Wrangler of Muses
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42 Turns [Autumn, 176th Turn, 10th Interval]
Bisexual (Female Pref, Male Demi)
Dalibor Weyr < Igen Hold/less
[Specialization: Non-industrial Metalcraft / Craftparts - could say Machinist, I guess?]
Armon is as mysterious as anyone who doesn't speak at length on their life and history. While he's easy to talk to, he's exceptionally hard to both track down and pin for any length of time, if given an option to roam. While restricted due to the Pass, you'll commonly find him in the Forges, or (on Thread-Free days) roaming the wilderness beyond his central Hold.
He has a fondness for the desert that borders on fanaticism; he knows all the flora and fauna to be had around Igen and Lemos, and can name the various ores and stone found therein without blinking an eye in contemplation. Wanderlust was bred into him, his mother's gift to his bloodlines whereas his father's contribution is a quiet and focused mind, strong hands, and a hunger for knowledge. He takes Aramenun's strong voice and quiet nature; this is a man that you will absolutely hear, but only if he speaks to begin with.
Armon is hard to find. Even when confined, he's hard to pin down. Those from Igen who know him, call him the Desert Sand; he'll slip through your fingers the moment you give him the space to, he moves with the wind, and he'll cover you just to leave you bare within the span of a few moments. He can move slow, or quick; quiet, or with a storm that leaves the mind and skin raw. Hot-tempered, he vents his anger by being alone; where most people might stew and brood, Armon uses those periods of solitude to work on new designs, or otherwise make sense of why he was roused to such a fury in the first place.
He has a healthy respect for women in which he refuses to stand by and watch them be talked down to or otherwise disrespected; in that regard, he also expects them to be responsible for their actions, and any children that are conceived via nights with him are completely disregarded and unclaimed. He has no interest in marriage (for now), or children (also for now - this may change in the future, but strongly doubt it at this time). He's bisexual, but in that respect he's picky about his lovers. He requires a strong relationship development before he involves himself with men, he's much easier about women; either way, he will not accept those who are not emotionally stable or those who have emotional baggage. He generally doesn't vacate before morning, and he's not distant to those he involves himself with, but he tries his best not to develop attachments.
When given every choice, Armon is largely detached from politics in every and any form, where possible outside of his craftswork rank-furthering necessities; he tends not to bother himself with any sort of Weyr or Hold ordeals unless targeted specifically, it means his potential advancement, or unless it involves Holdless. In Armon's mind, skill should supersede any social capacity, though he does understand that specific needs are required in order to obtain his Master's knots. Regardless, he understands that in order to get what he wants, sometimes he has to pretend to be someone he's not (though thanks to one of his Masters, he's much more apt to earn connections based purely on being himself; he's not socially awkward, he just chooses not to thrust himself into the center spotlight in any regard). As degrading and incompetent a thought process as wearing a mask is for him, and as much as it annoys those who know him for who he actually is, he will if he has to.
On that regard, he welcomes any and all challenges to his skillset when it comes to Smithing; his entire life's work from the time his father told him about the political standings for Ranks, has been to ensure that any and every Smith he meets is being equally judged on their skill, and not in who they've bedded, schmoozed, or flirted with, or who their bloodlines involve. If they are beaten by a Holdless on even contest, on the same rank level, they are dismissed from his mind as a feasible and equal craftsman. It isn't to say that he won't help them improve - that premise alone is enough to warrant extra attention - he simply considers them a pretender. They join the list of those who never see the true face beneath the proverbial mask.
However, he is no braggart. He has, and will always, let his work speak for itself.
He's very soft-hearted for his mother's side of the family tree, and will defend those without a Hold to the point of physical engagement; the easiest way to earn his ire or his anger, is to slander someone who can't help how they were born. Specifically, those born without a Hold or Weyr. It's perhaps the one thing he can't and won't tolerate in any way, shape, or form, and those who prove to him they're worthy of his respect in that regard (as there are - he acknowledges - many Holdless who are worthy of the anger and disrespect of those they mistreat) are ones he will defend to the death. Needless to say, news of the Palefolk work by Dalibor's denizens has garnered a distinct feeling of both loathing and approval by the Smith.
