A wash of grey and green rhapsodises upon rounded curves, whorls of sea-shaded colour braising to a mellifluous finish in the tumultuous ocean of smooth hide. Tentacles of darkened absinth twist in caliginous trellises from the watered emerald of her angular head, down neckridges buttressed in hapless strains of blue-green. Salty washes of brine collect in gleaming pools about flanks, silvered spray leaping from the stormy hold to gather flecks of brilliance down tail's forked tip. A flash of midnight, like a tropical fish, carouses pinions, bursting to aqueous seafoam by mainsail's form, galvanised into the darker stretches holding to tips, in conjunction with her sets of deepest green talons, unflecked by starlight above this billowy sea.
Egg Name and Description
As dark as can be — like a depressing day,
Tourmaline hides deep beneath indigo spray.
Azure sinks deeper, midnight's hold cursed:
Blue days do happen, so prepare for the worst.
Shuddering in revulsion, almost lost amid the dark sand covering Llysereth has placed so carefully, the Dark Egg, as if intaking breath, all but implodes. Dark shell falls into disrepair, marked only by the advent of a stormy sea to take place of a stormy day, as the Tumultuous Shallows Green Hatchling finds her place upon the sands.
As if someone giggling, high pitched and radiant, deep into your mind, a feeling of belonging grows within, trellising mirth to soul's climax, sparked with a silver wash that holds no bounds. Rocking even your physical form, this new presence stretches out to greet you, singing joy to a close-bound connection, as your lifemate, at last, finds her home. « Orianna! Is this not fun? Ooh, don't you have a perfectly vile outfit on; we'll have to make it over, won't we? But there's food, waiting. Cold meat, I bet, if we hurry. » Headless of everything, Lynaeth — for who else could she be? — nudges her head against you, echoing, « Hurry! »
There's a single word that can sum up Lynaeth in all her glory, and that word is 'shallow'. Perhaps, as she gets older, the male dragons might call her 'beautiful', 'charming', or 'sweet', but when it comes down to her real self, 'shallow' is the word. From the beginning, she's larger than her green clutchmates; larger, even, than one or two of the blues within her clutch, and she continues to hold that place throughout her life — she's big, and she likes that. But whatever merits that gives her, nothing can disguise the fact that there's hardly two words to string together within that mind of hers, and, what's more, she's perfectly happy to be like that.
There's a certain scorn that Lynaeth holds for her more studious clutchmates, not just because she can't understand anyone's fascination with anything but gaiety and joy. She and Estrelath may well compete with each other over many things, not merely because both believe themselves to be the most beautiful, and the most likeable. Like her sibling, Lynaeth will learn to flirt from a very early age, and even before she's old enough to rise to mate, she'll have more than her fair share of male dragons wrapped about her little finger, as it were.
Lynaeth adores flight, even just for her own amusement, rather than for mating, or any such purpose; she loves being free to move, to soar, and to show off her graceful demeanour — in fact, drills will be her most favourite activity, when flying in formation is required. Speed is not Lynaeth's delight, however, for she would much rather fly low and close, although there is a certain frivolous movement to her, which belies the slow, seriousness of this flight.
Arguing over anything is a worthwhile occupation of Lynaeth's, for she believes it necessary to remind others — people and dragons — that she has an opinion, at least on matters of clothing, dress and activity. She adores games, for she shares Estrelath's competitive streak, and is liable to get loud as she plays. There's a force to her personality that refuses to let her be overlooked: should another green, or even gold, be proddy, she'll be likely, as she gets older, to try and steal away their admirers, occasionally going to the extent of getting proddy herself.
She has a way with whining, however, and her vacuous nature makes it all the more pouty, which can be difficult to handle. She may, at first, attempt to get her dam alongside her in this advents of childish distaste, but Llysereth's naive gullibility will make this particular feat impossible, and Lynaeth will attempt to discover other avenues. Her shrill cries will be well audible about the weyr, in these moods, as she attempts to convince all others to bow to her will: « Tell Estrelath that she may not keep those straps. She's too plain for them to look good about her. Give them to me! » No matter that Lynaeth is far larger than her sibling: this will be one rivalry that Lynaeth will refuse to give up.
Lynaeth is no crafter of words, nor thoughts, so her own expression upon the subject is vague. Nonetheless, there's a certain rightness, which she must have felt, discovering Orianna as her one and only, the only possible candidate upon Ista's sands. Orianna has some of the calm which she has not, perhaps some of the sensibility that might be required — but Lynaeth is everything and more; she's the only possibility. After all, what more could anyone one?
Alas, Lynaeth will always be a child, in many ways, and her growing up will be diffident and abrupt. Her insistence to view everything from what it appears, rather than anything deeper, will but continue, from her earliest days until her last, for she's not intelligent creature, no real wit, either. Indeed, Lynaeth will see life with no more levels from one point in her life to the next; she's no judge of character, of intent, of interest.
Lynaeth is not lazy, like Estrelath, but she's not the perfect athlete, either. She dislikes moving about on the ground, so ground drills with be distinctly disliked, and while it's nice to have you mounted on her, unless you're flying, she's not really enjoying the occasion. That being said, Lynaeth certainly doesn't mind moving from the barracks into the bowl, and conversing with everyone, rather than just her clutchmates. She'll be one of the first to engage in conversation with the weyr, even while still confined in the barracks, and having discovered this outlet, will use it to abuse.
Hunting will not be such a wonderful experience, as far as Lynaeth is concerned; she rather likes being waited on, with Orianna providing her meals, and having to do it for herself will be a shock to the system, at least at first. In fact, she prefers to have others wait on her as much as possible — it isn't laziness, it's merely a belief in her own level in society; she's worth it. Or so she believes. She'll get used to hunting, eventually, and by the time she's forgotten she ever did anything else, she'll be quite proficient — she's graceful, and it shows; she hardly makes any mess at all, in her killing.
Lynaeth has no sense of right and wrong — she never takes anything in to consideration before she plunges ahead, and even Orianna's influence is likely to make little difference to her. This becomes all the more obvious as Lynaeth becomes proddy, especially for the first time, for her occasionally acerbic tongue will become moreso, her flirting moreso—she'll do nothing by halves, when that time comes around, and nor will she be swayed by any words. Her flight, when it comes, will be high and acrobatic, but Lynaeth delights in being caught, and thus, it will be unlikely to be long.
A high soprano, Lynaeth's voice has a perpetual giggle to it, manifest through her physical, light trills, and her mental rhapsodies of colour and sound. She tends towards blindingly cheerful, cloying scents and colours, like lavender, frangipanni and rose. Pink is her favourite, followed closely, and usually in conjunction with, purple; they clash, but she doesn't seem to mind. In her whiny moods, or when she's dressing down another, she'll go pinker and prettier, her voice higher still. Proddiness brings another, deeper level to her voice — she uses imagery, far more scent, a certain knowingness that otherwise disappears into the glassy temperance of her touch.
Lynaeth is based on Lydia Bennet
|Name||Tumultuous Shallows Green Lynaeth|
|Created By||Lymera, Lydiere, and Ly'ette|
|Hatched||13 October 2001|