Type: Dragonrider
Rank: Wingrider
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Sexual Preference: G'vlier Heterosexual, probably? This may be a trick question.


The serious, often intense look that seems to be the default expression for Breccan somehow doesn't really look at home on her face. Green eyes aren't supposed to be so steely. Freckled cheeks aren't supposed to be set like stone. Thick coppery-orange hair isn't supposed to be pulled back so tightly, braided so perfectly down to the small of a back set so rigidly, often with hands clasped just behind as if to keep them from doing something they shouldn't. She just looks like the sort of person who should be laughing, carefree – or, if not that, at least casually passionate, loud, and with, perhaps, a touch of the stereotypical redhead hot temper.

Instead, everything about her dress, her bearing, and her mannerisms screams “control”. Her clothes are always as neat and orderly as possible, the ties always tied and buttons always buttoned. At Telgar she was in the habit of staying in flying leathers most of the time, which is a lot more difficult at Ista, where it's mild even in the dead of winter – but somehow she has a way of making even casual clothing seem like a uniform. She never rolls up sleeves or opens up her collar, and it may in fact take some time and active coaxing to get her to consider switching to short sleeves even in the Istan summer. Like her mentor G'vlier and many of her Telgari associates, the clothing she brought with her is of noticeably fine quality, though she's less inclined towards frills or decorative touches than some, and owns very little in the way of jewelry (only one piece, in fact – an emerald necklace, saved strictly for gather-best and only because G'vlier believes that when a lady wears finery, she musn't be unadorned).

Physically, she has blossomed far from the skinny little waif that the Searchriders originally brought to Telgar. She's tall for a woman – as tall as G'vlier, in fact, and she initially slouched a bit in his presence until he told her, in no uncertain terms, to stop it. While life as a rider (and the discipline she imposes upon herself) keeps her fit, she's naturally a bit on the, well, womanly side, with broad shoulders that support a generous bosom (which she keeps wrapped firmly) and hips that might be referred to most tactfully as “child-bearing”. If she lets herself think about it too hard, or stares in the mirror for too long, she starts to feel this weird sense of confusion about herself – tall and strong like a man, soft and curvy like a woman, with a definitely feminine curve to her face but over-large, blunt, man-hands that can't seem to be gentle with anything. It makes her feel awkward, but G'vlier can tell in an instant when she's out-of-sorts and wouldn't understand such silly frivolous girl-thoughts, so she shuts those thoughts down as quickly as possible, and the only mirror-gazing she does is when it's strictly necessary – in the small mirror above her washbasin when she's fixing her hair in the mornings, where she can only see her own face and nothing else.

The barest hint of a limp is still present from time to time – the legacy of an injury from her youth that almost prevented her from being Searched in the first place. They can't exactly take her dragon away now, and she's hardly the only rider with a bit of a flaw these days, but she's still supremely self-concious about it and typically hides it well, correcting it through long habit. When she's very tired, though, or has been on her feet or astride her dragon for a very long time, it tends to become more pronounced.


“Restrained” is probably the best way to describe Breccan. She's overly-serious, formal, and rather forbidding, with an infuriating attention to detail and very little patience for humor or shenanigans of any kind. Her efforts at self-control, the turmoil she has repressed underneath that, and her workaholic tendencies keep her aloof from her peers at best, and laughably stiff and awkward at worst. Oh, she does have passion inside, and you'll see it boil up and leak out around the edges occasionally – usually in G'vlier or Mowklith's defense – but for the most part, she believes whole-heartedly in her mentor's teachings of self-control as the most important virtue. After all, if you can't even control your own temper, your own desires, your own wild impulses, then how can you possibly hope to control anything else in your life? She doesn't believe it just because G'vlier said it – she is, contrary to what most people believe, perfectly capable of thinking for herself – but because all her life experiences seem to back it up, too. It's true that she was a rather serious, subdued person from the moment she was born, but all she's ever had to do is look around her to see a dozen people who cripple themselves with their own inability to keep a handle on themselves. It only makes practical sense, doesn't it, that if everyone is properly responsible for him or herself, then everything that comes afterward can proceed smoothly?

