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Name: Donovost [doh-noh-VOHST]
Age: 19
Sex: Male
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Craft: Beastcraft (unofficial)
Rank: N/A
Location: Western
Physical Description: Donovost is a country boy—emphasis on boy--, and he wouldn’t know how to begin to hide that. He has the look of a young man who hasn’t quite come into his weight: lanky, slim, and all lean muscle, desperately in need of fleshing out. Donovost is very casual in his dress and carriage; not in the least fashion-forward, he is very likely to turn up to class in muddied trousers then turn bright red and change the subject with a not-quite-apologetic “oops” when someone points it out. His pale skin has been splatter-painted with freckles from turns working outdoors and is frequently pink from the sun, and his blond hair, straight and fine and further sun-bleached, is kept clipped short for the sake of cleanliness. He has a long, narrow face, a pointed chin, and small, serious lips. His eyes, by far his best feature, are an expressive ocean blue.
Personality: How does one know when he has found his tribe? How does one know that it is there to be found? How does one know that he has not already found it? Donovost is a young man without roots, and he is acutely aware of their absence. Wistful and nostalgic for a present that never has been, he carefully toes firm footing, resisting trusting his weight to it. He isn’t shy or fearful; he hasn’t been burned or damaged, no more so than any other refugee of Thread—-indeed, perhaps less so. But he has always been aware of life’s impermanence, and, cyclically, created impermanence in his life by restless counteractions made preemptively.
He is a quiet person, or perhaps simply a private person; he is background support. After growing up with only a very large family for company, Donovost doesn’t really understand how to plant and grow friendships, but does know to take care of those in his pack. He is the one who stays as a party winds down to sleepily pick up trash and put away chairs. He is the Candidate who waits up to ensure that everyone makes it back to the dorms safely. Donovost cares in a peripheral way; independent and reserved, making connections is not his forte, so he treasures those individuals dogged enough to batter down his walls and forge connections for him. Polite and soft-spoken (well, well-trained), he keeps his cards close to his chest. He has many acquaintance and very few true friendships.
To say that Donovost wants “more” would be a stretch. Life is stable and good and fulfilling—and yet. He wants for very little—and yet. Ambitious but mulling, he has a tendency talk himself down from any sort of personal exceptionalism. One might say that Donovost can’t see the forest for the trees. Does he want power? No, not really—but when pressed, perhaps it would be nice to feel heeded, like his words had weight. Does he want adventure? Not per se—but, perhaps, there is something to be said for venturing beyond one’s safe zone, if that safe zone is unsatisfying? Does he want love? Not—uh—I—blush.
This young man is possessed of the pervading sense that his life if without purpose, and he finds that…..unremarkable? For who is he to call it frustrating; unfair; unsatisfying? Donovost’s pragmatism is a blessing and a curse, both preventing him from reaching for the sun and, “blessedly”, from flying too close. He is one of the masses-—and he resents it, and he accepts it—or so he tells himself, and meanwhile he comes back to the thought again and again. Donovost wants. Wants to…help. Wants to change things. Wants to matter. But, reserved, he thus far refuses to reach out and take it. Donovost works hard, keeps his head down, and feels a pang of longing when cast into shadow by overhead wings.
Positive Trait List Pragmatic, ambitious, dutiful, selfless
Negative Trait List Noncommittal, diffident, unassertive, repressed
History: The plains of southern Lemos fared better than those of Telgar when Thread returned. Unlike ravaged Telgar, Lemos had warning. There was time to restore the watches; time to crowd lowing herdbeasts into long-abandoned shelter caverns; and while nearby Igen Weyr had stood empty through the memory of even the eldest grandad, when Thread came, dragons rose to meet it. After all, Dragonmen must fly/when Threads are in the sky. There was loss, but it was manageable. With the help of the Dragonmen and -women, the cotholders surveyed the damage and laid plans for the next Fall. And the next one. And the next one. Under the wings of the Riders and their great beasts, the little cothold might yet survive the Fall.
