Central Bowl

Cradled childlike in an easterly mountainous embrace, the steppes of the central bowl nestle cozily between lake and weyr. The latticework of dusty adobe paths spider out from the southerly Weyr Road, wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the adobe sprawl of the northeastern bazaar. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the lake's shore, travelling over rock and hill to the northern dragonet complex and branching itself due west to end at the entrance of the blessedly cool inner caverns. The abandoned caverns of Igen-that-was lie at the end of one disused tracking. All around, the dizzying heights of the caldera's sharp-sloped sides are pocked here and there with ledges, the weyrs' draconic occupants needing no path to guide their way.

Threadfall! Over Igen Weyr?! It's definitely more likely than one might think. The vexing bands of the silver menace's 'Fall have finally coiled around to strike over the Weyr and those within. The young and infirm are safely whisked away to the confines of the inner caverns for safety well in advance; the rest are either outfitted as groundcrew or else await the inevitable injuries that will require their care. Dragonhealers and Healers alike rally their supplies, while all the wings - and Wings! - of the Weyr are assembled in the Central Bowl. It's a controlled state of chaos, stinking of firestone and oil and leather, as dragons are fueled in advance of the leading edge of Thread. Z'kul's present, as needs must be; barking orders and checking on straps and generally doing all he can to make sure Whirlwind is ready to fight. The other Wingleaders are doing their due diligence, too, and all the Weyr is anxious and ready, braced for another fight that's come too close to home.

Among the dragonhealers is Khu; she's drawn the short end of the stick (such as it is) and her status as a reserve healer is employed. Not that she minds, for all that Ixzhulqvoth is antsy about it. The brown prefers to fight and always has but, today, he's grounded and set to serve to try to help soothe the minds of the injured should there be any. The brownrider herself is busy with preparing supplies and getting things in order; there is precious little time left before everything turns to smoke and ash and ichor.

Divale sets about her own tasks, which undoubtebly run parallel to many of Z'kul's (when she is not about on his orders specifically to her). When she is not otherwise preoccupied and relinquished of one task, the brownriding Weyrsecond moves on to the next; namely, to see that the last preparation and checks are done to her own straps and to Lukoith himself. The midnight-cloaked brown is tense, short tail lashing and wings flicking restlessly in the only signs of impatience to be away and to battle. He rumbles deep, an almost exhaled growl that carries on and on despite any 'word' on Divale's part. If there is any anxiety, any concerns, she keeps them very well hidden and deeply buried.

S'hius' amung the ranks of the Whirlwind riders getting Elszerath ready for the fight ahead. Making sure his brown's got a good amount of stone already for the fight ahead. Adding a few checks to the fighting straps and any extra supplies he might need mid fall. Of course he's joined by his usual quatro, they looking as eger to fight the threads as any of their bigger cousins. Elszerath in pretty short order looks ready to fly and fight. Soph soon settles into place on the neck ridges to await the order to rise.

Along with Ixzhulqvoth is Mhiruth, the blue quite familiar with his station among the reserves and does not dispute it, even if a part of him yearns to be protecting above as well as below. I'dre's temper is so far in check, though his jaw is tight and features clouded. Troubled. His work may be mostly automatic at this point but it's done well and he's not so deeply locked into his own thoughts that Khu's presence will go unnoticed. She's given a terse nod, a grim barely-there smirk and then it's back to inventory check and preparations.

Zhikanikoth is torn; they are fighters! Thread is the enemy! It is their duty to sear it from the skies! But Ixzhulqvoth and She are being left behind, to do work equally as important - and equally theirs. Near his brother's side - don't worry, he might actually make it to formation on time - he snorts and flexes his wings, tail coiling and twisting against the dusty bowl. K'shi is perched atop his back, peering down at Khu with an expression both concerned and annoyed. "You're Wingsecond," he mutters to his heart-sister. "Shouldn't I be the one down there, and you heading up?" For all his grousing, he's in full gear and full fighting trim, ready to meet the menace head on as he has so many times before. "Well. We're on-call for pick-ups, so we'll probably see you before Fall's over." Is this a good thing? Probably not. He glances towards where Arroyo is gathering, seeking a green hide, then thumps his lifemate on his shoulder. "We'd best get to formation before Zetali starts yelling for us." Zeke slews his head around to shove his muzzle against Ixy's chest. « I will flame extra hard for you, » he promises the brown.