His true confident is Crucible; the Iron is his first line of defense, and a common measure by which Armon judges others. If Crucible doesn't like them, it's safe to say they're probably not good for His. The King flit is almost always in His' presence if Armon is in public.
Armon specializes in the metalcrafting that is most used for finer things like Harper's instruments (those made of metal), non-glass dish and silverware, and other such materials. He holds a Master's knowledge, however has not reached the age by which he can officially walk the tables; mostly because while he was at Igen, it meant reassignment to another Hold or Weyr - in part, something that may happen now that he is transferring away from there, once he reaches the appropriate age. His life's work has been centered on following in his father's footsteps; while he does venture outside the Hold, he's studying the materials found therein, not simply wandering the wastes in search of nothing.
A driven man, even his times of perceived leisure are spent studying, either people, places, or materials. He observes for information, where others may observe for weakness or attraction. Everything has a purpose to him, in some fashion, and he utilizes knowledge sometimes turns-old in order to help him understand things happening in the here and now. He is as devoted to his craft and his mother's people as anyone who holds that kind of fervor. He likes glasswork, and interworks it into his craft where afforded and allowed. There is a closely-kept secret to the crafting of his performance pieces (one of which is To'rua's Rous Cyr) that has been the product of both his father's teachings, as well as being built upon by Armon himself. It is limited to one specific craftwork piece (the cyr wheel), and is the distinction between Aramenun's workstyle and Armon's, versus other Metalcrafters across Pern.
He enjoys watching / listening to Harpers perform, considerably, and he enjoys dancing, though he's not any more than respectable at it. He's a social eater, and tends to like enjoying his meals in the company of a handful of others.
Armon uses Runners to get around Igen, and his most recent beloved beast, Anvil, is being brought via vessel to Dalibor (set to arrive some sevendays to months after Armon does). He will be volunteering to ride other Runners for those who don't have the time to devote to them, and is a more than adequate horseman.
Armon is neither the tallest, nor the shortest man on Pern; he comes in at a reasonable six-foot-one, and though he appears lean when clothed, possesses the strength that's afforded for a man who's spent practically his entire life with a smithing hammer in-hand. His skin wears the darker tones of someone from the desert region, with pitch black eyes and equally dark hair (like most living creatures with black hair, both his hair and eyes are revealed to be very, very dark brown in strong light, but otherwise they're black), which reaches just past his shoulders. Thick and somewhat straight, he trades wearing it down for a runnertail or gather at the crown of his head while working the forges.
His cheekbones are high, and coupled with thick brows, give his face a somewhat wide and angular appearance. His nose is straight, as well as his teeth; contrary to some of his kin, the latter are white as bone and also well-formed. His jaw is slightly pronounced, and adds to the aforementioned angular appearance of his features. He wears very little facial hair, but it grows quickly enough when shaved that he maintains some degree of stubble at any given point. Most likely is the hint of a mustache and a short chin-scruff.
His hands wear only a mild callousing. He wears gloves the majority of the time he's working ores and such, as given the detail required for his finer pieces, he needs to be able to aptly feel for imperfections and what not in the surface.
He wears the scars and marks of a man who has faced the fire most of his life. Scrapes and lines scatter themselves across his form, specifically most of all on his lower arms, hands, stomach, and shoulders. A couple grace his face, both on his right side, one on his cheekbone and another closer and slightly lower, near his ear. The cartilage of his right ear is slightly split towards the top, coinciding with the lower scar. He has a particularly nasty slash of a scar across his right forearm, where a hot piece of iron sprung back and cracked him.
