==== December 18, 2013
==== Cerise, Yules, T'ral, E'don
==== After the surprise Threadfall over Keroon Hold, the Senior Weyrlings collect at the dragon infirmary to help their comrade.

Who Cerise, Yules, T'ral, E'don
What After the surprise Threadfall over Keroon Hold, the Senior Weyrlings collect at the dragon infirmary to help their comrade
When (Theoretically) Five months and six days until the 12th Pass
Where Dragon Infirmary

cerise18.jpg t-ral_tired.jpg Yulena6.jpg edon3


Dragon Infirmary
An exceptionally large cavernous area is set aside for the dragons of the weyr to convalesce. Immediately adjacent to the ground weyrs, it provides some privacy for those pairs whose injuries require more silence and solitude for recovery. But there are also a number of dragon wallows here for triage and diagnosis; those with the worst injuries have the wallows nearest the open air exit reserved for them until they're well enough to be moved further in. Bins, shelves, and locked cabinets store all of the medicines and raw ingredients the dragonhealers will need for treatment, as well as things like blankets and 'medicinal whiskey' for the riders of the afflicted. A lettering system applied to the shelves above one lone desk hint at a filing system used by those who work here.


It's a close thing, the sudden arrival of Jiamoth from ::Between::. She appears a scant dragonslength above the ground outside of the infirmary's cavern, and promptly crashes the rest of the way down in a tangle of flailing celadon limbs and thrashing silvery wings. The forelimb that had gained a woven cast of Thread is clutched tightly to her chest as she comes down in the most graceless of fashions, wailing out the pain that radiates up that limb and into her body through its network of nerves. On her neck, Cerise is almost literally blue with cold, exposed legs icelike from all of those trips into the long dark of ::Between::. It makes dismounting almost impossible, though the shocky, hypothermic weyrling is doing her best, with arms thrown around Jia's neck from above and chattering teeth still forcing words out between them: "…st-stop moving…Jia…oh it hurts it hurts it HURTS my leg is burning my leg I cannot feel my paw!" Guess which are relayed sentiments?

Esanth isn't far behind. Thumping down, hard. T'ral rebounds off of his neck with a cry. He unstraps and slide-falls off of Esanth. The blue is bulling his way forward uttering grinding blats, rumbles of distress, his eyes whirling a queasymaking yellow-gray, stark, but dull against his blue hide. T'ral, stumbles along, pulling on Esanth's chest straps. Calm. Calm. Remember. Calm. Esanth clamps his maw shut. An arm clamped to his side, T'ral presses a staying hand to Esanth's chest and hurries to Cerise. Orderlies, already bustling here and there hurry up to Cerise uttering soothing words. Dragons standing by exert similar soothing mental pressures on the pair.

Qianvaelth is too slow to be the dragon to get to Jiamoth first, but the bronze arrives from ::between:: in a flurry of wings and bulk and a clamoring of bulges. The bronze is emitting a screaming cry of «HEALERS» that echoes across the immediate vicinity. The bronze is a reaching tendril of soothing mossy calm, a strong, steady blanket of tree roots. He's trying to play both soother and commander at this junction. E'don is tumbling head over ass down his dragon and over to where Cerise and Jiamoth are, reaching up for support. One tentative hand reaches out and up to try and will the green rider safely down from her dragon. "Grab my hand Cerise. Steady."

Slowly, dragons start to filter from Between, exhausted, keening in pain and sorrow in the aftermath of the Threadfight over Keroon. What was so joyous an event is now a cause for dismay, and as Desmeth pops out of between, looking greyer than his usual lustrous self, the sound carries on. He lands less gracefully than usual, and Yules slides from his back, just avoiding getting tangled in straps. She examines him closely before nodding once; he heads for WATER OH FARANTH CLEAN PLS NAO; Yules heads for the dragon infirmary, grimacing with each step. "Healers! NOW!" she echoes probably anyone who has seen Jiamoth's paw. That roar, though, echoed throughout many a kitchen on Pern, and now it… gets cranky looks from dragonhealers all over. Still, Yules doesn't care much, "Unclip her, get her down!" She's already trying to circle around everyone to the other side to see if she can reach those straps.

There are other dragons already here being tended, and more incoming but as Jiamoth falls under the mental blanket cast by the dragonhealers' winged mates, she joins those who've settled. Or, more accurately, she hugs the ground and whistles her distress. That silvery green hide has been bleached to a strict grey, against which the pained whorl of her eyes stands out vividly. But, with remaining still, Cerise is able to fumble the buckles free and slide down into the hands all raised up to catch her. Her gown is a torn and tattered mess around her blue-tinged legs but that ruin is ignored in favor of what's been done to her lifemate- the little green's right forelimb, tucked so forlornly to her chest, is a raw mess, clumps of flesh missing where they've been eaten to the bone, digits melted, tendons exposed. "Help her, please, oh please," she whimpers, sagging and reaching for the green with one hand. The other, pitifully, remains tucked against her own chest in an emotional echo of the trauma.

The orderlies don't particularly like getting barked at by weyrling dragonriders (but Shards, they understand) and bustle about their work efficiently and with little fuss, despite the severity of Cerise and Jiamoth's distress. Calmly, "Rider, breathe. Relax, we're taking care of her," A gentle hand outstretched, "Touch her. Be with her. But be easy…" A soothing voice over the cries and bellows of the post-Fall infirmary. Dragonhealers are calling for stands and rests, murmuring to Jiamoth to extend her cradled foot. "Please have her stretch her foot." A sympathetic look, "I know it hurts. Be brave. We need to see."

