Character Type: Dragonrider
Rank: Wingrider
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual


It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that Alavelle might just be one of /the/ most wholesome looking women currently walking Pern: her fresh-faced good looks, the shy smile that coyly flirts with her pretty mouth, the way her strikingly light hazel-green eyes avoid locking gazes for long. Her hair, a light wheaten blond, falls around her shoulders with a hint of soft wave, and when she ties it up, it's usually with a ribbon, and there's usually a tiny bow involved. She is surely attractive, maybe even a stunner to some people’s reckoning, but Alavelle utterly lacks the quality that immediately associates her slender frame and sweet face as an object of lust or desire. One would sooner pant after a small fluffy kitten.

She is obviously about the furthest thing from what most picture a woman riding a blue dragon to be. She absolutely offends bitterly-held cliches and stereotypes. Alavelle is only 5’5” and trim, far from the mannish hulk /some/ at the Holds would like you to believe. Even the three threadscores she’s caught during her time as a rider are hidden beneath her clothes, one at the indentation of her waist, and the other high up on her thigh. She is as sweet and demure and overtly feminine as any lady holder.

Alavelle certainly carries herself with the awareness that she’s something she shouldn’t be. She doesn’t quite cower, but she takes up as little space as possible, and avoids drawing attention to herself. Her steps are light, and she would step out of the way to let even a candidate pass in a crowded corridor, never making a move to force her presence on anyone else.


Alavelle faces the world with wide eyes and hands wrung together or twisting through the fronts of her shirts. She is an innocent in almost all senses, and the big wide world and all the terrors faced in it steal her breath away and tighten her chest. She doesn't try to hide it, deny it, or play it off with a manly go-getter attitude. She is absolutely vulnerable to it, leaving herself entirely open, and usually, by the end, utterly wrecked.

It's the fawn-eyed innocence of a child, and it's coupled with an upbringing that taught her that girls shouldn't take up too much room, shouldn't demand attention, and shouldn't offend men by forcing them to notice their presence. So it's not enough that she's sweet, she's also demure, and soft-voiced. She's guileless, and also gracious and accommodating and quick in general to do anything that might make another person happy, or keep them from being /unhappy/.

She's gentle, excruciatingly well-mannered and always the first to apologize should something go wrong, and then the first to jump to trying to fix the problem or clean the mess, even when her status (such as it is) holds her above such things. Alavelle is utterly inoffensive, except that in many way she is inexpressibly offensive, for having survived Threadfall when so many far more useful, stronger, better /Istans/ didn't. She is a let down, and an assault to their senses, something to rage at simply for having the temerity to exist in the same shared space as the native Istans. And Alavelle will apologize for it for the rest of her life, and never stop working to right that one unforgivable wrong.

Tender-hearted, she takes it completely personally. She doesn't know how to reason that it's not specifically /her/ some people have a problem with, but the /idea/. As far as Alavelle can see, it really is that SHE is an awful person who did an awful thing, and she is so, so sorry to have upset everyone. She can't stop herself from feeling these things so strongly; she worries for her wingmates every time they fly a Fall or a rescue; she aches to see her peers beaten down by tragedy and the seething tempest of current Istan politics.

And yet, for all the cruelty she's endured and witnessed, she /still/ hopes, and she still loves.


Alavelle was the result of a brief entanglement between her rider father, V’kairel, and her staffer mother, Halana. She was her father’s firstborn, but not her mother’s, so when she was placed in the creche until she could be fostered, it was V’kairel who was far more prone to looking in on her. Even when she gained a fostermother in Headwoman Liavall, the dragonrider remained a dependable fixture in her life — oftentimes to Liavall’s dismay.

Liavall was an exceptionally stubborn woman and constantly impressed upon Alavelle that women didn’t have to be subservient to men, and certainly didn’t have to bow and scrape to the riders. Of course, Alavelle was /born/ demure and soft-spoken, and all the other things Liavall believed women were unfairly pressured into being, so it tended to be an uphill battle of frustration and misunderstanding. It hardly helped that as Alavelle grew older and had more free time on her hands, she sought out her father far more often (read: ever at all, basically) than Liavall thought appropriate, /especially/ when V’kairel was such a… colorful influence. But then, the dragonrider never seemed to mind; to the contrary, actually seemed charmed by his daughter’s involvement in his life. Liavall had very strong opinions about certain kinds of riders, and how they took advantage of the lower caverns staff, and though she was far from /hating/ them, she worried about Alavelle becoming another one of those girls — sweet, sensitive Alavelle, wined and dined and left behind once the rider had had his fun.

