Southern Paradise River

Savanna stretches east, toward the Jordan River, and west, toward the Black Rock River, in an expanse of green and gold broken up by the tail end of the Paradise river. This particular stretch is yet too northwest of Rock Hill Cothold - and too southeast of Paradise River Hold. Rather, it's an expanse populated by numerous cotholds and a few clans of free folk that make their way by treading the grass sea of the savanna.

During the warmer months, herds of wild beasts make their way across the savanna in search of water and food; come winter and they retreat to their wintering grounds to leave the landscape barren of life save for avians and the odd firelizard or two. The land's not as heavily grubbed here as some, lending itself to burrows if left unchecked.

While the first half of the heavy Threadfall was handled courtesy of a sudden drenching downpour and a few sodden groundcrew members to clean up the burrows, the latter half over the Paradise River finds suddenly clear skies and a lingering mist that translates into a rainbow overhead. This is the sky that R'zel leads his riders to, with the silvery shine of the blighted ribbon of Thread shimmering like heat haze. Dragons are stoked and airborne, having spent plenty of time before to make preparations. Triage centers have been set up on the ground, along with fresh groundcrew and some able-bodied souls from the cotholds.

Weyrlings, too, have been preparing - for sacks of firestone don't fill themselves, nor do they load themselves onto dragons. For the weyrlings, this will be one of their first brushes with the menace beyond any groundcrew experiences as candidates.

When Threadfall finally comes, it's with a quickness; strands fall thick and fast, with fire bursting overhead and thick spills of ash and char following in its wake. The early bits of Threadfall are eerily quiet for those on resupply; there's nothing to do at first - not until the first riders start signalling. One from Cheetah, another from Ocelot; the requests for resupply begin to come as fast as Threadfall itself.

Nalaski knew it was coming. She knew she couldn't avoid this forever, obviously. Couldn't just live her life happily with her perfect lifemate, away from all this. Wide-eyed and heart pounding, Nalaski watches the Thread approach as she and Prymith wait on the ground near the stacks of firestone, already loaded down with enough sacks for a resupply. When the call from Ocelot comes, Nalaski hesitates at their order to meet up with L'denn and Vindryth, but Prymith does not. The little green springs eagerly aloft, leaving Nalaski's heart (and yelp) behind as they rise into the fray.

The Thread hisses as it passes through the air, nearly hitting a blue rider.

Anxiety defines him in moments like these, leaving B'hanu white-knuckled beneath the gloves. Ukitsukamith is bold as brass, she is, but even she's sobered by the sights and smells that unfold. She sneezes when some ash gets up a nostril, jarring her rider and prompting a yelped cry from him that sounds thin and tight and strained. It's another pairing up in Lynx - too distant for him to truly see beyond bronze hide - that needs his aid and after loading up accordingly, his lifemate bounds into the sky like a ribbon of grave mist to stitch a course to where V'iss and Vuzjavalasith await.

Tamar counts herself as a VTOL, the nickname of Southern's groundcrews who, when paired with the dark-colored canisters of chemicals and protective helmets with domed eyes, look like the well-known insectoids. Having also helped fine-tune the recent Thread charts, she's got some skin in the game. Loose clothing and hair tucked, Tamar follows the day's chief with his distinctive #1 centered in paint on his agenothree tank. They keep in pairs, Tamar supplemented by her blue firelizard and his mimic of several other members of 'lizardkind. Constantly looking up, this will be the day of crick necks only if she's lucky.

A bronze rider smiles as his dragon quickly burns a huge path in the ensuing thread.

With Lyrlea leading the half of CatMint today, she and Jocelleth both are on edge, but for very different reasons. In the rider's case, it's nerves. This is no rope drill, where the worst that any of them will have to deal with is paint. Honestly, she probably could've used at least three fewer warnings that someone could die today. In Jocelleth's case, it's barely restrained frustration. Resupply?! This girl is hear to FLAME THREAD, baby, not act as a winged cart, thank you very much. It's only Lyrlea's tight hold on her riding straps that keeps the dragon from resisting the urge to launch immediately into the air or, more likely, pacing on the ground. "I want three spotters on at all times!," Lyrlea calls out to the wing. "No calls for resupply missed today, no delays! Sacks full. If you're no reloading, be ready to fly."