Caxeyla's been herded out with the rest of the candidates for the upcoming clutch. If she looks like a herdbeast in a hungry dragon's sights, well, you can practically still smell the Hold on her. A bag of firestone is pushed into her hands and she's shoo'd towards the massing dragonriders. The weyrbrats who are standing as a matter of course are happy to nudge her along in the right direction. She's seen dragons, sure. She's even seen two at once. But the fighting force of the Weyr assembled in the Bowl? Wide-eyed, she heads towards the closest green to her (hi Reiyaseith!) with minimal tripping over her own feet.

"What should be is not always so," Khu replies, flicking a look to K'shi. Her expression isn't apologetic, even if her tone might be. "Be my 'second up there, Vash - and, next time, I will see about swapping with you, yes?" Ixzhulqvoth whuffs and butts shoulders against Zhikanikoth's, his head ducking down to mirror the shove of muzzle to chest; brown against bronze. Inked and familiar, « Go. Next time, we fight together. » Xhieleioth is surely there somewhere, ranked with the rest of Arroyo; Kh'an, as ever, too occupied with going through the motions to chance more than a look. Perhaps a thread of something sweet winds its way through to certain minds; perhaps it's just a wafting of fresh air.

Tsiroth is ready and waiting among Arroyo's numbers, the bronze in fine form and usual humor. He's at least kept his soundtrack tastes to his own personal mindscape for now! Va'os is nearly readied, patting down his flight gear while making a few muttered comments under his breath. Check, check … wait, no. Yes? Yes. Check. On then to the bronze's strap, where he goes through a particular ritual that has no basis in superstition and more ingrained habit and familiar patterns. Satisfied, he'll give Tsiroth's side an affectionate slap, before climbing up and settling into position. Grinning (it's pure nerves!), Va'os flashes a few signs to his fellow Wingmates, the distance too much to shout, though Tsiroth may pass along more complex messages (read: long winded).

There's a definite appreciation for having capable 'seconds - and Divale is a particular asset, especially now. Z'kul cuts a look her way when there's a moment, nothing more than to see how she's faring with her end of the duties. Tzadhaeielth devours firestone, though the only sound coming out of the ruddy bronze is that of 'stone being chewed and swallowed to feed that second belly of his. Rider and dragon alike are dressed in red and black; matching leather, purposeful in hue. Eventually, the bronze's mind cuts through the din, his voice low and controlled, but with an edge of urgency. « We will rise. We will fight. » The edge of the 'Fall is just barely in sight- and that's the cue. "Mount up!" Bellowed and echoed in dragonminds, paired with a hand signal before he swings up onto the well-fed, well-fired bronze. For his part, Tzadhaeielth is still and watchful, eerily quiet with his attention transfixed. Soon. Soon.

Divale has been at this for long enough, even if not always in the rank she currently holds. She is readied and so is Lukoith, when Z'kul voices his command, followed by Tzadhaeielth. Lukoith's own voice rises in a snarled-pitched sound, not quite a roar, teeth bared briefly as his eyes scan skywards. Pulling at the chains of Divale's hold on him, but thus far agreeable as she mounts up and keeps a sharp eye on similar proceedings. The Weyrleader too, falls under her gaze, waiting and far, far calmer than her lifemate.

There are plenty of riders in need of spare sacks of firestone, fortunately; those helpful candidates with their precious burdens are something of a blessing for it. Other candidates are being instructed in the use of agenothree tanks - though there is ever the hope that none of them will be needed and least of all in here. Others are shuttled off to help the healers. It might well be Kh'an that takes the offered bag from Caxeyla, the greenrider offering a tilted smile and a murmured, "Thank you, saa." Then it's up, up, up to the green's neck, where the bag is tied off. He finally casts a look back, hunting for the sight of a particular pair; Xhieleioth finds them quickly enough, a quick mental caress offered before all is tied up in a single moment of waiting.