To that end she pushed Alavelle toward a craft, knowing her smart girl was more than capable, and hoping the focus demanded of apprentices would keep her out of trouble. Alavelle dabbled in this and that until she began to receive praise for her knack for tinkering and fixing broken odds and ends around the lower caverns. It was only natural that Alavelle eventually attracted the notice of the Weyr’s compliment of smiths, and only to be expected that she would take to the idea of becoming one of them when it was suggested. It was the very definition of being useful and helping!

She took to the craft like she was born to do it, as odd a picture as she made in the smithy. The other smiths doted on her, though they’d deny it to their dying breaths, but hardly anyone could blame them when she was so good at her work, and was such a ray of sunshine in their workplace, her with her sweet smiles and her little apron tied on with a cheerful bow. She became a fixture, eventually counted on to take most of the requests and orders from the weyrfolk because she had a way of dealing with the unreasonable demands and turning them around so that the workload and time frames were doable for the smiths, but still satisfactory to the customers.

As she came into her own, she began attracting a decent number of suitors, most of them crafters or riders who had come from the holds, as she seemed to remind many of them of home. It was a shame, though, that Alavelle typically remained oblivious to their interest if it wasn’t outright stated. But it was never quite as tragic as with the young bluerider who had apparently fallen head over heels for her, but in his awkward shyness never knew how to make it plain — his gestures of affection were taken for friendliness, even his hard-worked-for gift of a firelizard egg was hugely appreciated, but assumed to be a token of deep abiding friendship. The poor young man received no help from V’kairel, who he’d taken to trying to impress in hopes that the older man might put in an encouraging word for him, and so he pined and fumbled away.

She was just about to walk the tables for her journeyman knots when she attended a hatching with her father, not an uncommon thing for them to do together. What /was/ uncommon was this time watching candidates and dragons finding each other on the sands stuck with her, niggling at the back of her head until she found herself putting off her promotion with vague excuses, much to her masters’ confusion and consternation. The next clutch on the sands found her claiming her right to stand as a rider-blooded member of the Weyr, dreaming of her own special partner finding her.

Liavall may have hoped candidacy and standing once would get it out of the young woman’s system so that Alavelle could move on and attain her journeymanship, but the very first little dragon to hatch claimed her decisively, wrapping still-wet wings around her and nuzzling close.

Weyrlinghood as blue Felaruth's rider was hell, plain and simple. She was hardly more experienced than a just-Searched holder, lacking most of the knowledge and training that other weyrborn took for granted, having lived it for turns. And though she was strong from work in the smithies, it was hardly the level of physical fitness required of weyrlings. What’s more, to some of her classmates it was as if she had ‘stolen’ Felaruth from their friends who had been left standing, as it seemed that she’d only stood on a lark, what with her craft and all, and some made it their mission in life to make sure she failed. She went to bed in boneless exhaustion every night, too tired for anything but to let more tears fall unchecked. Liavall disapproved so strongly of what had happened, and her craftmasters were none too happy to lose her, leaving only V’kairel as a distant (if exuberant) source of support. The worst of it was that she felt so bad, and believed so keenly that she had done her home an awful wrong. Only Felaruth’s assurances kept her from worrying that she had robbed him of a better partner as well.

By the time Ista put out its call for help, Alavelle had come to feel that it might be better for everyone if she spent some time away, even though it was turns later and most if not all had forgotten her perceived offense. She received her Weyrleader’s blessing to go, with hope in her heart that this was her chance to help those who sorely needed it.

Little did she know.



Brownrider V’kairel (father) - npc
Lower caverns worker Halana (mother) - npc
Headwoman Liavall (fostermother) - npc


Unnamed Benden bluerider (suitor) - adoptable


Name: Kelz
Type: Firelizard

Description: With a hide of pale sky blue, slightly uneven in color in places only if you look very closely, and a single darker, brighter azure band around his neck, Kelz somehow looks the part of a little gentleman. He’s a very small blue both in length and in build, small-boned and dainty, with a rounded muzzle and large eyes that will make him look young for most of his life. Though he’s small he’s vibrant, with a perfect little musculature for his size and a wonderfully healthy hide that takes very little care to maintain to perfection.

