Location Ista Weyr
Position Weyrfolk
Birthdate 8.429.1.25 (25)
Birthplace Ista Weyr
Sexuality Bisexual
Played-By n/a
Aliases Mak
Player Siarna

M’khai is one of those boys that have really grown out of puberty. He grew into his height and gangly limbs, muscling out in his twenties to suit his broad shoulders. His hands are huge and calloused from hard work and harder play. He has scars here and there, and he’s always ready to regale others with the tale of how he got them, with each retelling more grand than the last. His arms and legs are long and huge, giving him a giant reach and even larger steps that only add to the flurry of energy that is M’khai. Every inch of him just exudes strength and protection. Unfortunately, M’khai knows exactly how handsome he is, and it can make him just a wee bit unbearable.

His face matches with his broadness, with a square jaw that’s covered with a neatly-trimmed beard. Dark eyes look out from under thick, heavy brows that nearly always appear to be furrowed. His hair is a dark brown, cut neatly and close to his head, though still exhibits a slight curl in the heat of Istan summers.

M’khai’s clothing is varied at best; with all the hard work he does, most of his clothing now is patched or fixed for the third or fourth time (he had to learn sewing long before it was necessary- his parents were down after the first dozen mendings). His favorite clothes, although newer due to his growth spurts as a teen, are stained or ripped or perpetually dirty- and those are the clothes he wears on his outings, when he’s bound to get dirty anyway and no reason to rip newer, better clothes. He cleans up well, of course, and he (grudgingly) has a single good outfit for special occasions.


M’khai is a man that has grown up with the ideals of old songs in his head. He learned about dragonriders, he lived among dragonriders, and for as long as he could remember he wanted to be a dragonrider. A dragonrider was gallant and honest, riding magnificent beasts into combat against Pern’s ancient enemy. So M’khai made it his goal to act like the riders from the stories. Albeit he acts a little over the top, but thus far it has given him a great moral compass. He’s a painfully sweet guy and a mother hen over his younger classmates. He is particularly gallant towards women (they are the fairer and weaker sex, after all), and he’s hard to learn a few tough lessons during weyrling training about who approves of that particular behavior. Sure, women can be dragonriders too, they can fight and train with the best of them, but he’s still the man who will hold doors open and assume they need help mounting their dragon.

He’s a nice guy, and he really means well, but he’s not so great at setting down and focusing. Weyr politics aren’t exactly his cup of klah, and he just can’t comprehend the matters of wing formations and statistics. He’s not great at actually focusing at a task at hand (there is always something bigger and better to do), and words swim on the page when he tries to read. He’s taken these things in stride; and while he struggles with the theory, he excels in the practical. Give him a problem he can tackle physically, with his hands, and you’ll get the best work you’ve ever seen.

Despite his boisterousness, he’s got a soft spot for the well-being of others. He makes friends easy (or, shall we say, it doesn't take much to be considered a friend) and once you’re there, you’re stuck. He wants people to be happy, he wants them to be taken care of, and this makes him a big people-pleaser. He’s the unlikely Mother Hen of his Weyrling Class thus far, going so far as to be a little overbearing. He wears his heart on his sleeve and his expressions reveal a torrent of emotions. While he’s exuberant, he’ll be the first to grieve or cry. This also makes him quick to anger, and while he used to have his temper in check, his bond with Sarezarth tries him constantly.

Common Knowledge

The kitchen staff have taken a liking to him already- he was the boy that they bet would make a bronzerider (and to be fair they weren’t far off) but he’s just so big and broad and dashing that they make them swoon. They would feel very safe and protected in his arms.


Surrounded by all the other weybred children, Makhai wished that his family was a typical weyr one, with his mother a greenrider or a fling with some dragonrider father. To a young boy it sounded glamorous, like he was then meant to ride a dragon and not destined instead to toil away in the lower caverns with both of his parents and older siblings. While his parents both worked hard as drudges in the kitchens, Makhai and his siblings were sent to the creche during the day with the other ‘brats.

Don’t get him wrong, his childhood wasn’t bad— it just wasn’t particularly notable either. He wasn’t starved for attention, like some, or smothered like others. His parents loved him well enough and gave him ‘sufficient’ attention, especially for a boisterous child like himself. When he followed his age mates into candidacy at twelve turns old, the creche staff collectively breathed a sigh of relief. He did well with the structure of candidacy, working hard during his classes and chores and finding something glorious to do in his free hours. He is the one most likely to be seen climbing to the Rim or down to the beach, searching for firelizard eggs. Did he get in trouble? Oh yes. Was it worth it? Oh yes indeed. Age and punishments matured him a little, mostly because he did not want to be forbidden from Standing. He did, however, break a leg in an exploit ‘mountain climbing’ (actually climbing down to the beach), of which he only has a wicked scar to remember it by.

Makhai had just entered his twenties when First Fall happened. It straightened him up for a time. He had a personal crisis. Dragon riding wasn’t about honor and glory anymore. Well, not completely. There was sacrifice in it too, something that he had never thought of before. Dragonriding was supposed to be honorable. He was supposed to be a hero, facing any danger with a grin and a roar. Thread had been an ideal, not a reality, an entity that would happen ‘sometime soon’. When it did happen, he had never expected the losses the Weyr faced. The Skies were deadly and dangerous and for the first time, Makhai looked his mortality in the face. While some turned away, Makhai faced candidacy with a new strength. He would sacrifice so others would not. When he and Sarezarth locked eyes, he knew that they would face any challenge together.