With a wry grin, K'shi salutes Khu, nudging Zeke towards Sirocco before the bronze can find a chance to go for a full-out chest-thump with his sibling. With a grumble, Zeke hops up and wings over towards where the rest of the wing is gathering, landing with a thud just behind and to the left of Zetali - Khu's traditional position, and one they steal before another opportunist can sneak in. Hey, he's just following his wingsecond's orders, right? As Zeke gives Xhieleioth's touch a brief, distracted acknowldgement, his rider glances not towards Z'kul, knowing better than to take his direction from the Weyrleader, but rather towards his wingleader, waiting for her. As the rest of the wing mounts, he straightens and reaches down, checking the firestone sacks slung against his dragon's side, secured on the straps. Beneath his legs, he can feel the bronze's rumbling - some impatience (okay, a lot of impatience), and some the gas churning in that second stomach, ready to erupt on command. And they wait, primed and ready, for the signal.

With how alive everything is at the moment, Soph finds it hard to not keep from having Elszerath from lifting off too early. The pair are pretty eager to get going for sure. Soph makes one last moment check of everything that he has on hand before turning his attention to Z'kul to await the signal to rise and fight the theads that are about to fall. His four firelizards, lead by the golden Sunny, alight on Elszerath's form for a moment to await the signal as well.

From Tzadhaeielth's neck, Z'kul settles in and, once the word comes across? A pump of the fist sends the whole lot off, rising and resplendent. Higher and higher, until, at last, they're all on a level playing field with their ancient foe.

Tsiroth flares his wings once, stretching and testing, looking mighty pleased and satisfied that all is well. It has been an age since an unfortunate flight left one wing broken, but the mending was clean. He is fighting fit and itching now to face yet another 'Fall. Va'os might not share as much enthusiasm, but it's a job needing done and it's what they do! When the call goes out, Tsiroth's mindscape is picking up an energizing beat, though largely shared with his rider. At the signal from Arroyo's Wingleader, the bronze launches skywards with the rest of the Wing.

From Zhikanikoth's neck, K'shi waits, patient, ignoring Z'kul's signal until Zetali's flashes. Then, in time with the rest of Sirocco, he and his lifemate rise into the air amidst the thunderous beat of hundreds of wings, the Wings of Igen Weyr taking flight in formation to go to battle. Briefly, so briefly, darkness flashes out on a wave of spice and star-matter, the dragons of Pern arrayed against a starfield as vast as the sky above the desert.

Compared to the 'brats, Caxeyla is woefully inefficient; when Kh'an relieves her of her remaining sack of firestone, she manages to return the smile before beating a tactical retreat before she gets taken out by a wing or a leg or something as the fighters launch themselves impossibly fast and impossibly high. She bumps backwards into another candidate and stutters a sheepish apology before falling into the throng of those remaining on the ground, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

She watches, quiet, while the wings ascend. Khu's expression is inscrutable, well-matched to the strange, grim visage of her lifemate. The brown, being who he is, espies those candidate just over there and lumbers his heavy-footed way to where Caxeyla and her companions gather. Ixzhulqvoth utters a low rumble, barely audible, and settles on the ground near them with a wing half unfurled as a shield of sorts, while his red-limned gaze shifts skyward, watchful and wary. Khu flicks a look to I'dre, but there's precious little time to converse. Everything is drawn tight, tension rising and humming in the air. "I will hope it is an easy 'Fall," is said to no one in particular. She knocks on wood, just to be safe.

Caxeyla's attention is drawn from the sky by the tittering of some other candidates as Ixzhulqvoth heads their direction. The brown's wing protectively extended, she feels some of the tension leave her shoulders as she gazes up at the wingsails. The anathema of being outside during Threadfall is countered with the reality; the dragons are here to protect them, the Weyr, and Pern. It's certainly an experience.

