Portrayed By Woody Harrelson (Haymitch; Hunger Games)
Gender Male
Aliases Mitch, Michael
Place of Birth Fort Sea Hold
Current Location Fort Weyr
Occupation Weyrlingmaster (NPC/Staff Run)
Status Rider of Blue Aycheth


This bluerider is broad in the shoulders but also just a little broad in the waist, the mark of a strong man having gone slightly to seed. It’s not that he’s fat, or even chubby, but that bulge above his belt is just enough of a forewarning that suggests he’s been sitting still for a little bit. And his slight limp, favoring his right leg, might explain why.

He stands around 6’1, his shoulder length hair a light brown, with tendrils of blonde running through it. Grey eyes are shadowed beneath his thick blonde eyebrows. His jaw line is strong, nose a little crooked and suggesting a break in his younger, wilder days. Or maybe it was from last turn, who knows.

His clothing is standard rider fare, cream tunics or sweaters, and brown leather vests with many hidden pockets. His belt his wide and sturdy, holding many pouches and his beltknife, a well worn and notched blade with a silver handle wrapped in black leather. Brown pants are tucked into soft brown wherhide boots, also sturdy and well used, but also well cared for.


Michael is Fortian blood, through and through. Born and raised in a sea cothold outside of Fort Hold, he was ready, willing and able to continue on the family holding when he was Searched by a dragon of Fort for Wiyaneth’s clutch. Proud of being chosen, he bounded off to the weyr at the age of 15 turns, ready to prove himself and do well by his family.

Candidacy was routine until a sad and fateful day when the life of a candidate was lost. Exploring the rockslide, Michael and a younger boy from Lemos were playing, when stones began to shift and tumble, crushing the Lemos boy while Michael escaped untouched. The guilt pulled Michael down, and he almost left Candidacy, but the leadership and his other friends convinced him to stay. On hatching day, he found Aycheth, the darkly colored little blue grabbing on to his robe and not letting go.

Slowly his guilt eased, but it has never fully left him. He and Aycheth did well in training, both of them focused and determined to do well despite the accident of Candidacy. They graduated and were placed into Thunderbird wing, M’icha excelling at wilderness survival and search and rescue.

The Turns passed without incident, a lover here and there, a daughter who is an apprentice with the Weavers, a son in the Smiths, and a quiet life. Until a search and rescue mission dealt him another blow. On foot, moving down a slippery slope to try and rescue a floundering Trader’s wagon during a storm, the wagon tipped and fell onto him, crushing his leg and trapping him beneath it. It took some time for him to be rescued, despite Aycheth’s anguished cries. Surgery was needed, saving his leg, but giving him a permanent limp and loss of much of his strength and dexterity. He needs to walk with a cane sometimes, particularly in slippery conditions or when it gets damp. Convalescing for a turn in Southern, he has returned to Fort and taken up the Weyrlingmaster’s knot, ready to shift from active duty to teaching the next generations all that he knows.


M’icha is generally an easy going guy, quick to laugh and difficult to provoke. But his moods can be a bit unpredictable at times, which most blame on his injury paining him. He can be irritable, but usually has a flask of alcohol near to dull the pain. He’s not an alocholic, but he could easily slip down that path if he was pushed. Right now though, he has a bit every now and then to ease the pain in his leg, but is otherwise content with his life.


Name Relation Location Position
Unknown Father Fort Sea Hold Unknown
Unknown Mother Fort Sea Hold Unknown
Unknown Daughter Weavercraft Apprentice
Unknown Son Smithcraft Apprentice



Blue Aycheth
The dark hues of a midnight Fortian sea splash against this large dragon’s bulky form, coating him from muzzle to tail in dangerous undercurrents and tugging riptides. Starlight flickers over his muzzle and down along his throat, a light dusting of galaxies reflected off calm seas down to stormy tempests of sea foam which cover his paws. His belly picks up hints of blue green, like shallower seas in warmer climates, but it is quick to be swallowed once again by the darker, wilder seas of the north. His wings are sturdy and broad, able to hold him aloft in a glide for hours upon hours, never seeming to need to land.