And face Weyrling training they did, and it has not been an easy road for M’khai. Part of this is self-inflicted. The other part is inflicted by Sarezarth. The brown is exhausting, but it’s a good feeling. He goes to sleep at night with a tired that feels bone-deep. Each day is a day well fought, and whether it’s fighting physically or mentally with the brown, M’khai revels in it. Some of these days have left him with scars-physical scars- that have sent him to the Infirmary a handful of times already with a handful of cuts, scrapes, bruises, and concussions.

One particular incident started simple enough; Sarezarth likes to wrestle. It was cute and fun at first, when the brown was a little hatchling. As the brown grew it became more and more of a challenge…then, after a few sevendays of relative peace (and apparently a growth spurt on Sarezarth’s part) a tackle from the brown sent M’khai flying. It ended in a concussion, a few bruises and a possibly cracked rib or three. It was one of the worst injuries he’s sustained thus far, and taught them both a valuable lesson: a human is not a proper match for a dragon. Sarezarth tries to focus on wrestling Bacayath or Miaranth, or maybe Vildhunth or Ceretith once in a while (OR being gentle(ish) to M’khai). The rest of their antics thus far have left them more or less intact; a showy move during first flight sent them tumbling, antics during ‘drills caused a few close calls, and first between ended them a little too close to stone than what was actually necessary.

Markan, Father (55)- Drudge
Hana, Mother (50) - Drudge
Smattering of younger siblings and family members in the Lower Caverns or in Candidacy.


Color Brown
Birthplace Ista Weyr
Birthdate (2)
Wing Red Tide

Some dragons were lucky enough to be hatched in what appears to be a similar version of their adult bodies, or at least possess a hint of their adult forms. Sarezarth, unfortunately, was not one of those dragons. He’s grown into his gangly limbs and big feet, and while he’ll never be a huge dragon (he rests perfectly on average, thank you very much), he evened himself out. His feet are unwavering at the end of sinewy limbs that rope into muscular shoulders and hips. There is a lean sort of strength evident in his body, poised and ever-ready for action, just as he always hoped he’d be. His neck is thick and solid, holding aloft a large skull with broad jaws and a wide muzzle.

His hide, a rich reddish-tinted burnt umber, only becomes more vibrant with age… except for the dark, greyish soot brown markings that shadow his entire body like a vision of the bones beneath: a line down his muzzle and along both jaws, over the top of his head and leaving two perfect open circles around his eyes like sockets, down the back of his neck and all the way down his spine to his tail-fork, a thick line down each segment of each limb and digit, broken by unmarked hide at each joint.


“Impatient” doesn't even begin to describe Sarezarth. He always seems to be on pins and needles, waiting for something to happen, pacing restlessly when forced to wait – and he won't wait long. What's all this talk for? Where is the /action/? If there's one thing a dragon's hatched knowing, it's that he's hatched to /fight/, and Sarezarth will never understand how his fellows can get so caught up in other things instead. Training is great, training is a semi-acceptable substitute for fighting. Food is fine, food is fuel for the fight. Games? What good are games when there's fighting to be done? He's very single-minded, and not so much a creative thinker – any training exercises presented to him during Weyrlinghood had better be very direct and easy to understand, because if their relevance to the fight isn't completely obvious, he'll have no time for it. His every muscle burns to be used, his brain is aflame with the desire to rage, and he'll /find/ something to rage about if nothing is readily available. He /needs/ something to be passionate about, something to focus on and throw his entire heart and soul and body into loving, or hating, or fighting – it's all tied together, you see, love for one thing naturally resulting in hate for anything that might threaten it, or hatred for no other reason than to have something to fight resulting in love for anything that might condone or better, venerate him for his hard-won battles.

Sarezarth's entire life is a whirlwind of these things, particularly in his first turn of restrictions and rules. Maturity, and the ability to fight Thread, will offer him some measure of peace and validation – an appropriate outlet for his aggressive tendencies – but even then, he'll grow restless and growly during periods of rest. He'll always be an angry sort of dragon, with no patience for anyone but his rider and not much even with /him/ sometimes, and his temper is somehow predictable in its very unpredictability. It's easy to insult him – he has a strong sense of his own honor and worth and is prickly about any perceived snubs – and easy to set off his temper, but at the same time, his temper doesn't even always require any prodding at all. Sometimes he'll rage for absolutely no reason – or he'll find a reason, because the only time Sarezarth feels as if he's truly alive is when he's fighting, and anything will serve as a substitute in the absence of Thread. He's good at fighting, after all, with excellent instincts and high marks in almost every physical skill a dragon can have, and even if loud, belligerent arguing and passionate defenses of whatever cause he's adopted aren't quite the same as actual Threadfighting, well, they're better than nothing, right?

In 'Fall he'll be far steadier than one might expect. If his passion for the battle overtakes him he'll be hard to keep under control, true, but he'll be unfazed by anything the sky might throw at him: clumps, ovoids, heavy winds, or rain. There's nothing Sarezarth won't meet head-on and conquer! The deaths of his own wingmates won't affect his performance – he's too focused on the battle, he'll keen after it's done, or perhaps not at all. After all, his mates were warriors and they died doing what they were hatched to do. What is there to grieve?

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