Character type: Dragonrider
Rank: Wingrider (former Wingsecond)
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Sexual Preference: Heterosexual


(Played-by: Roger Huerta)

T’khov may not be the tallest bronzerider, but he’s intimidating all the same. Short, dark hair and deep brown eyes lend an air of seriousness. His nearly constant scowl gives the impression that he’s angry (which may actually be the case, but who can tell when his expression rarely changes?) Plus, there’s his reputation from training with the guards— does anyone _really_ want to cross him?

Muscular and in shape before the first Threadfall, it’s taken some time for him to get close to the same physicality. He’ll never entirely be able to reach it, the extent of his injuries being too great, but he’s tried since finally breaking free of the cycle of infections and regrowth that kept him out of commission for so long. He still walks with a bit of a limp, and finds his leg and arm stiffen up faster than they used to, but none of these problems really compromise his abilities as a dragonrider— or at least he doesn’t allow them to, anyway.

Beneath his clothes, scars cover most of the left half of his body— his arm, his left thigh, and most of his chest and abdomen. As a result, he’s rarely seen without being covered, even in Ista’s heat. He learned the hard way that most people are horrified by the sight, or morbidly fascinated, and he has no wish to draw attention to himself.

His style of dress is plain and serviceable, well-maintained, though not necessarily new in appearance. He has his favorite pair of boots, scuffed and worn, which he has repaired instead of replaced. He has little in the way of dress clothes for Gathers, as he typically wears his leathers as a uniform of sorts— he’s representing the Weyr, after all, and should look the part.


T’khov is, first and foremost, a soldier. He’s serious about his duty to the Weyr and the people of Pern, and believes it’s his job to protect others from Thread and any other danger. His goal is to attack Thread, make a pre-emptive strike, and not let any of it through.

Being a dragonrider is also about teamwork— without the well-trained wing that works together, Thread will win. Personal issues should be set aside while training and flying ‘Fall— there’s plenty of time for such things once the duty has been done. Every dragonrider should do his or her job, and do it right, for they are taking the lives of others into their hands, not just their own and their dragon’s. Regardless of the color of one’s dragon, every rider also has a role to play, and they should have each other’s backs no matter what— no one should be left behind in the event that something goes wrong.

Because of his beliefs, T’khov was extremely hard on himself throughout his recovery. He should have been back on his feet sooner, should have been out there with his wingmates, working with them, protecting them and the rest of the people of Ista. That he lost his Wingsecond position meant little— he cared nothing for the title itself, nor the honors that went with it. All he cared about was that he was letting his fellow dragonriders down by not being out there with them.

Mostly angry and bitter, he doesn’t want pity, nor to be seen as some sort of hero. And yet, many likely do praise him as such. By all rights, he should have died from the injuries he sustained in that first ‘Fall. That he didn’t is a testament to his strength and determination. And stubbornness.

He’s not willing to give up without a fight— danger must be braved, risks must be taken, fears must be faced, to save or rescue or accomplish an impossible goal. It’s what got him through that first ‘Fall, and those he’s ridden since both he and Rokormuth were finally released by the healers to take up active duty again.

T’khov isn’t one to talk much, but when he does, he has something to say. He doesn’t waste time on the subtlety of politics, and lets his opinion be known regardless of who it might offend— rank is deferred to when it’s earned, but he’s going to respectfully push his own agenda if he feels there’s a more effective method, or better possible outcome than what someone else is proposing. He’s there to get the job done and make sure they all walk away from ‘Fall with the fewest casualties and the most Thread charred— which should be everyone’s goal, but he understands not everyone thinks the way he does. If he disagrees with a superior or defies orders, he’ll take whatever punishment is doled out as a result of his actions. He’s also not one to let someone else take the fall for his own behavior, and will likely take extra blame upon himself before letting it fall on someone else’s shoulders.

Common Knowledge

— People make ‘Chuck Norris’ style jokes about him. Thread didn’t get him, he got Thread. etc.
— He really shouldn’t be alive after what he went through that first ‘Fall. It was his stubborn will and the careful attention to detail by the healers that has gotten him to where he is right now.