And Breccan is ruthlessly practical. A childhood as the eldest daughter on a struggling farm taught her that abstract distractions like hopes and dreams and philophical arguments don't put food in your belly or a roof over your head, and an adulthood keeping reign on a foolish sort of dragon in a time when lives depend on her has done nothing but reinforce her belief in tangible efficiency. There's no time for things that aren't useful. If she can't see it, touch it, or at least see the effects plainly, then it must be either completely useless to her, or just plain out of her league (which is just as good as useless). There are things to be done, and if they don't help her accomplish those things – or worse, if they hinder her, as she's found most silly things like emotions do – she isn't interested. Fear? It's just a trick the mind plays to keep you from doing what you must. Hope? Ha, hope doesn't fix misery – work does, or else nothing does, and if nothing does, then you may as well get used to it. Love? She doesn't believe in romantic love, or even have any real concept of it. Love can be forged through long acquaintance and shared experiences, perhaps, (does she love her wingmates? Her siblings? If you asked her, she would have a hard time answering the question) but it isn't something you “fall” into, and she's not entirely sure what it has to do with sex, anyway. Try to put “love” and “G'vlier” into the same frame with her, and you'll only make her angry because it brings up a dozen burning, confused questions in her that she can't quite answer. Sexuality? What is that, anyway? Can it even be a preference? Isn't she built, physically, to receive a… well, you know? Shouldn't that be proof enough? And yet the other half of her mind and soul, Mowklith, is male. She beds whomever rides the green he catches, regardless of gender, and she can accept that as a necessity… but does she enjoy it? How can you even tell, when under the influence of flightlust? Is it a fair comparison? And if it is, and she does, does that say something about her? Can the simple fact that Mowklith desires females somehow influence what she desires even outside of flights? Does it even matter, when most of the weyrfolk who are now her extended family don't seem to care? Why does she even care? Isn't it all just useless information, anyway, when sex seems to be nothing but a distraction and a waste of time?

And that's the point where she usually shuts those thoughts down. Yes, part of the reason she's so practical is simply because she can't really cope with being anything else. When questions arise that can't be answered, she locks them up tight, ashamed of herself for even having them in the first place. Things like that lead to self-doubt, which only leads to failure, and someone with true self-control would stop those silly thoughts before they happen. Breccan doesn't actually cope, she suppresses and represses, hammering errant thoughts and emotions down like she's trying to prepare a house to weather a great storm. They're all weaknesses to her mind, and setting them free is the worst weakness of all. Let G'vlier wax philosophical occasionally if he must – he's a worldly, educated man, and perhaps he can make sense of things that she can't. He's practical, too, but not to the same degree – they both know, for instance, that half the beliefs that Breccan lives her life by now wouldn't have ever occurred to her on her own without his enlightened guidance. That's okay. That's why he's the bronzerider, after all. Breccan has no illusions about herself, and part of the reason that she excels at most of what she aims to do (or rather, what she finds important to do) are because she's exceptionally talented at playing to her own strengths. She knows that deep thoughts only confuse her, so she sticks to following and leaves them to someone else. She knows that she's terrible with people, and though the wistful desire to socialize better and be accepted within her group is ever-present despite her efforts to beat it down, she doesn't try to be something she's not – she offers what she can, what she knows she has to contribute: a strong back, a strong will, a desire to learn, and a desire to obey, and hopes only to be acknowledged and accepted for that. There's nothing she'll hesitate to do, no job too difficult or dirty, if ordered to by a leader, and if not ordered, well, she'll do it anyway if it's something that needs doing. She can always be counted on to be right where she's needed, even when most people wouldn't have realized they might be needed, and her discipline record is so squeaky-clean and full of commendations that it makes people wonder who she might be blowing to doctor her file. Oh wait, of course they know who she's blowing – except she isn't, and it wounds her deeply to think that anyone might suspect she'd cheat to earn what she's won fairly by her own blood, sweat, and tears.

Her devotion to G'vlier is absolute. It doesn't trump her love for her dragon, no, but it far outstrips her regard for any other human being she's ever met. She admires him, respects him, works desperately hard to be what he wants her to be simply because he believes she can be. Before him, no one had ever seen anything in her worth encouraging, and no one else other than Mowklith has ever since, and she's determined to prove that his faith in her isn't misplaced. She would do anything for him. It gives her a sense of place, of peace and order, to see to his everyday needs, to spend her every free moment being the assistant that makes his wingseconds feel bitterly superfluous. The fact that he trusts her with his affairs is the ultimate reward, because she knows he doesn't trust easily. Long association has brought them somewhat closer than simply Wingleader and rider, or teacher and student. He confides in her from time to time, naturally expecting her attention and discretion, and relaxes in her company more often than in anyone else's – in response, she's learned to relax more in his, and to give her opinions because he seems to value them. She honestly enjoys spending time with him, even if it's only sitting in silence while he works and she files things away for him, though that enjoyment doesn't exactly bubble forth past her businesslike facade. After all, she's no foolish little girl with a crush.

