Location Ista Weyr
Position Wingrider
Birthdate 8.416.3.10 (38)
Birthplace Ista Weyr
Aliases Pee pants, Bronzo
Sexuality Bisexual
Played-By Jeremy Irons
Player Siarna

Though he is a tall man, standing heads above many, never quite grew into a typical ‘dragonrider’ physique. He is all sharp angles and hard lines, with narrow shoulders and hips. A good deal of his height lies in his legs and it shows in his walk, long and sweeping. He is a force that moves through the caverns of Ista like a gale. Most of his emotions are shown in his stride- his angry rush, confident swagger- K’ghair often jokes that his anxious pacing runs a trench through the middle of their weyr. His has a confidence that shows in his body, his swagger, how he stands with his head held high- this is a man who knows his place and is well prepared to excel in the role given to him.

His skin is naturally pale and fair, burnt to a light tan over the turns to match the darkness of his hair, that shade between the typical Istan dark and Northern brown, short but with a hint of a wave. His face, like the rest of him, is sharp and severe; a long, oval face with prominent cheekbones, a sharp nose, and thin, pursed lips. His eyes, on any other face, might have looked welcoming- to many they are piercing and cool. To others, they burn with a fiery passion.

And his voice, how can someone describe his deep, rumbling voice? It’s slow drawl awakes the senses and entrances the mind. He’s not unaware of this and loves to talk, loves how the words flow, silky and perfect, how he can weave them into novellas that leave others rapt and, if he liked, wanting. He has a harper’s lungs; he can raise his voice to bellow and shout when the situation presents itself, an angry roar that can drown out a clamor.


M'danach is quiet. There is a confidence there that often borders on cockiness, on arrogance. With a group of friends and peers with such boisterous, domineering personalities, it's easy to fall to the wayside. It's easy to be ignored. It's caused M'danach a lot of grief and plenty of anger to be the man that's passed over because of his childhood, because of what some kids thought of him over twenty turns ago, and he can't say that there hasn't been a grudge because of it, roiling in the pit of his stomach whenever he was passed over for other, better riders. The potential is there, certainly, for him to excel, and he has, whether or not he realizes it. He can be dangerously charismatic when he chooses; he has a memory for names and faces and little tidbits of information; he can easily remember a son or daughter’s name, a birthday, a gift preference, information that he stores away but doesn’t really care to use. It all serves a use and a purpose…even if he’s not entirely sure what that is at that exact moment. He has little use for frivolities, for fun, for things that don’t serve a use or a purpose anymore. Useless is a word that he uses as a curse. Useless things are less than actual things.

He waits, like a feline ready to pounce. He waits for the opportune moment, the perfect time to strike. When that time is right he is a force to be reckoned with. He is a tempest crashing against the walls of the Weyr; his emotions burn bright and strong and fierce, and in a place like Ista, where he has had to fight tooth and nail for anything and everything (both real and perceived), by making a loud scene or causing a fuss sometimes feels like the only way he can make himself heard amongst the clamor of others. He recognizes the need for subtlety when a situation calls for it, certainly; a comment here, a compliment there, remembering the little things, that it is hard for him to step out of his little game of manipulation. One moment he may be bright and vivacious and animated and so full of life, the next a riptide of fury and rage and back again, that even his loved ones sometimes find it hard to pinpoint when he's feeling genuine, when he's not acting to prove a point or win some argument.

He is not one to love easily. As a single man he had enough partners- he is Weyr, after all, and sex is just sex- but love, real love? M’danach feels that like anyone, but he feels like it everything else- strongly and passionately. It overpowers him, it crushes him. He would go to the Red Star and back for his loved ones- his friends, his family (right now, the Outsiders), and for his weyrmate. He needs to be that protector; he is the strong wall against which Istan wind batters against. And he just can’t understand why someone would reject him when he is only thinking about their happiness.