Birthdate: (May 20, 1978)
Birthplace: Ista Weyr

From early on, Terekhov knew what he wanted to be: a dragonrider. A fighter. A soldier. A proud defender of Ista and its people, of all Pern. He wanted to protect his parents, his siblings, his friends from the dangers of Thread and anything else that might threaten those who lived at the Weyr.

Though his father was only a simple guardsman, he learned much from the man about protecting those under his care, about working hard and pulling one’s weight, about treating others with respect, about doing what was right. Khovran proudly wore the mantle of guard, though he wasn’t the one in charge— strong of character as he was, he had no real desire to lead beyond the occasional Candidate or new guardsman placed with him to train. His patience and talent for observation earned him the respect of his peers, and Terekhov wanted to follow in his footsteps.

Khovran started his sons in training early, knowing it would teach them discipline, and how to handle themselves in a fight, how to keep a cool head and not let emotions take over. He wanted to make sure they were prepared, though he stressed that fighting was never the first step to take in any given situation. Not all of his sons listened to the advice, of course, but Terekhov took it to heart.

When he came of age to Stand, it was no surprise to anyone that he chose to do so. He’d been preparing for it, had claimed he was going to do it for Turns, and now he was finally able to. Regardless of whether a dragon chose him right away, he knew it was his destiny to be a rider— one would choose him eventually, and his purpose would be fulfilled.

A few Turns passed, and all the while, Terekhov waited— mostly patiently, though there were times frustration got the better of him. The older he got, the more disciplined he became, and the better able to handle the disappointment of not Impressing. In the meantime, he took his shifts with the guardsmen seriously. His natural physical ability allowed him to excel at various forms of combat, especially hand-to-hand, and he earned more responsibility from his superiors.

Some of the older young men, candidates and guardsmen jealous of his moving up the ranks faster than they, attempted at various times to corner or challenge him. His father’s teaching came in handy, for he was usually able to keep a cool head and get out of the situation. On the occasions he was forced to fight, instead, he held his own, proving there was a reason he had earned the praise from his instructors. Any punishment doled out as a result of his participation was taken with good grace, and he never attempted to exact revenge or request a rematch of those who got the better of him.

Though the older guardsmen tried to encourage him to take up their profession officially, Terekhov was determined to continue Standing. His efforts finally paid off when he was 16— a large, strapping bronze chose him from among the crowd of boys waiting for their lifemates to hatch. As strong-willed as any of his color, even straight out of the egg, Rokormuth pushed and found he could not bend the young man’s will to his own. It was clear they were well-matched, and the challenge of pitting their strengths against each other was accepted— T’khov walked off the Sands ready to begin the next segment of his life.

Weyrling training went fairly smoothly, if he didn’t count the times he and Rokormuth butted heads. Though both were stubborn, it was usually the human half of the pair who won out in the end— his logic being far more sound than the bronze’s in most cases. Or his reasoning convincing his dragon that Rokormuth’s desire was not in their best interest, if they intended to stay on top of their class and get through training in the appropriate amount of time.

As he had in training to be a guard, T’khov showed a natural affinity for the military aspects of being a dragonrider. Aside from the physical, his need to protect and serve shone through as well: he remained calm in rough situations, stepped up to help regardless of any danger that might have come his way as a result, and pointed out where others were making mistakes before they could become major problems. They were inborn leadership skills, ones the wingleaders took notice of as he and Rokormuth progressed through training.

Despite his rider’s ability to rein his impulses in, the bronze continued to buck authority, feeling he was far superior to most of the other dragons in the Weyr. Other bronzes, and maybe the golds, were his equals, but he was so much more capable than the blues and greens, even the browns, that those in their class were holding himself and T’khov back. It took time to convince him that all colors were necessary to smoothly functioning wings, but eventually some of the others proved their worth, and Rokormuth might consider them friends if he thought in such terms.