Reassurance comes from strange places sometimes, and the dread bulk of the hulking brown is surely one of them. Ixzhulqvoth settles in fully, nosing gently at one of the younger candidates, then another, urging them closer still. There is plenty of him to lean against or climb on; encouragement comes with a resonant rumble. Here, they will be safe - safe to watch the dragons overhead, safe to get a good, long look at the life those white knots of theirs may offer.

Sky Above Central Bowl
From here, one has a view of the Weyr spread out below in its entirety. The maze-like streets of the Bazaar run in all directions, accented with the textures of brightly colored awnings during the day and the warm glow from windows at night. The lake gleams from this height, an oasis in the dusty desert as its curved shores lap against the sandstone walls. Dragon ledges also dot the walls from this altitude, shadowed crevices with crumbling ledges still withstanding the tests of time.

A group of Threads fall past Lukoith, one after another, plodding downward with mindless determination.

Tzadhaeielth rises swiftly, angling into position - and none too soon, with Thread making a swift appearance. There is no deviating from his position; the bronze maintains his place, letting out a gout of flame at the nearest coils of silver foulness that dares to descend into his space.

There's nothing quite like the sound of hundreds of wings unfurling and the disturbance of air as so many take flight all at once. It's a rhythm that fuels the heavy beating of drums in Lukoith's mindscape, the brown thriving in this atmosphere. At Z'kul's signal, they are aloft and rising, Divale's attention focused and yet everywhere at once. Fresh and sharp, for now, as they meet the leading edge. Into position they go, just as the first Threads fall into range and Divale allows some leeway in that vice-like mental grip she has on the brow. Without pause, he lets loose with flame, searing all within his range to ash. Not all fall victim to him, some will pass to be claimed by others.

A school of silvery Threads surround Elszerath, darting this way and that as the wind buffets them.

Elszerath waits a little before rising in the position in the wing that he and Soph are at. Though the formation would only last for as long as the pair could keep it. The brown would burn what was immedately before him for the time being. This was till the pair had to shift off from the formation to chase down some clumps that were going astray from the flight lines. This would be followed up by the threads that were kicked up into Elszerath's direction. The brown would slow, hopefully in time to blast and burn as quickly as possible. Though would maybe miss a few for sure but would try to sneak through a hole at least in the clumps. The threads that were missed would hopefully be burned by another.

Tsiroth keeps to formation within Arroyo, even if he has some comments about it. Comments that turn to a more running dialogue of the fight ahead. Does he ever shut up? Likely only when he's really forced to concentrate (which is blessedly often)! Va'os just holds on tight and keeps his wits about him, as others make first contact — it's only a matter a time before Thread reaches them and it's all going to snowball from there. In it for the long haul! That's the plan.

In Arroyo's ranks, Xhieleioth is singing her song of death, sung entirely through gouts of flame. She flames and flames hard, all of her passion converted to a particularly violent release. Kh'an exists only to keep her well-supplied, firestone being added to feed in those few spare moments between.

A large chunk of Thread tumbles downwards towards Zhikanikoth.

For his size, Zhikanikoth is an agile flyer; maybe he's nowhere near as aerobatic as the blues and greens about him, but he's been known to put smaller bronzes to shame. As the wing soars in formation, he follows on his wingleader's left flank, wings outstretched, conserving stamina until such time as - there. As the lead wings begin to flame, he draws himself up, slightly above, pulling his greater bulk out of the formation to prevent himself from leeching wind from his wingmates sails - just as he has many times before. As the silvery Threads begin to drop in earnest, his maw gapes wide, fire spilling from between his teeth, and he begins to sear them to char and ash. As a particularly large bundle decends, he skips between, leaving the brown below him to take care of it before he slips back into this dimension, already flaming the next patch.

The blasts of flame and the bugles of dragons fill the sky and can be over the rush of wind and hiss of Thread.