Except sometimes maybe she is. People tend to assume they're lovers just because they're practically inseparable, but G'vlier has never shown any interest in her beyond that of leader, teacher, father-figure, and friend. It would be greedy and ungrateful of her to expect anything more, and desire is just another distracton to hold her back. So she reminds herself every day to value what she's already been given, and violently rejects all the doubts and questions about herself that his lack of interest raises, and bites back on the jealously that threatens to choke her whenever he's intimate with someone else. If she can't control her own feelings, after all, isn't she just another failure?


Birthdate: I425.13.07

If asked, Breccan would begin her life story with the day a pair of Telgar Searchriders, escorted by a Wingleader, stopped at her family's tiny cothold up in the mountains, where there was barely enough land to farm out enough to feed a family, let alone pay tithe, and where even the small yard in front of the house stank of animals and caprines wandered right up to the riders boldly to nudge their pockets for feed. As the dirty children lined up for the dragons' inspection, none of them earned so much as a second sniff except for the last to arrive: a scraggly little redhead who looked to be maybe thirteen or so, walking with a noticeable limp and struggling under the weight of two sacks of grain that she would not abandon (fearing the goats would tear into it if she turned her back), even though it meant the dragonriders had to wait for her to come up the hill at her own slow but steady pace. Her siblings, slightly more able-bodied than she even if no better nourished, had left their various burdens in the fields and in the barn and the house, and the mother hovered anxiously; there was no father to be seen.

The Searchdragons agreed that the girl was a suitable candidate, but their riders balked – she was obviously either flawed or injured. If it was only an injury it might heal just fine, but it was not the job of the Weyr to nursemaid a holdbrat who likely wouldn't be fit to Stand for the Hatching they were Searching for, and it was just as likely that the kid was the victim of some kind of birth defect, or perhaps she suffered from rickets. Wingleader G'vlier, however, pulled rank on them both and had a chat with the girl himself. As it turned out, she was older than she looked – fifteen, and only unmarried because her father had died the previous spring and no one had yet had the time to go travelling around to their distant neighbors to set up a marriage yet. Did she have what it took to be a dragonrider? He would only tell her later, vaguely, that the hungry, determined look in her eyes said yes.

It was on G'vlier's word that the dubious Searchriders took her, and on his word that the healers at the Weyr treated her leg for the next few months, and on his word that she spent that recovery time refining her barely-there reading and math skills, and learning everything she would need to know to be a suitable candidate. Most of this was done through proxies – pulling strings and calling in favors, sending people to her without ever actually making much contact himself after that initial chat. At the time, the combination of special treatment (which she had never before known, being only one of many children and only a girl) and cool distance only confused her. Was this normal? What did he expect of her? With no real answers and nothing else to do, all she could do was put all her effort into learning the material she was given to learn. She devoured it all, obviously as starved for intellectual stimulation as she was for food, and with each mastered lesson, G'vlier saw to it that she was sent more. Later, when she came to know him better, she would realize that he was merely sussing her out – watching, waiting to see if his gamble was going to pay off before getting more personally involved. At the time, though, all she knew was that she was working for… something, feeling vaguely guilty that she was enjoying a warm bed and three square meals a day when her siblings weren't and when she knew that at least two Searchriders – and probably more people than that, just judging from the things she'd heard whispered – thought she didn't belong here. So she worked harder, determined to earn her place, and hoping for some sort of word from her mysterious benefactor to confirm that it hadn't all just been a terrible mistake that he now regretted.

Within six months of formally joining the candidates, Breccan was nearing the top of the class in most respects, and showing continuous rapid improvement in those areas she wasn't as strong in. G'vlier began to reward her with the occasional face-to-face visit. It was rarely anything momentous – sometimes just a few moments sipping klah and exchanging pleasantries at the breakfast table, or simply motioning brusquely to her in a crowd of passing candidates when he wanted a hand bathing Arkilth – but the attention meant everything to her in this place where everyone else had connections and she didn't, to a girl who had known only disinterested harshness from a father that she'd lost too young, anyway. And, more than that, it provided her with encouragement and direction, affirming that she was doing what she was supposed to be doing, and that she belonged here as much as any other candidate did. G'vlier's good opinion had meant more for her than the opinion of the Searchriders, and somehow that became true in respect to everything else, too – G'vlier's good opinion meant more than the derisive snickers of the candidates and the jealous twitters of some of the other girls, who thought she'd caught his eye in a more intimate way. He was interested in her progress and she wouldn't let him down – if she had to Impress a gold dragon to prove to him that she was worth all the effort, that he hadn't been wrong, then she would.

Except there was no gold dragon (which secretly relieved her on some level, once she realized G'vlier wasn't disappointed). There wasn't even a green, which she had expected because she was a woman who was… well, a woman. A blue found her, skittering across the Sands like a little madman to stake his claim on her, and suddenly things were both simpler and more complicated than they had been before.