Puma's ranks are diminished with Skathistjarnath brooding and Suanjiath gravid enough that flight is verging on an impossibility. The others fly stronger as a result, though scraps and strands of Thread yet slip through the fiery maws of the airborne beasts. A gust of chill wind pushes hard overhead, shifting a whole sheet and setting it just off enough that nearly half of it manages to make it past the queen's wing to the ground below. A flurry of weyrlings on resupply are quick to scatter between to avoid it, their precious cargo - and hides - still intact. Groundcrew, look lively!

Prymith is nimble and swift, but Nalaski is trembling as they rise to meet Vindryth and L'denn. Blue and green approach each other seamlessly, holding a steady wingbeat in alternating cadence so they can get even closer. Fumbling with the ties of the firestone bag, Nalaski drops the first one and it tumbles down, down, down below. Then she drops the second. Then she starts to cry in bitter frustration and fear, tears fogging up her riding goggles. Then she drops the third. With a mental nudge, Vindryth sends Prymith away from the fight, as he spins and calls for another Weyrling to come resupply.

Up and up and up, what a wondrous pattern Ukitsukamith weaves on her way to destiny. As she draws near enough, B'hanu fights with the ties of his bag of firestone and manages to work it free with some effort and hissed curses that are torn away by the wind. His grip is awkward, but he's able to make a decent throw of the sack - even if Vuzjavalasith has to bank slightly to bring his rider close enough to make a rough grab for it. His curses are less tender; they cut across the air keen enough to make nearby ears bleed. B'hanu doesn't think about the second bag he has on him, nor the third; he's quick to get out of there to get back to solid ground where he can breathe.

A wingsecond screams a warning to the wingleader, who is almost scored by a large patch of thread.

Tamar keeps pace with the loose formation of groundcrew members, looking to her partner named Gebyron and giving him a thumbs up sign her equipment is in working order and so's she. Glossy with rain, they comb the grasslands cropped short from grazers and a turn of seasons and it's mostly an easy trek with some inclines and sparse places of rocks. She almost stumbles forward when Puma dovetails above, the wake of their wind a brief buffet as their shadows devotedly follow. As Gebyron picks up the pace, so does Tamar, aware of how much work it is to move with caustic liquid on one's back.

«COVERING PRYMITH!!,» comes Jocelleth's announcement to CatMint, louder than is really necessary. Probably far louder than is really necessary. It comes as a half-second surprise even to Lyrlea, who jerks backward as the pint-sized green launches up from the ground with enough speed and ferocity to rake claw marks in the earth. But then she shifts her weight, readying a sack in one arm to toss to L'denn if he can find her in all of the fray. It leaves her hands too full to signal to Nalaski as they pass near one another, but that may be for the best, if her fellow greenrider won't be able to see her clearly anyway. Better to leave it being relayed between the dragons, for now. «Prymith! Resupply! Try again! Your little one can do it with a bigger throw!»

Vindryth slides up to Jocelleth, L'denn easily catching Lyrlea's throw. A brief handwave of thanks and the Wingsecond is back into the ranks of his wing.

The ground will eventually give way to a burgeoning burrow, filled with the unspeakable mass of Thread in its fed state. It seethes and roils, devouring and expanding and making itself an even larger target for those with 'throwers and agenothree on their backs. One terrified youth - having fled from one of the cotholds, it would seem - is staring into the abyss and trembling at the crumbling precipice.

Prymith's usually spring-bright thoughts are drenched with a downpour of sodden rain. No life-giving shower, this - it's a deluge that washes things away. Through it, the green's voice is dim. Hesitant. « She can not. » Then she retreats as one of the AWLM's dragons takes her attention. For the moment, the little green is grounded.