Kelz is a very subdued little fellow. He’s a good-natured firelizard certainly, with plenty of simple, happy thoughts to share with his person — baths make him happy, eating makes him happy, laying in the sunshine makes him happy, napping in her lap makes him happy — but he’s not one prone to the sort of antics that many of his kin are famous for. He’s just *shy*, almost painfully so, and he moves like a little mouse: quickly and quietly, keeping low when he’s not flying and frequently sticking to the fringes or shadows. Even his vocalizations are low-key, usually just soft little chitters or inquiring little chirrups — very rarely does he trumpet or screech or make any other loud noise, and when he does it’s typically because he’s frightened or surprised (and then the sound itself seems to scare him, too, as if he didn’t realize he could make such a noise and isn’t sure where it came from). Really, his favorite place to be is on his person because she’s his safe place. He’s always a little braver on her shoulder, willing to put on a small show of protectiveness on her behalf if he feels she’s being threatened — or if he feels *he’s* being threatened.

Unlike some firelizards he’s no thief, and he’s quite well-mannered naturally (possibly because he dislikes drawing attention), but his one vice is a love of reflective surfaces. Water or metal or even sometimes just shiny stone or ice fascinate him, and if there’s nothing else to attract his attention he can examine a reflection for quite a while before growing bored.

Alavelle's Dragon: Blue Felaruth

Dragon Name: Felaruth
Color: Blue
Age: 6
Weyr of Origin: Benden


Felaruth's hide is a midnight-dark slate blue. He blends in with nighttime clouds, and brings to mind a rainstorm seen through a fogged up window, thunderclouds rolling over the sky and darkening the world. The color varies just enough over his body and wings, lighter here where the moon might be trying to show through, darker there where the clouds are heavy with rain, shifting and sliding between the shades. An odd sort of dappling runs down the back of his wings, very much like rain drops running down a foggy window pane, just barely showing through the thin wing membranes to be vaguely visible on the inside of his wings.

He’s quite the strapping blue, tall with a truly exceptional wingspan, whipcord strong. His eyeridges lend him a stern look, but he has a way of crinkling his muzzle that softens his whole face into something warm and comforting.


Have no fear, little child; Felaruth's going to keep you safe. He is strong and steadfast. He is patient and warm and caring. He has all the quiet, calm dignity of someone far beyond his scant few turns. And when the storms rage outside like the one sweeping across his own hide, Felaruth will draw you inside where it's safe, where it's warm, where you can curl up cozy and close, sure that you are loved and cared for, where the crashing thunder can't touch you.

Felaruth is a care-giver and a protector. If he hadn't been born a blue, he might have been the very best father Pern has ever seen in a dragon. He's at least a little bit of the dad most everyone wishes at some time or another they had — the strong, indestructible hero tiny children trust to keep them safe; the compassionate listener there to hug and support when things go wrong, there to lean on until the tears dry up and then it's time to fix things; the warm, eager smiles of someone excited to share an adventure, to make stories together; it's long flights spent with nothing but each other's company, and his long, unraveling stories that enthrall and engage; and the friend who doesn't think twice about spending an entire afternoon just tinkering on something, or throwing a ball around, as long as the time is spent together.

He loves his rider desperately, and it tears him apart inside when he can't sweep her up and shield her from the rest of the world with his wings until everything is better. When he was growing, Felaruth learned to cope by putting on a strong front for her, shelving his own stress and worry and pain to be the solid shoulder she could collapse and cry against when needed. Alavelle needed someone to look to, to rely on, and Felaruth needed someone to care for. Father figure and ingenue, a matched set. They've both nearly forgotten a time when he was the baby she cared for. Now most of the time he is the guide and the support system.

As long as his girl is happy, Felaruth is content, and free with his loud draconic laughter. He'll act the fool to get her to laugh as freely. He's the first to lecture her about responsibility and to encourage her to keep working hard until her efforts pay off, but he'll also chide her if he thinks she's wasting her youth on nothing /but/ work, frown lines threatening to furrow her sweet face.

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