Who

Agertha, Eala, F'in, Il'ian, Ko'an, Max, Moanna, T'ral, Tahi | Oriahysciath, Rhakanth, Sargaeroth, Zodaiyath, Bamfth, Esanth, Golgrainth

What

(Actual log of) Igen's Wings rising to fight a catastrophic 'Fall over the Weyr. Optional theme of song lyrics/themes. Injuries and song links below.

When

It is midmorning of the twenty-second day of the eighth month of the eighth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 13 Aug 2016 07:00

 

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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, the wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the northeastern bazaar, the adobe sprawl of the New Weyr reflected in the lake that dominates a large portion of outdoor Igen. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the shores, 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. One cracked path, faint with disuse, leads southeast to the crumbling ruins of Igen-that-was. 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.

It is the fifty-second day of Summer and 99 degrees. Mercilessly bright, Rukbat's light heats the desert.


Preparation for a 'Fall this heavy has had the Weyr preparing for the better part of three sevens. Bazaar merchants have scuttled their stalls. Weyrlingmasters have shuffled nervous young pairs inside to weather the hours-long trial. Traders have coralled bawling livestock in shallow caves to wait out the deadly storm. Old man Yedos has brought in the sad hibiscus he's kept improbably alive since his wife's passing last Winter. Dragons and riders and groundcrews assemble as Rukbat creeps across the sky, bright and clear…

…until it isn't.

A ripple of fervor shivers through dragons and riders as the Watchdragon bellows his rage at the first sign of Thread. Terrible rumbles and roars tear from dragons' throats as the Wings spring aloft in ordered waves, beating into the sky to meet the threat. Whirlwind, Hogback. Arroyo, Parhelion, Sandblast. Oasis, Mirage. The dragons of Igen beat skyward, jaws aflame.

Blinking in the morning sun, drinking in the morning sun, T'ral keeps one eye closed against Rukbat's glare, winds out of the west, means Thread will be falling very down. And they'll be blind. It's going to be a long, long, LONG day. He mounts up, find's the beacon of Catryn's hair where she stands. A hand raised, a wink sent and when Whirlwind springs up to fight and fly and flame.

From Bamfth's neck, Blue smoke curls and hisses at the promise of the fight, midnight blue wings causing the glyph marks across them to dance as powerful legs push against the ground scarring the earth as Bamfth launches into the air, blinking between almost instantly. Beyond the boundaries of Igen's city lights, fly the heroes waiting for your cries. Bamfth pops in above the dodged clump a scarlet ribbon of narrow flame lighting up the sky. Max lets out an belly laugh, clinging to her lifemate's straps as the blue wheels to take his place amongst whirlwind.

Of Whirlwind, Zodaiyath drives ever upwards to fall into formation of the generally larger beasts that occupy that higher elevation. Impatience laces even the most minor of his movements. Black sails risen and swept in rhythm; about as steady as the equally slow and violent undulation of the River Styx that whispers its very hatred in thousands of ghostly hisses. The bronze's maw echoes the lost soul's wail in the trickle of flame that falls from wicked facade as ghost ship readies for the first of the silver menace to dare cross his River's current without payment, without permission. It simply couldn't come soon enough. Ko'an's gaze sweeps over the rest of the wing before focus shifts upwards and stays there, a small, ever-darker smirk is unhidden amidst his expression, shielded only by all the gear upon him.

Golgrainth is the focused one here, as always; it's not as if Tahi isn't good at handling Falls, but she has none of Golgrainth's drive and very little of a lot of the other dragonriders'. This is a necessary and unpleasant task she does not enjoy that will allow her to get back to the rest of her non-flamey life. But that's always how it begins, and by the end she has enjoyed it, because of Golgrainth's unfettered joy. That is in the green's vocalizations as she takes off into Parhelion's formation, the way she moves and flames, lethal speed and grace now that she's left the ground behind. Someone less used to her flying would be motion sick already!

F'in kisses a woman in the gathered throng like a final meal, donning goggles and scrambling into position before Mirages rises to sear what those above fail to char. One boon of fighting in the Weyr, the presence of the Queens is palpable.

A rushing waterfall of Thread cascades from the heavens above, reflecting an eerie, distorted image as it falls before Rhakanth.

Astride Oriahysciath, Eala turns only long enough to ensure that Parhelion is in formation before they take to the skies. The petite green is a lithe, ferocious beast, chasing down thread with whip-quick speed. Much like her fellow Helion, it's the sort of sharp, sudden movement likely to make one ill, but the threat of silvery death is a failsafe distraction from any potential nausea. The blonde keeps one eye on the sky and the other on the wing — Oriahysciath isn't likely to let anything slip by them.

Bamf - Between they go as the deadly quilt descends, emerging above. That woke them up, and the adrenaline that Max feels is enough to make her system blow. Bamfth sends a thick gout of searing flame in bellowing challenge, painting it red to fit right in.

Thread is falling thicker and thicker. The ropy, sizzling cords hissing past almost faster than they can be seen. Dragons bellow rage and pain as searing scores bite.