Partially refueled, the wings continue their assault on the ancient enemy with good success despite the heaviness of the 'Fall; yet, still, more and more are running out of fire and the weyrlings are sent up in increasing number to offer assistance. This time it's a scattered wave from Jaguar, Serval, and Tigris. B'hanu struggles to refresh the one sack he'd already tossed and then it's back up into the fray, with Ukitsukamith briefly seeking to touch mind to mind with Prymith; no deluge deters her, not with her sending of foxfire and night-blooming flowers. No words are offered, merely that offering meant to bolster a spirit that falters. But then it's onward and upward, surging high and hard to bring 'stone to a brownrider in Tigris.

A hand lifts at L'denn's swift catch. Admittedly, that sack of firestone was more thrown at him than to him, but that also means it was very hard to drop. Lyrlea and Jocelleth then bank left, circling back towards the ground. It's just when Lyrlea looks back over her shoulder to check she's missed no signals in the flurry of calls for resupply from above when she misses it — the thin tangle of half-charred Thread that a brown above didn't quite blast. There's a cry of sudden pain as it spatters across rider and dragon both and for one brief instant, the pair wink out of sight, slipping frantically ::between::.

« I need more, » insinuates itself like rancid smoke, sulphur-streaked and super-heated. Vuzjavalasith grasps at whatever minds can relay his demands - for that's what they are in a moment like this. No time for 'please' or 'thank you', it would seem - not while his fire's running empty sooner than he'd like. V'iss depletes the bag he has and signals accordingly with another hiss and spit of curse for near ears only. Aid will eventually come, but not before a few of the weyrlings are taken out of the running one way or another.

A large green swoops down low, to fry a patch of Thread.

Sadaiya is not aloft this time. "Here is your agenothree dispenser. There are many like it, but this one is yours." Could it be distraction? Oh yeah! The next holder comes by, earns a far too bright smile and a "This is your agenothree dispenser. There are many like it, but this one's yours. OI!" And the holder starts, staring at the sudden shout. "Reload sacks! Vuzjavalasith's out along with about five other dragons! Hup hup hup!" With a wince, she rubs her hip, leaning against a stool. Too sore to fly, woe. "Anyway, here is your agenothree…"

Was that a shout? A bag of firestone falls from above, a member of groundcrew with his head craned, noting a second following suit. Their sacks snap as they hit the ground, contents landing as a heap of small boulders. "Another!" someone above with a harder voice announces a third bag of firestone falling not far from the others. As a massive burrow begins to roil, Tamar hopes there's not a fourth to contend with as she and others contend with what can kill them on the ground. With two crew members watching the sky as others send sprays of aqua fortis at crumbling earth. Tamar moves backward while gloved hands wreak havoc.

What's the punishment for just…refusing to fly resupply? Or being so frozen in fear that it definitely would not be safe to go back up there? Because that's what Nalaski and Prymith are going to find out, as they're sent back to the weyr. Whoops.

On the ground, there's much to dodge - ash, firestone, more firestone - and also the hazards of soil shifting as Thread consumes all consumables it can reach. The lad at the edge of the burrow is hastily yanked back by someone who pulls too hard; a dislocated shoulder will be easier to resolve than being Thread-eaten on the ground. Acid makes good work of the mass in the earth, while another soul with a flamethrower sets the other half ablaze. The smell is abominable. The crops grown in this area, however, will be spectacular for at least a season, if not two.

Thank Faranth and the first egg, none of the AWLMs are going to have to file a report about a weyrling and rider lost between today — at least not regarding Lyrlea and Jocelleth. The pair wink back into sight from ::between:: but make no attempt to land. Why aren't they landing? Shouldn't they be landing? But Lyrlea still has two sacks of firestone attached to her riding strap, loaded and ready. It seems the girl has decided through gritted teeth and a rain of ash from above that she won't be landing until she has to, and three strong strokes of Jocelleth's acid-green wings bring them up to resupply Vuzjavalasith and one of the other riders from his wing.