Armon wears larger-sized clothing to hide his figure, though he is known to be shirtless during the warmer months. Wintertime, as it does to anyone used to warmer climates, is the bane of his existence. He's known to wait until later afternoon candlemarks for things to warm up, before he climbs out of bed. He wears all kinds of attire; the typical Igenite, loose clothing, headcoverings, scarves, loose pants, wide-sleeved shirts, anything typical for a Pernese man of such breeding. He normally always wears boots, given his profession, and he tries his best to look more than presentable given his future status as a Master (once he's referred and considered, of course).
He wears an extensive amount of jewelry, on occasion; there is always at least 1 necklace with a wher's tooth as a pendant, several rings with varying degrees of precious stones or engravings. The most notable about Armon's self-decor, however, is the sheer amount of chain he wears around his wrists (see PB image for ref). He purposefully weighs his hands and arms down, within reason, in order to passively weight-train his arms and shoulders. The collective amount of silver on each wrist, attached to decorative leather straps in order to keep them from clinking together, is about two pounds. He can alter this by simply removing spans of chain via their bracelet-straps. Needless to say, it's generally the first thing most people notice about him.
* To'rua of Cyan Beavaeth - Friend. To'rua helped Armon adjust to High Reaches, when they were both there. Also introduced him to Vudicael.
* Vudicael, Dragon Candidate - Friend, something of a son to the Smith; Armon mentors him alongside To'rua, to try and keep the quite feral younger man on the right path.
* Weyrwoman Jali of Copper Laanasuth - Weyrmate/Wife. They're currently trying to have a child together, and that takes up most of the time his work does not.
Aramenun - Father, Master Smith, Igen Weyr, Deceased (Would be +22 Turns)
Novam - Mother, Holdless, Deceased (Would be +18 Turns)
Jali of Copper Laanasuth - Wife [+7 Turns]
Crucible - Iron Firelizard [Autumn, 12th Turn, 11th Pass] - [#BCB9A9]
Anvil - Runner (Stallion - Earth Breed: Friesian) [Summer, 7th Turn, 11th Pass] - [#1E1C10]
Armon was born to a Holdless, the product of a rather sordid Gather encounter that saw him brought into the world in the very arid and merciless sands of Igen's desert region. He was born during a torrential downpour, one of the rare and sudden storms that threatened to wash away the camp his mother resided in. Novam knew she lacked the resources to raise the boy, but tried anyway; his birth left her weak, as her band of Holdless had been dealing with unfortunate anger management issues from cotholds surrounding both Igen and Lemos that they'd been stealing from (as they traveled between, looking for water and food sources accordingly). Several of them had been captured and forced to work in the Mines; coupled with the threat of the coming Pass, it was in the child's best interests to be sent to stay with his father.
Novam couldn't write. She couldn't read, either, but she remembered Aramenun and his face. His rank knots. She took a chance, and approached the Hold with a quiet, respectful request to speak with the man whose attention she'd garnered the cool desert evening almost a turn prior.
Armon remembers his mother only as a face in his dreams. He was much too young to have recalled her otherwise, and doesn't even remember what she sounded like. Given the Pass, he knows that she's no longer living; he's attempted to find her, but tracking a Holdless is nearly impossible. He should know, he is one.
He was handed over to his father at 2 months old; Aramenun kept his boy with him almost constantly, and recruited a wet-nurse to see to the boy's more basic needs as an infant. However, from the time Armon could handle solid food, he was his father's charge. Aramenun knew Novam was never going to commit to being a Holdfolk within sturdy walls, and he never tried to keep her there. She never visited again, and Aramenun had several lovers in the time he raised his firstborn, but none stuck around long enough for him to call them a step-mother.
Other children were ignored as the boy grew through to his tenth turn of life. He had only eyes for Aramenun, and worshiped the then-Journeyman that had given him life and protected him as any son idolizes their father; however, his mother's natural-born wanderlust made itself apparent at a young age. While he never missed time in Igen's powerful forges with his sire, there was a distinct need to exist outside of the holds of civilization within the boy, made manifest when he wandered off at age twelve.