What Tzadhaeielth lacks in length, he makes up for with an uncommon species of nimbleness - and, likely, the sort to challenge Zhikanikoth at some point or another when their lives aren't currently at stake. As it is, he's plenty occupied with another ugly knot of Thread, hitting it with a full blast of fire. It destroys most of it, but a few rogue strands remain, spilling off to either side for other dragons to take care of.

A delicate spiderweb of Thread tumbles on the winds, spinning close to Tsiroth in its fall.

It's nearly a rhythmic pattern, this fight and like others before it. Lukoith flames again and again, as Thread drops around them. He skips Between when it sneaks too close, reappearing hissing and snarling in a mocking-guttural way. Not this time! And when his flame begins to weaken, he will turn with ill-tempered patience for more firestone from his rider. Divale has fallen into that instinctual reaction too, while her mind works, alert and readied, commands and requests filtered through Lukoith's mindlink as messenger. No injuries yet, no nerve-rattling screams but she knows well enough that those may come yet. When dragons and riders both begin to tire.

A young green dragon flies rather too close in pursuit of Thread, her slipstream swirling the air around a nearby blue rider, who expertly dodges and looks for more Thread to attack.

There's a fluid transition, a stutter-skip between as Xhieleioth avoids a gnarly mess that some other greenpair left. It's a mess that someone else will have to clean up; it's come too close for comfort, near enough to all but graze her hide. Her protest is mighty, but restrained only to the mind of the erring green. Kh'an keeps her fed, brows furrowed under the helmet.

Wheeling end over end across Lukoith's flightpath, a ring of Thread spins its way down towards the greenery below.

From Elszerath's neck, When it came down to it, Soph seemed to try to keep from having to have Elszerath from going between too much or too often. But there was those unavoidable portions for sure in which it would simply be, burn then duck…hopefully quick enough to avoid injury or worse. The pair would reappear at another location a bit later, going right back into the action. Sometimes even doubling back on the flight lines if the pair felt that some stray thread might be missed by someone flying lower.

Delicate looking or not, Tsiroth destroys the tumbling and spinning strands coming towards him with a rather enthusiastic blast of flame. He feigns incomprehension when chided by Va'os. What! It did the trick, didn't it? Sheesh. There's likely further grumbling from the bronze, impolite remarks suggested when otherwise not interrupted by keeping both of their hides intact. He is not built for too much fancy flying, but can hold his own. Va'os settles in, expression grin beneath his flight mask and goggles, single-minded focus broken only to relay and to keep Tsiroth fuelled with firestone.

A bronze blinks ::BETWEEN:: to avoid a patch of Thread; a green swiftly darts in and sears it from the sky.

As it wears on, riders are gradually transitioned out and others filtered in. Resupply continues all the while, firestone sacks being flung to those in need, while others pass off their emptied bags. And somewhere in that exchange, a bluepair is finally struck; keening is cut off as they skip between, only to pick up when they emerge closer to the ground, where the dragonhealers can take over.

A knotted tangle of Thread descends stealthily, slipping silently past Tzadhaeielth in its downward fall.

There's a brief dip in Zhikanikoth's wings as that blue screams; when the beast reappears from between near the ground, the bronze continues on with his flame-flame-chew routine. On his back, K'shi glances down, keeping his mind open for Ixzhulqvoth should the brown call them down as backup - but with injuries so light (for the moment), there is no need for the bronze-pair to trade their wingriding knots for their dragonhealing ones. Thread is spotted, thread is seared, rinse and repeat.

There is no bellowing or roaring from Tzadhaeielth; as dragons go, he might well be a mute - or nearly so. The chaos of Threadfall is tolerable, but only just; the ancient menace must be slain! And he will see to it. That particularly nasty knotted tangle earns the full force of his ire, burnt to a crisp - save for a chunk that he has to skim between to avoid. Fortunately, a brownpair behind is able to tend to it, finishing off what the Weyrleader started. Elsewhere, another dragonpair is hit - this time another bronze, younger and a bit headstrong. « Stay in formation! » is intended for Whirlwind, but the tone cuts across to others nearby. Someone's getting extra drills once they recover.

The lead wing changes formation as they encounter a new patch of Thread.