Would that he had willpower - or fear - strong enough to keep him grounded. B'hanu might be keenly aware of their surroundings, but that does nothing to protect him - or Ukitsukamith - from their emergence into a space that was Threadfree a split second ago… and, now, isn't. Shifting winds are problematic; cool, brisk, and autumnal, they carry the potential for death with them. A shriek from the green and a matching cry from her rider are cut short by a long skip between. They will arrive at the Weyr in short order, with Ukitsukamith's mind pained, but flaring with fireflies and winking tealights: « 'Tis nothing but a scratch, brothers and sisters! 'Tis nothing! But eat a herdbeast in our honor just in case! »

Drawing the back of her hand across her forehead, Sadaiya sighs gustily, turning to receive replacement tanks for the top of the table she stands behind. "Thank you guys, seriously. You're doing great. Keep it up, there's hot soup and strong klah at the end." Her gratitude is sincere, though delivered on a huff of exhaustion. "Are the numbweed demijohns running low yet?" There's a wince from the Healers milling beneath the overhang they've set up in the shadow of. "Okay. Okay. Gimme a second." Jivayath, distant, relays orders with the crisp precision of a queen. "Okay. More's on the way."

A scratch? Your arm's off!

"Thanks," is more mouthed than yelled to Lyrlea and her lifemate; V'iss's easy catch of the bag transforms into an equally easy slinging of 'stone to his dragon's ravenous maw. Appreciation is offered to Jocelleth on a plume of volcanic smoke, glinting with shards of obsidian under a blighted sun. The bronze trains his attention on more Threadfall and the cycle continues; he, destruction incarnate, will ruin all that crosses his path and with a vengeance that stinks of phosphine ash.

No it isn't!

And that cotholder? A swipe of a groundcrewman's arm bades him to GET GONE. Tamar can hear the dragon din well above her head, she even periodically sees Parallax trying to keep up with some of the larger colors but he's finding it increasingly hard to — blurry speed now low swoops with ample gliding. As soil turns into a bubbling vat of roots turning into gorging tendrils doubling in size. Shining with enzyme ooze, Tamar changes the dial from stun to kill wide to denser spray, melting the casing from the mass until its insides are outside.

As the midpoint passes and things inexorably start to wind toward an end that's well in sight, more supplies are ferried from the Weyr to the triage point courtesy of Jivayath's relays and a dutifully trained trio of weyrlings who were readied for this particular task. Will it be enough? Too much? It's whatever the weyrwoman's called for - and it arrives none too soon, with a couple of riders dropping down with 'scores to wings and grazed tails and necks that need little more than numbweed before they can get on the wing again.

The lad scurries, finding his legs again only after he's swung at. Home again with him - and if he sets foot outside the cothold, it'll be too soon. Especially when yelps and calls from above signal another thick knot of Thread that's slipped free; it falls apart on the way down, fine filaments filtering over where a current burrow is already being tended. Lightning allegedly doesn't strike twice - but has anyone heard of Thread doing it? The glistening mass already in the hole is quickly yielding. With its shell breached, the acids and fire alike will make quick work of whatever alien mechanisms propel it.

With a gack of dismay, Sadaiya grabs a bug-out bag and books it over to Tamar's side, mounting her dragon with a faint squeal of pain, face flushing as the two hop and skip over. "It's okay! It's okay! Um, the Healers are a little busy right now so we're gonna make sure… oh shit dude your LEG! Shh shh, lie down." Carefully, she's doffing her jacket and folding it into a makeshift pillow.

Thread's straggling along on its last gasps and, soon, the end is nigh and with perfect timing to leave most dragons operating on fumes and sparks enough to quash the rest. Groundcrew's good labors finally yield fruit; the burrow is obliterated and only a few are injured courtesy of those stray filaments. The rest are burned before they can cause damage, leaving only fertilizer behind. The Healers will have their work cut out for them today; numbweed for everyone.