From the time he could understand words, his father had spoken of various connections and networking. It was just as important, he reasoned, that he put his best foot forward when it came to socializing with those who would influence whether or not he obtained his knots in the future. Aramenun knew that Smithcraft was to be the boy's life, much as it had become the Journeyman's own, and while his father never told him to deny his birthright to the wildlands, there was a distinct implication to downplay that heritage as far as becoming the very thing his mother was. The fact his father referred to her as such, brought no good tidings to Armon's perceptions of Holdbred and Weyrbred persons. He considered himself first and foremost Holdless, and yet held loyalties to Igen in the same regard.
Armon grew up a product of forged iron and steel, raised on the arid air and smoke from the bellows. When he wasn't working alongside his father - as Aramenun put a smithing hammer in his hands from the time he was old enough to swing one proper - he was outside in the desert. Initially, some thought he sought the company of his born kin, but were corrected when Armon returned with samples of sand, stone, and ores from some of the prolific Miners in the region; many thought he'd been making friends of the wrong kind, only to find out he was brushing elbows with those who formed the lower, more necessary ranks that supported his Smithing supply sources.
Tracking was his specialty, and he ran like a gazelle. The few that knew him, said he was "Hard as the anvil his father worked on, sharp as eroded sandstone, quick and quiet as the desert sand". He associated with the Traders and Holdless who traveled past, through, and around Igen; he called himself one, regardless of the fact he was raised inside stone walls. In his heart, Armon has always been a Child of the Wildlands. Those connections would prove to see him in possession of hard-to-find and harder-to-acquire materials; while his heritage would always prove a mark against him to some, it was a mark to the benefit with countless others.
He worked tirelessly not only in consult with his father's own knowledge, but officially Apprenticed from his tenth turn, to his thirteenth with Journeyman Ragog, who specialized in craftswork and performance pieces; flutes, instruments, poles, anvils, pickaxes, and it was with his teachings that Armon discovered one of his favorite creations. At first, he knew it only as a hoop. It was Ragog who taught him the true name, and Armon had the fleeting sense that he would be focused to further proficency with that particular instrument of Harpercraft when he reached another level of expertiese. Everything about the specialization appealed to him; from the work with small parts that required a steady hand and focus, to the high rate of failure if it didn't come out just right. How the steel required perfect heat, just the right amount of rolling, a light touch but a heavy one all the same. Bend it too far, and the whole thing would buckle under the Harper's weight. Not far enough, and it would be oblong and useless. Precision that he wanted desperately to have.
Armon worked hard. Excessively hard, and his father's words of poise and presentation never rung louder than when he was present to watch the man who had worked so tirelessly to both tend his Craft and raise his son, obtain his Master's knots, shortly after his thirteenth turn. The celebration was raucous, loud, heavy, and had an almost profane level of alcohol; nobody was prouder of Aramenun than his son.
It was the moment he saw the look on his father's face, when the announcement was made, that sealed it. He would be a Master. He would strive to be like his father, strive to see the same pride in the older man's eyes.
From thirteen turns to fifteen turns, he continued Apprenticing with Journeyman Ragog. He then switched to Master Ot of Lemos Hold, from fifteen turns to twenty turns; Master Ot was distinctly more socially savvy than Armon's own father, and she taught Armon the capacity for presence in a crowd, as well as other small-body-language things that he could use to pick up on someone's opinion of him, without having words to match it. Social graces, she explained, were more about what one didn't say, rather than what one did say. Her mother was a Master Harper at Nerat. She had learned from youth to manipulate the general demeanor of a room full of people, something Armon didn't suspect he would ever truly master as Ot had, but she was certainly a tremendous help in swaying people's opinions of him based on heritage alone. She had said, in no uncertain terms, that trade with those who had 'the time and capacity to hunt the smaller-furred creatures of the world' was immeasurably useful and important. He had been born with a first-class rank to that branch of the commerce tree. She envied him, in some respects, but while his father was impressive and his bloodlines - while somewhat diluted - were more than passable, he would have to learn what his mother's side of the tree had not been able to teach him.