There wasn't really a lot of time to deal with all the strange emotions and confusion that Impressing blue initially brought up in her. Weyrling Training was intense enough, Mowklith alone was a handful, and it would have been hard enough just to keep up, let alone excel the way she intended to. No one around her seemed to think it odd – indeed, the female blueriders she had seen around all seemed like decent, well-adjusted people for the most part – so she buried her uncertainties and trooped on. And when she and Mowklith graduated at the top of their class, G'vlier was there to tap them into his Wing.

He wasted no time in taking her fully under his wing at last. Any rough edges she and Mowklith had as newly-graduated wingriders were quickly ironed out with intense instruction and one-on-one drilling by G'vlier. When she proved as receptive of a learner as he had hoped, he began spending even more time with her, imparting all his wisdom and experience, his belief in control, and made it very clear what sort of person he expected her to be – yes, not just rider, but person. Breccan, a rather private person by nature, was persuaded by her own desire to please her benefactor to let him in, to allow him to guide her with a firm hand in every aspect of her life. They were well-matched in his need to lead and her need to follow, his desire to teach and her willingness to learn. It wasn't long before she had become his shadow, always a step behind and to the right just where he liked her to be, her stride falling in time with his in a way that he never asked for, but which pleased his sense of order nonetheless. Over the turns that followed, he trusted her with more and more responsibility, until it has simply become routine for her to take care of, or at least assist with, much of his day-to-day business. She spends so much time in his weyr that people who don't know them better often assume they're weyrmates. Even those who do know better usually take it for granted that she's probably at least seeing to all his needs, wink wink, nudge nudge.

Most recently, G'vlier was selected by Telgar's Weyrleader, B'deros, to travel to Ista. G'vlier has, of course, brought Breccan with him, and though he hasn't said a word to her about any ulterior motive, she can tell when he has something on his mind, and waits silently, patiently, for him to tell her more.



Father: Deceased goatfarmer
Mother: A lady who married a goatfarmer
Siblings: Goatboys, goatgirls; the actual goats probably qualify too


G'vlier, rider of bronze Arkilth, gets his own heading because G'vlier. Didn't you read this sheet at all?






That Ho, from time to time
Baby-G'vlier, though she's not sure why he dislikes her so much


Dragon Name: Mowklith
Dragon Color: Blue
Age: 10
Weyr of Origin: Telgar


Mowklith is quite small for a blue, with a narrow chest and lean, compact body, with long but solidly athletic legs. His feet are a bit large with toes that splay a bit more than they probably should, yet he seems quite comfortable on his feet, bounding around happily wherever he chooses to go. He's not a dragon who's often seen at rest, or with any sort of relaxed posture at all. When he's not actually on the move, he doesn't just sit still – he wiggles, rolls, stretches, bobs his head, or thumps his tail. He's the deep, muted blue color of fat, ripe blueberries, with a splotchy mask, feet, tailfork, and trailing wing-edges of periwinkle.


Mowklith seems to have energy to burn all the time, and it makes him a little twitchy. He's the sort of person/dragon who can make others nervous just by watching him, because he never seems to settle. When other dragons are lying around, he's up and about, moving here and there, investigating this or that. As a hatchling he was practically bouncing off the walls all the time – as an adult, he's only marginally calmer. He doesn't even sleep very well – he takes up twice the space that he should, because he doesn't just curl up and sleep peacefully, he rolls over and stretches and lays upside-down and changes position every five minutes, sometimes contorting himself into the oddest knots.

It's obvious to anyone who looks at him, or spends any time with him, that he's made for speed and manueverability, and that his personality suits it, too. That twitchiness in his day-to-day life keeps him constantly alert during 'Fall, and he reacts more quickly than most dragons to changing conditions (ironically making him even more well-suited to Ista's fighting force than he was to Telgar's), and has the speed and build to keep up with his brain. Unfortunately, he also suffers from a bit of “small dragon” syndrome – he seems to feel the need to compensate for his lack of size by liking everything as big as it can possibly be. He's loud and talks fast, he lands heavily just to see how big of a dustcloud he can raise up, he throws himself into the water like a cannonball, he'll gorge on firestone to try to spit the biggest possible flame even when it's not called for, he swaggers like a dragon three times his size… anything to make him feel bigger and better. Breccan is his restraint and his direction, the careful eye behind his itchy trigger finger. When 'Fall is just starting, or when things are relatively slow-moving, she keeps him focused on the task at hand, reigning him in like a bronco waiting to be let loose from the chute. When things start moving faster and getting hectic, she lets him go, trusting his speed and instincts even as she scans the skies for threats he might miss in mid-move.

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