"Fall back!" The groundcrew chief shouts as the ground underfoot grows unstable. It's a betrayal of the highest order to know you cannot stand on solid earth. Tamar keeps the hose close to her arm as she retreats, the fire taking effect as it rings and crisps the vegetation still bowed toward a collapsed crater. In retreat she's marked by a different danger one Parallax warns her about milliseconds before a strip of half-charred Thread has enough danger in it to sear into her leg. She doesn't feel it at first, nerves destroyed with the other flesh, and when she falls, the agenothree tank makes her turtle, gloves batting at the profound burn-like feel, thinking she's caught fire. Like Sadie, Gebryon is upon her, dousing the Starcrafter's extremeties with water.

It's only well past that point of midfall, injured or not, that Jocelleth and Lyrlea begin to slow down. The Thread that scored both their hides is dead now and despite the searing ache, there's a job to be done and the tiny little green, despite her size, has the energy to do it. And so they keep at it, again and again and again. Time on the ground is spent reloading or reassuring or readying the weyrlings. Time in the air is spent heaving heavy sakes of firestone to weary and waiting riders. And somehow, some way, Lyrlea manages to keep Jocelleth in check — manages to keep her from chasing tumbles and heaps of Thread herself, if only just barely. More than once the beast opens up her maw, reader to let out a blast the second she's unleashed, but it's a good thing she never is. They're flying outside of formation, and so it's a good think her flames are never unleashed. They're far too close to other flying pairs, tossing range too short to safely let out a burst of fire.

"C'mon, just breathe, honey. We've got you." Sinking to her knees with a hissed breath, Sadaiya quickly pulls the tank off of Tamar and shoves it to the side using what adrenaline reserves she has left, then pulls out a small jar of numbweed and a flask. "Here. You take a swig of this, dear, and I'll slap the feel good goo on your leg. It's a little brew I picked up last week. Bit of fellis, bit of whiskey." The flask passed, she pulls a small foldable felt envelope out, and a pair of scissors. "We're gonna get the pants away from your leg, okay?" Carefully, she recites what triage she has managed to learn as she passes the items to the actual crafters, working at the jar's lid with a grimace. "Okay who closed this last?" Jivayath just gives them a Look. "Shush, you." Sighing, Jivayath alights her gaze on the patient. « You're safe now. We'll get you home. It's easy. You're tough. I can tell. »

Tamar's animal brain is trying to roll and evade, even as a very soothing and know-nonsense Sadaiya is the matron of reason. If the tank comes off, Tamar's keeping the helmet on, exposing just her mouth to take the magic draught after a mark of hesitation. "It's…!" Gloved hands crawl on the ground as she writhes with her good limbs, looking through the google lenses though they're fogged and mud-covered. Now flat on her back, good knee trembling as the numbweed slowly seeps in, Gebyron takes off the journeyman's helmet. "Woman?" Oh. "That's much better." Ignoring him to tell Sadie she's got magic fingers.

"Theeeeere you go, sweetheart. We're just gonna get you back, okay? I… I don't think I can get you on Jivayath, but would you be cool if she kinda grabbed you? She's gentle, and you're a lanky thing, aren't you?" « I would never hurt you. I've done this a bunch of times. It's pretty easy. » Sadaiya gives Gebyron a concerned look, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "It'll be much faster."

Tamar pinches her whole jaw when a dragon voice is heard in her head, wondering, maybe, if she's still in bed sleeping and this was hypercreative realism. "I think," easing up from elbows, "I can walk if I just sit here a moment." And looking down at what used to be trousers, and how the rest of her leg's swelling. She pokes at it with a curious face because she can't feel it. Then laughs until very shortly she and others return to their home Weyr to lick their words. And poke them.

Gebyron lowers himself, wrapping an arm behind the lanky young Starcrafter's neck and carefully, so carefully, under her knees. With a slight grunt, he shifts and deposits the load into the cradling cage of Jivayath's claws. For her part, Sadaiya stuffs her folded jacket underneath Tamar's knees. "Theere you go. We have to keep your leg elevated. Now don't move and don't worry. You'll be home soon." « Hope you're ready! » the queen notes out, somewhat amused despite the worry that whirls in her eyes. With an awkward pat to the injured girl's good knee, Sadaiya grabs her bag and Gebyron to mount up and, with a great creaking of wings, leap up for a low and quick glide back over to the triage area.