Ot specialized in the more utilized Weyr and Hold-based trade goods. Utensils, kitchen tools and supplies, infirmary beds, buckles, chains, levers. Useful things that, while she never directly stated, would serve him better than things for past-times and hobbies. It might have offended him, if he didn't find her so absolutely agreeable.
As Armon grew older, Aramenun worried constantly about his eldest son's wandering, his craftswork, his life. He tried - in vain - to marry him off to a good Holder girl from Lemos when Armon was twenty turns (and still under Ot's mentoring), only to find that on the day his son was supposed to espouse, he had gone missing. Unbeknownst to Aramenun, Armon had gone to High Reaches. He returned every and all correspondance from his father with a simple message.
Who tells the Desert Sand how, where, and when to fall?
When he returned four turns later (at age 24), having Apprenticed under Master Yvretas while there, and having just met a young Harper who had been born at Igen, who showed him the proper use of a cyr wheel (Tosaporua, he was called; the boy had been quiet, but gifted in many ways), Aramenun attempted to talk sense into him. He had to settle down properly like any son of a respected member of the Crafthall would do. Armon, in order to prove his capacity for the craft his idol maintained, and to quiet him down some, walked the tables at twenty-four turns to obtain his Journeyman's knots. Master Ot was present, as was now-Master Ragog. Both gave him their blessings, and spoke for him; Ragog, surprisingly, was more verbose than Ot. He accredited Armon's capacity for workmanship, his focus, and his attention to detail. Ot, he claimed, had turned a rugrat into a man as far as social graces were concerned, and was worthy of note for both her capabilities to be both Master Smith and Journeyman Harper. Armon remembered humor permeating the room, but only a select few had laughed. He'd found it rather dour, truthfully, but had forced a smile for the sake of appearances - only to see Ot smile more broadly, noting he was doing something she had taught him.
Many turns later at age thirty-two, Armon had returned home from stays at both Telgar for two turns(24-26), and Ruatha for four (26-30), then to Lemos for another two turns (30-32) (once again learning under Master Ot, with input from a Senior Journeyman named Flint whom she was also teaching), to find his father had suffered a rather severe series of burns from spilled slag; a young man that he'd never seen before was in the Infirmary, and voiced that he'd heard one of the drudges say that they had witnessed one of the Apprentices chasing down a wayward canine, when the beast had upended the collector. Had the other not brought the Master to the infirmary when he did, his father most certainly would have been in much more dire straights. As it was, Armon sat to speak with the younger man - one he recognized almost immediately as Holdless, due to his manner of speech and the way he dressed, yet said nothing of - and they formed a fast friendship. It took a considerable number of sevendays for the younger man's extensive wounds to heal. He told stories of being Holdbred, that he had been travelling with a caravan, but Armon knew better. Thanks to Ot, he could spot the other's lies a mile off. Whers seldom left witnesses, he knew. The blood scent would have attracted them like seawhers. Unlike most of those the older Smith had encountered, there was a distinct lack of care around this new man that he found incredibly alluring. This was a man who had no regard for what people thought of him, beyond the initial state of his heritage. Armon envied him, but ultimately found him craftsless, and thus the younger man had no reason to be swayed to perceptions or presences. He found out his name while they had a meal of wherry and watched some of the passers-by in the Infirmary, on break from sitting with Aramenun. Vudicael.
The Holdless reminded him in ways of Tosaporua; not for their appearances alone, which resembled only fleetingly, but from the polar opposite. The way of speaking bluntly, but holding no true bias to one side or another as far as people went. To was guided by Fate, he remembered. This one, he was guided by Hate. They both walked a tightrope above the gaping maw of a canyon in their minds, from the sounds of it. Brothers from different times. He spoke of the White Bear, or so High Reaches had called him. He Of Many Furs And Little Blood, To had called Armon. He'd liked Desert Sand much better, when Armon had told him of the moniker.