A ropy clot of Thread plummets out of the sky in front of Elszerath.

After a few more dragons are hit - and one hit hard - Ixzhulqvoth's mind finally reaches to Zhikanikoth. There are no words, just an inked impulse; powerful and pulsing, with the bright-gloom taking an ichored tinge. Somewhere, a green screams before her wings fail; not Xhieleioth, for those keeping an eye out, but another pair from Arroyo.

From Elszerath's neck, A small hesitation would be noted by Elszerath though more so from Soph in concern for the pair that got hit. But their attention didn't stray for very from the fight itself. Given the clot that comes right into Elszerath's vision. "BURN!" Soph pratically yells at the clot just a split second before Elszerath torches it or at least as much as he can…. Anything that's missed will have to be collected by the pair following Elszerath/Soph through that glob! Be veyr lucky if the pair burned the entirity of the clot.

Inked images are heard, swallowed into Zhikanikoth's voracious mental maw, then immediately the message is passed on to Zetali, along with a terse « We come! » for his brother - just before that green screams. It shivers down K'shi's spine like nails on a chalkboard and he casts a panicked glance towards Arroyo's formation. Xhieleioth still flies strong; the bronzerider actually sighs in relief to see Kh'an supposedly unharmed. Within the next heartbeat, however, boy and bronze flit between, reappearing beneath the falling green. Her belly hits Zeke's back; he grunts as he absorbs her weight, and Vash winces at the heat of her breath against his back as they guide the pair down towards the dragonhealers.

Now, with the trailing edge of Threadfall in sight, there is a sense of urgency in the air; Xhieleioth is swapped out - a little late, perhaps, for as slow as she's moving - and others are exchanged yet again. Though the injuries are mounting, they are largely minor - or so say the dragonhealers down below. It can be chalked up to the heaviness of the 'Fall - and the eagerness of some who are doing their best to protect the Weyr. Zhikanikoth will be proclaimed a savior by that greenpair. Lukoith, meanwhile, will earn quiet praise from Tzadhaeielth - later, of course, when the air is clear of deadly silver. The bronze continues to flame, pausing only to eat - though, now, with the trailing edge? That seems to slow.

Elszerath a bit of a sound comes from the brown at getting hit before the pair go between. Popping out a bit later on a very high glide path to allow Soph time to assess the damage that was done. It's not enough to take the pair out of the action really as they can still fight. Soph has does make sure that Elszerath's okay with returning to the fight before having the brown dip back into the passing patterns, rejoining the wing. «It's not bad… I can manage.» would be passed on if any queries were sent in their direction. Though Soph would keep an eye on the injury from time to time, when Els isn't speeding after a clump or two.

They were doing so well! Tsiroth was in spitfire form but maybe that was their undoing too; too much energy and just a dash of recklessness when Va'os was too preoccupied to keep the bronze entirely in check. It's not like they're unseasoned weyrlings and no stranger to the perils of Threadfall but even the experienced screw up. Another clump is flamed, broken apart and scattered for the others to mop up. Tsiroth is about to crow another victory, but is suddenly and furiously trying to alter their course; realized, too late, is the second one. In the mere half-second lurch of realization, the window to skip Between is gone and they're struck. With a scream of shock and pain, the bronze drops at an alarming angle … then vanishes. One, two, three … and he reappears again below but has not corrected his floundering. It's evident swiftly enough that the bronze's struggles come from a damaged wing, but Va'os is fairing no better, slumped as he is in the straps. His mind reaches out, mindvoice a clash of sound as he sounds a mayday call.

Awareness of an injury within his ranks draws a sharp internal swing of attention. It's a quick check with Elszerath but, with all appearing to be well, there's only that mental check. Later will come the tending of wounds and making sure all is right and well. Another scream cuts past the hiss of fire and seared Thread and Tzadhaeielth is quick to reach to the nearest mind. Ixzhulqvoth, protector of observing candidates below, is the one that answers - without his rider, but she's occupied plenty with doing her due diligence. There are a lot of injuries, after all, and someone has to manage the numbweed. The bulky brown swings skyward, a skip between bringing him just under Tsiroth. « I have you. I will take you. Mine will help. » The ink messages are fast; the words clarifying. While Zhikanikoth carries his green burden, the brown has one of his own.