Donovost had never seen a dragon before Thread came, not as more than a shadow soundlessly drifting across the sky. On the wide plains of Lemos, the world was small and self-sufficient. His family—parents, siblings, aunties, uncles, cousins, several grands—had farmed the land they tenanted for four generations, and that was enough. Trips beyond the small cothold, the annual herding of animals to tithe or market, were but rare; visitors to their small community were rarer still and more correctly consisted of the permanent arrivals of new betrotheds to cousins. Occasionally the land Holder would visit for a sevenday—and bring with him a slew of extra chores such that, honestly, Donovost was always so busy during the visits that he couldn’t even recall what the man looked like.
It was not a bad life, nor even a quiet one. Everyone who could walk had a job, and even the two old aunties who couldn’t helped in the kitchen. From the time that he could toddle, Donovost was collecting eggs and shelling peas, then hauling buckets of slop or bent and picking with the harvest, then pinning a struggling ovine while an elder cousin carefully clipped away winter wool, then whistling instructions to canines from the back of a runnerbeast as together the urged a herd towards greener pastures. Life was more or less predictable, and that was more or less satisfying. Donovost, respectful and soft-spoken, was not one to complain; nonetheless, he lived for the days that were More Than: the days of herdbeasts born breech, but carefully guided through the night until both twins emerged to wobble hale and hearty around their mother; the days of sudden sweeping plains hailstorms threatening to drive the ovines into a gully, when pushing a runner too indiscriminately in his haste to redirect might send both beast and rider in instead. Donovost, who knew community from birth, felt he was a spoke in a wheel, an independent consigned to the functioning of a whole—but on these days of charged emotions and rapid action, he recognized that independence too had value, and that, perhaps, so did he.
It meant little. The farm was his future; there was no practicable alternative for Donovost, and to dream otherwise was only to invite despair, an unaffordable luxury with so much to be done. Donovost worked and grew and was not unhappy. Thread returned, and Dragons followed with it. For the first time in Donovost’s young life, the farm’s security was in doubt, yet they had been lucky. The buildings still stood; the aunts and uncles and cousins all survived, but the crops were a mess and a score of herdbeasts had been lost. It would be a tight turn, but not so bad as would face some neighbors.
Over the first sevenday post Thread, Donovost’s duties were replaced with those of the More Than days. With the assistance of riders, uncles, and cousins, he joined the relief efforts, cleaning the rubble of fallen cotholds to free those trapped within or ranging far afield to round up escaped herdbeasts. He worked closely with the two Weyr riders who had donated their time, worked diligently, followed orders, rode on his first dragon—rode on his first dragon, a magnificent green—and the world began to slow again. The riders would soon depart, life would resume more or less as it had before, and Donovost would not be unhappy.
Instead, he found himself spending supper one evening not with the riders, but with a dragon. The small blue surprised him with a nudge to the shoulder while he ate, and, when Donovost did not flee or object, sidled down beside him emitting feelings of warmth and curiosity. Donovost offered to share his stew; the blue politely declined. They spent the evening in amicable silence until the dragon’s rider reappeared to explain that Osraneth had enjoyed working with him this sevenday; had sensed something in him; had thought he would do well in the Weyr, as a Rider. It was nonsense, of course, but kindly meant as far as Donovost could tell, and he thanked them both and sent them on. Thread had returned. The crops were in shambles; the herds were scattered; the farm was flooded with refugees. His family needed him more than the Weyr did.
Or.
The herds were collected. The crops were pruned, culled, and replanted. Donovost’s eyes drifted to the sky. Routine returned with rapidity; he met it with dutiful will. And two sevendays later, when Osraneth and His appeared from between to check on the recovery efforts, Donovost did not hesitate. He gathered his meager possessions, kissed his mother goodbye, and left with blue and rider for Western Weyr that very day. The riders needed him more than the Weyr did—and he needed them, too.
Even after a turn in Western, the Weyr is a culture shock, though somewhat eased by found duties assisting with the Beastcraft’s herds of dragonfodder. Intelligent but illiterate and easily overwhelmed by crowds of unfamiliar faces, Donovost often feels outdated and socially-dense, especially during his remedial Candidate lessons. If anything, he works the harder for it. He will catch up; he will adapt; he will—excel? Matter? Make his difference? Help.
Donovost has not once regretted his choice.
Candidate Specific Questions
Do you want them to have an official Search RP? No
Do you understand they will age every passing year regardless if you're there to RP the or not? Yes
Do you want them to have a possible Stands Impression? Yes
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