It was for Tosaporua, that Armon had crafted his first specialized, family-secret rous cyr. A gift, he'd given it not to the boy, but sent to the Master who had been teaching him to give to To when he was ready for it; it wasn't to stay a secret for long. While working in the forges one evening, To's note of gratitude found him. Armon felt something strange about To's words, that applied to the Vudicael. They struck him as so polar in opposites that it couldn't be a mere coincidence. To spoke sadly of his brother, and how Ti'aso, as his name was now, was getting along well at High Reaches. To, however, was not; he spoke that his parents wouldn't be long in sending him away, he'd heard them talking. Armon wrote him back, with a promise that he would come to visit his friend across the sea, once he'd obtained his Master's knots. Who knew? Perhaps they would assign him there?
A handful of times, they tried to assign him to various Holds; Armon made the argument that he felt there were things he needed to develop on his own, and being distracted as a new person at a new Hold would only lead to diverting him from his chosen Path. If they had to assign him, he would only accept assignment to either Dalibor Weyr, or Western Hold. Needless to say, they wished to 'waste his talents' on neither. Armon had a distinctly different manner of consult to the matter, but did not press the issue immediately.
Vudicael was a common companion, however, and Armon entertained some notion that he was Holdless enough that the actual Holdless trusted him far more than anyone else. It was no surprise to him, that when Vudicael went missing. The disappearance of supplies and some of Armon's own work, clothing, and Marks (as he spent the time most recent of his multiple-Hold mentorships taking on 2 Apprentices to teach, plus selling his work both at Gathers and to roaming Traders, as well as trading fellow Holdless in exchange for things he could sell a bit more easily for more coin elsewhere) only reinforced the notion that the Holdless had ventured beyond the walls. Armon envied him, in some ways, to have nothing to tie him down somewhere. He wasn't even angry that the boy had stolen from him, and said nothing of it; he would deal with it, when and if he ever saw him again. Something told Armon it wasn't the last he'd seen of Vudicael.
Something also told him that the look on the younger man's face, when he DID meet him again, would be worth far more than anything he'd taken. The thought amused him many long nights at the Forges.
His father's health solidified once the wounds healed, and Armon made frequent trips beyond the walls of Igen during Thread-free days and nights after the start of the Pass. He attended Gathers at the Hold frequently, and purchased the Runner that he used repeatedly for such traversing of the desert. A young stallion, black as the ace of spades, that was initially nameless. Armon named him Anvil; mostly because he was as headstrong and impossible to break as the very tool of the Smith's trade. Armon was the first one to ever saddle him, and the only one to be capable of sitting him without being thrown winded. The Smith attributed it to his Holdless bloodlines; the runner knew, he believed, that there were none who wished to travel alongside him as an equal, and not force him to be subservient to him. The first time he saddled him, was the last. Anvil is ridden now only with a thick blanket and a halter-bridle. It's all Armon needs to control him - another, however, is a story different in every way. Anvil trusts only Armon, though he will tolerate others if His is around.
Armon was content to further his craftswork at Igen, and continue to build his repoire with the rest of the continent; that was, until a Cyan with nearly transparent wings appeared in the skies above Igen, just after his thirty-fifth turnday.
Tosaporua, now To'rua of Cyan Beavaeth, had come to inquire. The morning after his arrival, Armon consulted with Ragog, and put in for an assignment to Dalibor Weyr. They had need of capable crafters, ones who were not swayed by words, but by actions. Armon had every intention of helping the misguided and bad-luck Weyr return to a proper and well-viewed reputation.
He obtained his Master's Knots in Spring of 17.
Adoption Preference: Transfer back to Igen Hold.