Birthdate: 8.416.3.10
Birthplace: Ista Weyr

"You have to listen to me."
"Do I? Says who?"
"Everyone! I have a bronze now."
"Do you, Bronzo? I don't see him. Is he hiding behind Lurinlith?"

And that was what sealed M'danach's fate.

It’s hard to stand out when everyone remembers who you were, despite no longer being thirteen and seeking approval of older, louder, brighter, better kids.

Nobody took him seriously back then, when he Impressed Chaldeneth at thirteen. Sure, his dragonrider parents patted him on the back and gave him all sorts of congratulations, but he wasn’t seeking their approval. He was seeking approval from his friends, his foster-family, the kids he chased around the creche hoping to play, to be included, and that he had chased into candidacy in the same drive to be part of the group. He thought, maybe, that Impressing the singular bronze of the Seahorse clutch might give him some pull, might make him important amongst such a loud, rambunctious, dynamic group of personalities.

But he was still the kid that ate glue in the creche, that wet the bed until he was thirteen (even if Chaldeneth tried to take the blame. Nobody believed him), that stuck his face in a vat of numbweed on a dare. It didn’t matter that the dare ended in an “or else!” or that he was small enough and passive enough that the bigger kids could easily pick him up and dump him in the lake if he got too loud or indignant. It was easy to make fun of pale, skinny, baby, pee pants M’danach. Nobody cared that his dragon was bronze, nobody cared that he was the bronzerider and he was the leader now.

B’ziah respected him upside down in the trashcan.

His friends (weyrling class, is there really a difference?) never noticed that he shot up over a foot in the course of a turn, that his thin frame packed on muscle, that baby Bronzo became a man. That he mellowed out sometime in his late teens, no longer intent on trying to force his leadership, content (mostly) to let the bigger, stronger, more charismatic kids to lead the Gadabouts in their thrilling adventures of the Interval. He still tagged along, still sought their approval. So what if that meant being voluntold to be the first to jump into the ocean? So what if that meant that ‘Nala was the one that pushed him off?

They never noticed that he got promoted into a Wingsecond position in his mid twenties, except to make fun of his new, fancy shoulder knots. Most of them (thankfully) weren’t in the same Wing, and it was shamefully refreshing to take a step back and realize that not everyone knew him as Bronzo. Not everyone remembered his Weyrling Training or candidacy or actually cared about any of those things. All they cared about was that he could do a job, or if he couldn’t, that he was willing to learn.

It took him a long time to realize that his old weyrling class weren’t just making fun of him. It took took too long to realize that they had become each other’s surrogate family, that no matter how much he hated the name Bronzo he was still their stupid bronze brother. And that he pushed Nala into the ocean just as much as she pushed him. That he missed them as the bronzes and browns began to gear them up for the Pass, that all the extra work with the looming danger meant he had more responsibility, that he couldn’t go to their revelries anymore.

But they were young. There would be plenty of time to toast and celebrate once the Pass had come, once they stood victorious over their ancient enemy. Right?

It was never meant to happen like that. They hadn’t truly realized the horrors of Threadfall. Hadn’t realized how awful Istan weather was.

When did they all get so old?

M’danach’s Wing was decimated in the First Fall. They held on as the days wore into weeks, as the Outsiders came to fill in the empty spaces left by friends, family, lovers, enemies, rivals. His Wing was eventually absorbed into the other Wings, each surviving Wingrider pulled away from the others in an attempt to fill missing spaces. M’danach was pushed to the side in the wake of other bronzes, ones that had been leading their respective Wings or working as Wingseconds. He was passed over for Outsider Wingleadership at least twice (not that he’s counting…he is.). There was a while where he was bitter and angry and grieving and hating these Outsiders for taking the place of the others, for taking his place as if they were doing him a sharding behaviour.

But then stupid K’ghair came along and ruined everything. He’s not sure if he can hate the Outsiders anymore. He doesn’t know if he wants to. All he knows is that he adores this man that has no idea that he’s this Bronzo character, that doesn’t seem to mind that it’s always K’ghair’s friends that visit, that he can be standoffish one minute and jealous the next.