Graduation came and went with all its fanfare, leaving the pair tapped into one of the fighting wings. T’khov took it in stride, not really celebrating, as this was all part of being a dragonrider. One day he was a weyrling, and the next, a fully-fledged member of a wing, ready to drill with his new wingmates and play his part in the defense of Pern. His abilities had certainly impressed his new wingleader, enough that the man placed him in a tricky spot in formations early on, giving him a small taste of leadership.

Leadership wasn’t necessarily what T’khov wanted, though. He wouldn’t turn it down if he was needed to step up and fill a role, but he wasn’t ambitious and desirous of power like many bronzeriders. He humbly responded that he was only doing his duty whenever he was needed to help in a tricky situation, and he showed obvious respect for those with far more experience and knowledge than he had acquired.

All the same, he was promoted to wingsecond before others in his wing who’d been riders for longer. This caused some tension, but T’khov refused to allow it to affect him. Rokormuth felt it was their due, that their wingleader clearly recognized their skills as far superior to the others in their wing. It was only a matter of time before they’d be granted their own wing of riders to direct.

But the bronze’s ambitions were cut short. Thread, their nemesis, the deadly enemy they had trained for Turns to fight, began to fall, and claimed so many lives. Despite the chaos, T’khov and Rokormuth stayed steady, helping to redirect their wingmates. They weren’t about to give up, and remained calm in the face of such danger. This was what they were meant to do— fight Thread, keep those on the ground safe, push through regardless of the obstacles they faced.

Or die trying.

Though that likely should have been what happened when the large clump of silvery strands hit him, T’khov wasn’t ready to give up without a fight. The Thread made short work of eating through his riding straps and clothing, an unexpected wind gust from the opposite direction pushing him right off of Rokormuth’s neck before the bronze could jump ::between::. But T’khov didn’t have far to fall— Rokormuth proved to be just as stubborn as his rider and ignored the pain in his own side, diving to swipe his lifemate out of the open air before taking them both back to Ista.

Neither of them died that day. Nor the next, nor the next… Nor the next. It was touch and go at times, the healing offset by numerous infections, refusals to stay in bed as directed, and sheer stubbornness. Muscle and bone had needed time to knit themselves back together. Once that was finally done, both halves of the dragonpair had needed time to relearn skills they’d had for Turns, to regain the muscle memory that allowed man and dragon to work together as one unit in flight. Neither was willing to give up easily. Both thought the learning would come quickly.

Both were wrong.

Time slipped by too quickly, a couple of Turns by the time they were fit to fly. And by then, the Outsiders were in place, T’khov’s former rank forgotten in the shuffle. Not that he was above re-earning his place in the wings, much to Rokormuth’s annoyance. The bronze thought they deserved to be right back where they’d left off, but T’khov knew better, and forced his dragon to back down when he would have confronted some of the new Wingleaders and ‘Seconds.

But Rokormuth is only biding his time— he knows he is one of the best— if not _the_ best— bronze in the Weyr, and he will prove it somehow. He’s just looking for the right opportunity to do so.

T’khov, on the other hand, feels the loss of the weyrmate he pushed away far more deeply than the loss of his rank. She hasn’t forgiven him for the things he said while he was still recovering— not that he’s asked. Stubborn to a fault, he was convinced she was better off with someone else, someone who wasn’t as badly injured as he was. Someone who was still whole.

Of course, she wasn’t the only family member he pushed away. His youngest brother K’tel, a bluerider not even out of weyrling training during that disastrous ‘Fall, idolized T’khov. He wanted to be just like his big brother when he grew up, and though he didn’t Impress a bronze, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t as good as his older brother— wasn’t as strong. During that first ‘Fall, T’khov even had to rescue him, flame a large clump headed his way. And for that, he’d forever be grateful.

But T’khov didn’t want to be put on a pedestal, or touted the hero. He was just doing his job, most especially since it was family. He’d always been willing to put himself in the path of danger to protect someone else, and that was what he’d done— he hadn’t saved his brother for the fame or glory or praise. He didn’t want any of that.

