too, is his beard braided. Two heavy plaits that end at mid-chest length.
His attire is the sort for work, and is hardly made for fashion. While not a fat man, Brogan is certainly girthy, and broad of shoulder; quite tall, as well. An off-white and often smudged tunic of medium gray sits belted over his upper body, accompanied by a well broken-in pair of breeks crafted from various hides. His boots are sturdy, and his belt boasts many tools of his trade, including a rather large hammer that has, like the rest of him, likely seen better days.
Personality:
You'd expect a large man to be either jolly or pompous. Brogan is neither. An unsmiling face is what greets the outside world when anyone new comes across this gargantuan man. His is a no-nonsense style of life, and he prefers to keep to himself. Married to his work as he is, it's no wonder he doesn't have many friends, and if you ask him, he'll announce (loudly) that he LIKES IT THAT WAY!
He has little tenderness in him, and what of it does manifest is reserved for animals, and occasionally his son. Brogan is a drinker; when in his cups, he tends to be more relaxed, but his iron grip on his temper is also a wee bit looser under the influence.
History:
Were one to judge this man and his past by the world map of lines on his face, they may find them self spending a decade trying to successfully navigate. Wrinkles aplenty have furrowed their way into Brogan's face, and many of them are far from recent.
His family were hard workers. For generations, starting with his great grandfather, they were the sootdogs of the Blacksmithing profession; following old schematics and sticking to the letter of pre-defined and prooven successes. Until his father, at least. Brogan's father moved away from the traditional set of smithing and began developing newer, more versatile designs for his metalwork. It caused a bit of an uproar with the older, experienced smiths, and for many turns, Brogan's family were looked down upon as rabble-rousers and upstarts. Until their work was being noticed by ranking members of the Hold. It took a few more turns for Brogan's father to perfect his designs and consistently prove them sound and workable, but the long hours he spent in the middle of the night eventually paid off. Metal that could contain and even generate energy sources from heat and water. By no means the first man to do this, Bronan was the first that his Hold had seen, and that made the novelty of it rather intriguing.
Brogan spent his early years ferrying tools and supplies to the elder smiths. Building his body up to be proper for heavy smithery, as did his forefathers. He learned the basics early, and by the time he was in his mid teens, he was already working alongside his father, furthering and developing the 'new' smithing that the Hold had been pioneering. Bronan took ill during the winter of Brogan's seventeenth turn, and it was left to the son to make sure work continued as it was meant to. A daunting task for any young man, but Brogan proved able, and continued the work while his father's health declined. A turn later, shortly after Brogan took a wife, his father passed away. Many in the Hold mourned his passing, for a while, but as the years progressed, those quieted by the Holderfolk's demand for 'new smithing' began to convene in secret. Shamed by their resistance to change, they soon sought to discredit the young Brogan in an attempt to regain their status as crafters.
An 'accident' was arranged against Brogan, one meant to put a halt in his productivity. Driven by jealousy, the older smiths set fire to Brogan's family forge, and the adjacent house Brogan had made for his bride. His bride safe, Brogan went back in to rescue some of his family's heirlooms. By that point, the structure had been so weakened that the beams were beginning to crumble. One foot out the door, the roof caved on top of Brogan, trapping him halfway in the blaze. Realizing their plan to set him back may actually take his life, the arsonists raced in and helped remove Brogan before the rest of the house toppled upon him. The damage had been done, however, and Brogan's crafting would be changed from that day forward. Heavy burns on the left side of his body would take turns to recover from, and with the last two fingers on his left hand missing, he would not be as steady in the hands as he once was. Stubborn as he was, however, Brogan returned to the craft a turn later. Very slowly, however. Instead of taking to his own forge, he went to work for a neighboring smith. Having it all and then losing it to accident. It was likely at that point where Brogan began to nurse a bitter stone in his soul.
At the age of twenty-one turns, the Hold was visited by a pack of migrating Wherhandlers, on their way to a neighboring Weyr. The Hold hadn't had a Wher in many turns, and the Handlers decided to gift the Holders with a pair of eggs. Security measures, they had said. Whers were apparently good guard dogs.