But he still finds himself siding with the Istans, still hating M’drasen’s attempt at Weyrleadership, still resisting anything any other Outsider said or did.

Except now he’s wary of T’berli’s Weyrleadership, too. Worried about how this change is going to affect the Istans. The Outsiders. K’ghair.



That grudging feeling when you realize you can't choose your friends, your weyrling class chooses for you
G'hardo, blue Malkorth
Jalnala, green Lurinlith
R'selli, green Faisokath
Vofali, green Seisilth
B'ziah, blue Inigith
B’fadi, blue Olaboth
Sahni, blue Vaharith
N’shal, blue Jovith (kindred spirit)

T'mah, green Arcanith
Tavayna, blue Uterperh
R’zen, green Adcoth
K’rydon, blue Grennistanth
R'nayl, brown Paixth


Nobody in particular - K'ghair, green Greeneth


M'danach’s DRAGON: Bronze Chaldeneth
Color Bronze
Birthplace Ista Weyr
Birthdate 8.429.4.14 (25)
Wing TBA

Chaldeneth is a dragon that hatched small and stayed small. He did grow, no matter how many times B’ziah pressed on his head and told M’danach that he’d stop growing. He never did reach full height nor stature for a bronze, though he did, finally get big enough that Lurinlith couldn’t feasibly squash him, no bigger than a brown (a large brown, M’danach insists) and rather slender. This is no squat, burly hulk of a dragon. Chaldeneth is lithe, lean, and angular. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t add any of the bulk that was supposed to come with a bronze, couldn’t round him out into a proper bronze stature any more than M’danach could convince him to focus on something that wasn’t the meaning of life for longer than a few minutes.

It doesn’t help M’danach’s case that Chaldeneth is a uniformly bright, yellow-bronze in colour, with little in the way of markings or patterns on his hide. He likes to say that Chaldeneth looks like a bronze statue, a picture on a vase. The gadabouts think he resembles something slightly more urinary. He has threadscores now, most of them old wounds from the First Fall disaster; nothing that went too deep or hit anywhere too important, but they are there, a visible reminder of darker days.


Chaldeneth has an infuriatingly lack of ambition. Where M’danach has a drive to be doing something, anything, Chaldeneth much prefers to stop and smell the roses. And inspect the ground beneath his feet. And nudge a rock. Watch the sunset. Watch the sun rise. His weyrling class thought him to be quite the pushover. He still is quite the pushover. This is not the dragon that will bully others into submission; he’s not even one to chastise or scold, not to criticize. He’ll leave that to M’danach, he’s so good at that (he will say with the utmost sincerity). As a weyrling of twelve, M’danach was horrified and angry that everyone thought Chaldeneth was dumb. He wasn’t stupid like your FACE, ‘NALA!

Now M’danach realizes that was a fair assessment.

He’s curious, in a draconic simplicity that is almost childish in nature. The world has plenty of wonders, he will pleasantly say. Why rush in all this saying and doing when one can take their time and enjoy life? When one can sit and think? How long has this rock been covered by the sand? When was the last time it had seen the light? It had experienced a longer night than any dragon had ever experienced. Would it be lonely to be that deep underground? Do the holders feel lonely in their holds?

Except then he forgets about it about four months later and the cycle begins again.

It drives M’danach insane. It’s difficult to get his bronze to focus on the tasks on hand, it’s hard to understand his meaning. It’s hard to even pay attention to Chaldeneth sometimes, when he’s going on about rocks and sticks again and it is rarely worth the time or effort to get that deep inside the bronze’s head. This does, however, leave M’danach as the dominant one in their pairing. It makes him overprotective of this small, weird thing in his head (or maybe that was because of the time Lurinlith sat on him), but it also made him bolder. It made him cocky. He’s grown having Chaldeneth’s complete trust and utter devotion, and for a time it only made him unbearable.

Common Knowledge

Has been sneaking off rather early these days
Nobody is allowed in his weyr ever what is even up with that

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