He wasn’t the only one who’d saved someone else, after all. He wasn’t the only one who’d survived doing so. He wasn’t the only one who’d been injured. It didn’t matter that the severity of his wounds was greater than most others who’d lived to tell the tale of how they’d come through. What mattered was that his brother was alive, and safe.

Though there were many who wanted to visit, including his family members, T’khov mostly refused. He didn’t want pity, didn’t want to be coddled, didn’t want anyone thinking he was weak. Didn’t want anyone even seeing him as helpless as he was, not when he’d been strong enough to protect them before. He didn’t want them to think _he_ needed protecting… didn’t want them to grieve if he died after all he’d been through.

His parents knew it was just the frustration talking, knew he didn’t really mean the things he was saying. They were only grateful that he was still alive, that he’d survived that horrendous ‘Fall that claimed so many Istans. But not everyone understood, and only time will tell if reconciliation is possible.



Father: Khovran, guardsman, 65
Mother: Telera, crechemarm, 63
Televran, brother, +5
Rakhov, brother, +3
Khovrel, brother, -2
Lerana, sister, -4
Nartel, brother, -7
Eran, sister, -8
K’tel, brother, bluerider Impressed 8.449.10.11, -14
((open to others being riders/ not))


((Panda's writing a son))




Ex-weyrmate ((open for options!!)) he pushed away while recovering
(((Mother of Panda's son)))



Dragon Name: Rokormuth
Color: Bronze
Age: 21
Weyr of Origin: Ista
Weyrling Class: 8.432.3.2


Rokormuth hatched big and burly. Stocky and muscular. Much of that has carried on into his adulthood— he’s not the longest bronze, nor the tallest, but he makes up for it in sheer size. He uses that size to his advantage as well, when aiming to intimidate others. Of course, it doesn’t always work— it didn’t on his rider— but he holds those who don’t back down with high regard, for clearly they are brave to stand up to him.

His hide is mostly deep and dark, with hints of rust woven through it. Except for the paler scars on his left side, the remains of that first ‘Fall that nearly took the life of his rider. Thread ate deep into his own muscle as he took the time to rescue T’khov before going Between. But the healing is finally complete, and rarely gives him any problems, save for the extra oiling necessary to keep the scarred hide from pulling and cracking.


Rokormuth, like his rider, is strong-willed and stubborn. Some might have thought he came out of his egg ready to eat the Candidates instead of choosing one of them for his lifemate, intimidating and ferocious as he appeared. But he was simply looking for the one who wouldn’t back down, the one who proved to be his equal.

Of course, even though he found such a one in T’khov, he doesn’t let the man have complete control all of the time. He pits his will against his rider’s when it comes to matters of importance, like furthering their own agenda (or rather, Rokormuth’s), or obtaining the rank and respect they deserve.

As with most bronzes, he believes he is the best one in the Weyr, and clearly everyone else should know this simple fact. He will happily accept any praise and accolades that come his way as a result of his rider’s reputation, and won’t hesitate to remind others just what they accomplished during that first ‘Fall— or that they were Wingseconds beforehand, and will likely have a wing of their own soon.

Golds are more his thing than greens, though he might go after a green that is highly sought by others, for the prestige, or one who proves to be as strong-willed as any queen, for the challenge. He knows he is a very desirable mate, but wants to prove he can weather the storm, outlast and outsmart the other chasers, and win a gold, especially the senior queen. And then bask in the fame that would come with such a victory.

As far as other dragons usually go, he doesn’t put up with ridiculous smalltalk most of the time. Those beneath his notice are rarely given the time of day let alone an answer to any question they ask. Unless his rider orders him to respond— it’s rarely in his best interest to defy such an order, as it usually pertains to Threadfall or drills, or something equally as important. And Rokormuth wants to keep up the appearance that he is worthy of rank, of leadership, of being on top. Because that’s where he and his rider belong, and he’s not about to let anyone tell him otherwise.

Common Knowledge

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