T'ral puts a hand on E'don's shoulder, wincing as holding him back stretches the fresh wound in his side, "E'don. Hang back. Keep Qianvaelth focused on calming Jiamoth."

"Easy on, Cerise." E'don is one to get a grip on one of the green rider's arm, his Bollian tenor soothing, clipped with the edge of nerves and anxiety. "Here, someone grab her," the bronze rider is pushing Cerise on-wards to the healers, the knowledge of his own limitations evident in his motions. "Someone get her some fellis." The rider is relentlessly honed on moving forward though, after the green rider and healers. That is, until T'ral holds him back. "Don't touch me T'ral," the rider snaps, all anxiety pent in his voice as he's held back, and he turns on the blue rider with a quick, pointed look. "And don't tell me what to do. I'm Wingsecond." That's gritted out, acridly before turning back in his plot to follow Cerise. "Qianvaelth is already doing it." Someone is not too pleased.

"There's no rank in here. Only pain and healing." T'ral takes his hand off of E'don's shoulder. I'm terrible at this. What am I even thinking? He pauses a beat, "Give them room." He winces, hitching as his wound barks, trying to put an arm across E'don's shoulder. "I'm scared too."

In her worry, Yules stands RIGHT where one dragonhealer wants to be, right until said healer tells her to shove off to one side. So Yules does the opposite and gets closer to Jiamoth. Desmeth is on his way back, crooning as best he can to Jiamoth, adding to Qianvaelth and Esanth's efforts. As Cerise is coming down, Yules comes back around to overhear E'don's reply. The look on her face is thunderous, the epitome of its-been-a-long-day, but she waits a moment before gritting out, "How are your dragons?" A look at T'ral's hand leads her to say, "T'ral, visit the Healers for that hand," and it takes a moment for Yules's tone to even out when she looks at E'don, "You? Any Threadscore?" Cerise gets the most sympathetic look of all, though Yules gets jostled out of the way by an enthusiastic 'healer.

Support is necessary. Shock and cold conspire to make loose hinges of Cerise's knees; her legs seem boneless as she hits the ground, thankfully to be held up long enough to be transferred to a stretcher. Perhaps the instructions being given to the rider are heard, though it's difficult to tell- there's no color in her face, and when her eyes close in concentration, she has the look of someone unconscious, oblivious to the other weyrlings nearby. But, with arm outstretched to keep a hand pressed against Jiamoth's side, the stretcher angled to allow that contact, she must be exerting some influence. The green falls into helpless twitching and gives a heartwrenching moan but does as the healers had hoped: that ruined limb is extended over the padded stands to allow them their first unhindered look at what Thread can do to a body. The damage goes deep and ichor has begun to patter against the ground where the cauterization was imperfect. Flopped almost onto her side, Jia locks eyes that are slowly losing their speedy whirling on the distant figures of her wingmates, focusing on them or trying to past her discomfort.

"No, seriously." There's one of those violent shrugs E'don does as T'ral attempts to keep contact with his shoulder, and he's now holding the blue rider with a fiercely angry look, something one doesn't see all that often out of the young man. "No— there's rank. And you need to follow it." Perhaps the bronze rider is finally owning his rank, but he's also quick to know that he too has to follow the hierarchy. His temper deflates only slightly as he acknowledges Yule's question: "Yea—no, not me. On Qian though," he acquiesces, but then he's moving past both brown and blue rider at the suggestion. Go tend to dragon. Let's just assume E'don is going to get a numb weed paddle of his own.

T'ral suffers E'don's wrath stoically, leaving off. He hadn't intended to redirect E'don's attention on him, but it served the same effect. Cerise collapses and a knot rises in T'ral's throat. Esanth shivers, eyes gone gray. T'ral is scared. For Jiamoth. For Cerise. "Yules. You're in the way." He points, "Stand over there." He shakes his head, jaw bunching. He stops on his way past her, eyeing her head, "Did you take a hit?"

Yules is good at being in the way, even when she doesn't want to be. She does take a step back, especially when a healer moves by her to do something for Jiamoth, but Cerise seems to be taken care of as best as is possible at this point, and she nods at E'don's back as he moves off to care for Qianvaelth. T'ral gets a careful once over before Yules' eyes track to his lifemate: "Weyrling," she says harshly, "Get ahold of yourself." Whether or not Yules is helping the situation, one hand points at Esanth, "Your dragon needs your reassurance right now." Desmeth tries to send calm, clear hot toddy thoughts to the blue, but after tonight, he's starting to flag. The question, though, has Yules blinking in surprise, "Me?" One hand reaches back to touch her scalp, but even the air molecules (if Pern understands molecules) pressing into the wound hurt, so Yules doesn't actually touch and looks even more annoyed, though not at T'ral. "We'll go to the Healers together," she decides, "The Healers will do everything for Cerise, and we are not useful now." Yules considers and amends that, "Well, until your hand is patched up."

T'ral is endless patience for getting barked at and ordered today. First E'don. Now Yules. Or he's just empty. Strung out. Tired. Gritty. Hurting. And trying to do his best to see his friends safe from reserves he doesn't have. He nods mutely at Yules and falls in beside her.

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