When the eggs began to buck and pitch, many of the men gathered around with meat. Brogan, among them, had a mug of ale in one hand and a piece of dried meat in the other.. Which he was eating from. He had intended only to watch, and got his wish. The first egg split and delivered a small, creeling green. So awkward on its feet, the green stumbled for several moments and collided with the other egg, causing it to shift and break. Ambling awkwardly forward, the green staggered into a patch of men and, mistaking an arm for food, latched onto one of the kitchenboys and began draining his blood. The bond made, many of the other men began pulling the beast off of the boy, lest he be sucked dry. During the ruckus, the second egg burst open and the green's much larger bronze sibling began his search. Brogan was watching the calamity of the green with mirth when a large nose dropped into his mug and began INHALING his ale. Startled, the man turned, fixed on yelling at the sorry sod that was after his drink--and came up short. Big, ugly eyes stared at him, ravenous, over the top of the mug before removing its dripping maw and attaching it to the man's left hand where the jerky was, and where his mangled flesh had healed. Blood and jerky moving over the beast's tongue, the large bronze slammed into Brogan's mind like a hammer on metal and stated, firmly, ~Brogask.~
Yet another turning point in the man's life, and this one was both blessing and curse. He was given new duties, on top of aiding the senior smith. His sleep schedule went completely backward to accommodate the gnarled beast that bonded itself to him, much to the dismay of Brogan's wife. Despite the inconveniences, Brogan took his duties seriously, and even prevented a few unpleasantries from happening to the hold, here and there.
Near the middle of Brogan's thirty-turns, his wife gave birth to a son. Shortly after the birth, she took ill and succumbed to a deep sleep before passing away. Brok, their son was named. While still in his infancy, the boy and his father transferred from the Hold to the Weyr where, Brogan had heard, children were more likely to be raised communally and received better educations and opportunities. The transfer approved, Brogan, Bronze, and tiny son moved.
Now in the early start of his forties, Brogan continues his work as a Wherhandler and a smith, performing minor repairs that are needed in the Weyr, along with participating in his son's learning.
Pets: Canine, name unknown but often referred to as 'mutt, dirtheap, soggy cloth, good for nothing'.
Dragon/Wher name: Brogask
Dragon/wher age: 20
Dragon/wher color: Bronze
Dragon/wher appearance:
All whers are ugly. If this single truth is abundantly clear in any other Wher, it's more than pushed to the limit with Brogask. Hideous may actually be an appropriate word for the gnarled Bronze, in this case. Large for a wher, Brogask's build is marred by several odd growths that seem to shape him in an unpleasant manner. A 'hump' of sorts sits at the back of the wher's neck, against his shoulders. This forces his head and neck down into a permanent, almost vulture-like hunch. His hide would actually be stunning, were it not so gnarled and twisted in places. In some areas it seems there is too much hide, and others, not enough. Like it were stretched too tightly over the unseemly bulges of muscle and flesh. One useless wing is larger than the other, but is thankfully balanced out by the fact that the foreleg on the lesser wing's side is thicker and longer than the other. His running is fast, powerful, but unsightly. The lower jaw is slightly crooked, and his bottom teeth are exposed in what would be an ugly grimace were it not for the upward curl to his lip. Instead, it comes across as a rather unsettling 'grin'.
Dragon/wher personality:
Brogask is very single minded. What Brogan says, goes, and he knows his duty down to the piping of his bone and ichor. Brogask relishes in simple tasks and activities, and does not enjoy complex instruction. 'Go eat that thing' is more favorable to the Wher's limited mind than 'Go retrieve THIS thing from THIS person and take it to THIS location'. The latter has ended horribly on more than one occasion, and Brogask simply doesn't understand why on earth he gets reprimanded for doing what he was told! By no means an intellectual giant, Brogask is very aware that he is a bronze, and a large one at that. Among whers, he asserts his dominance where need be and tends to suffer when surrounded by too many. Way too many directions to snarl in at once.~Brogask not like.~ He tolerates people. Unless they are well known to his bonded and his bonded's offspring, Brogask regards most newcomers with heavy suspicion.