Green is delivered as Ixzhulqvoth takes off after Tsiroth; Zhikanikoth lingers long enough for the dragonhealers to get the beast stablized and Vash to land on the ground with a thump - then he's off again, great wings beating against the air as he lifts his bulk towards his brown brother and his burden. Coming up on the other side, he lends his own bulk to help balance out the smaller bronze, opening his mental maw and firing the gravity-well projectors up to full, trying to leech panic and pain away from Va'os and his lifemate. « Hang on, » he grunts to both Ixy and Tsiroth. « We won't let you fall. » Having gotten there first, Ixzhulqvoth is definitely doing the bulk of the work, but Zeke isn't about to leave him to wrestle a dragon bigger than himself (length-wise, anyway!) to the ground.

At last, the trailing edge. Lukoith may be one of the few who is both triumphant and annoyed at this. It means they have survived vanquishing their ancient foe but it also signals the end of this fight. He is aware of his flagging strength but it doesn't stop that drive in him to keep on. Flame, in this case, as his teeth and claws do no good here! Having received their resupply, they're in good position to help with much of the last of it. Divale will likely have to turn them back before the rest, but will likely be waiting for the rest of Whirlwind's return; of course, much of this is relayed to Z'kul before they slip away from their position.

Elszerath did have to slow down and not pull too many fancy turns on the side he's been hit so as to not damage the wing further. Sure it was only the wingtip but it could still harm the rest of the wing if not cared for properly. Didn't stop him from hunting down and burning more threads while doing his best to stick to the formation. Were other distractions with the added injuries that were happening… but Soph did his best to keep himself and Elszerath focused.

Panic? Who's panicking? (Tsiroth is, that's who) His thoughts turn to relief when much of the strain is lessened when Ixzhulqvoth reaches him and then further when Zhikanikoth joins them. Both will have their work cut out for them, as the bronze immediately sets his full weight to both; at least there's some implied 'thank you' in that distorted mess of his mindscape. « Why is it always the wings!? » Tsiroth laments, with a sentiment that might be more his rider's delirious thoughts than his own. He won't struggle against either brown or bronze, not purposely. It's difficult for him not to react in some way, even now, as they approach the ground and, his sarcasm being set aside, concerns go to self-preservation and that of his rider. Tsiroth's distress will likely magnify once they've got him down, partly from his own pain but more because Va'os is going to have to be cut from his straps by those willing to risk approaching the bronze to get to him. At least he's conscious — if barely!

And there, the end is not just merely in sight - but truly there. The final strands fall, blasted unceremoniously from the skies. Ash filters to the ground below and all the air is smoke and foulness for a time until the wind shifts and the sky is clear. Lukoith's relay in those moments before is appreciated; trust is a necessity here and it is liberally employed. Tzadhaeielth finally bellows, a brassy trumpeting of triumph that rings long and loud before, at last, the gesture and call is given to the rest to descend and take stock. « Well flown, » for all that there are injured, there are no dead. Satisfaction radiates, warm like the feel of whiskey, before it fades into a purposeful burn. Now it's all in the hands of those capable souls on the ground. And they will have their hands full, especially with Tsiroth and Va'os in a state! Good luck!

Below, K'shi is already wrists deep in the green Zhikanikoth had brought in, his redwort-coated hands stained with ichor as he holds together dragonhide for one of the non-trainee dragonhealers to carefully stitch together. As Ixy and Zeke guide Tsiroth in, he glances up long enough to ensure his lifemate isn't over-straining himself to compensate for the additional weight of the bronze, then turns his attention back to the task at hand. It's Khu and I'dre and the other dragonrhealers (and healers!) who'll have to help with Tsiroth and Va'os; but despite the relatively light scattering of injuries, there's plenty of work to go around for all.