A glare is sent towards where Agertha knows her lifemate to be hiding. Grounded, and during a 'Fall at that and all because the variegated green refuses orders. The flamethrower is held with nozzle at the ready as she takes her place among the groundcrew. Agertha just can't sit idle, it goes against her grain to wait out a 'Fall safely indoor while her wing flies high above ready to flame any of the silver menace that gets in range. Still, she is able to take a moment to admire the precision of Arroyo even if she can't be part of the wing just now, "You an me Kes, we're going to talk later," threat or promise? Probably promise. The 'thrower's nozzle is clacked on as needed, and Agertha moves forward with the rest of the groundcrew. Sweeping each area diligently with each step she takes.

The trickle of flame that came first as some unruly gurgle of impending fiery destruction- not all unlike the slow sinister promise of a simmering wick headed for a volatile pile of gunpowder within- from Zodaiyath's partially open jaws becomes a shockwave of cannonfire that ripples through the whole of him. Bone and soul deep does the torrent come in all the GhostShip's blood and battlelust, turned upon the sky and the Thread that now trespasses there. By oath cast upon the River they sail, the juggernaught surges forwards on the invisible sea of the sky to turn what comes before him into ash and ember. What is engulfed, and surely in the outpour of fire that comes of him, everything in the immediate vicinity will fall to his Hellfire, flickers and dies in darkness as it tumbles then harmlessly to the grounds far below.

Out of the blue, Golgrainth receives a medium score on the wingtip!

Curling movements pulsing with every contorted twist, a clump of Thread reaches out towards towards Zodaiyath.

A small knotlike bundle of Thread blossoms, reaching out like a fisher's cast net, hoping to ensnare Esanth in its hungry grasp.

From Esanth's neck, T'ral receives a slight score on the shoulder!

Lightning-flashes of flame dot the sky as dragons attack the thread.

Below, on the ground, the fall of crackdust and ash becomes a constant (non-sand) grit in the air.

From Sargaeroth's neck, True tandem: the betrayer and the daemon, fighting together in a movement rife with fel-intent. Fire spews, ash sprays and yet Il'ian and Sargaeroth move in veritable accord. Turns of flying together have earned them this right. They duck and swerve - but never enough to break formation. Thread fall is darkness, achieved. They hunt it, for rising above Sargaeroth's broken-world purple bruises is a demon hunter's Purpose: to hunt. To kill. To annihilate.

Riders toss chunks of firestone to their dragons, replenishing their flame. The stench of firestone fills the air.

A dragon bugles in pain as a thread nicks his wingtip, and he dives ::BETWEEN:: to cool the threadfire.

From Golgrainth's neck, Upon being hit, Golgrainth lets out a shriek unlike one ever heard before; this is the first time Thread has DARED assault her directly, in all her spins and turns and whipcord moves. She's still looking like she's trying to slip away from it as she blinks ::between:: and returns again seconds later. While the wound has cooled, it's still there, though, and somewhat nasty at that — enough to take the small green out of the rest of the battle? Doesn't seem like it, unless they're ordered down by R'xim or anyone else. The injury just fuels her fire. Tahi is surely trying to order her down, but Golgrainth is resisting.

A small clump of thread drifts close to a wingmate, and Oriahysicath is there in an instant, flaming the patch to oblivion with that uncanny precision of hers. Then she's off to the next, dodging a clump too large for her firepower before taking down another. She's relentless and fearless, and all Eala really has to do is stay astride her — rarely is direction needed. This is what the green was made for, after all. The blonde keeps a sharp eye out for her wingmates, marking those who fall out of formation as the injuries begin to hit. Golgrainth will receive a quick mental check-in, but as long as her fellow greenrider isn't flagging, there will be no demands for retirement from this quarter.

Moanna watches brown eyes wide as crackdust and ash fall like so much snow. Fingers wrapped around the agornthree tank she is supposed to be using.

As it must in any Fall, especially one so fierce, eventually Thread slips between the formations and to the ground, landing in a writhing, lashing clot before the groundcrew!

From Esanth's neck, T'ral's teeth grit against Thread's burn. Esanth's bellow cuts out and in as they skip, flickering back into formation. Flame licks from the blue's jaws.

F'in receives a slight score on the ankle!

Too close: wings snap and wind rushes, but flames belch and from above heat sears. It is chaos: the battlefield united in a rush of adrenaline and death and destruction. Blood flows: ichor and human alike, but Sargaeroth rushes forward, narrowly dodging a clump to flame with dark, fel-desire to strike fear into the hearts that see. Il'ian's face is masqued, obscured in obscurity, but his grip on the straps are sure; where Sargaeroth stops and the bronzerider begins lies enshrouded. A quick ::skip:: into the great dark rids the hide of any living ash. Rebirth from darkness comes in the explosive burst of between: a roar; dominio en fuego.

F'in's teeth bare as he and Rhakanth roll to flame the Thread that just flew past him — entirely too close to Rhakanth's neck for the bronzerider's liking.

The mass is spotted by Agertha, who grabs the nearest person and pulls them out of harms way before she turns the nozzle of the flamethrower on said mass. It only takes a moment for the mass to be nothing more than charred ash, "Careful," she calls out to whoever it was she pulled out of the way, and continues on. Was her tone gruff? Authoritative? Who cares, Agertha doesn't she only cares that Thread be destroyed completely. Better if done from the air, but such 'Falls as this means that some Thread will hit the ground.

Tumbling end over end like a dandelion, a delicate wisp of Thread dances on the wind, bouncing past Sargaeroth as it drifts lazily downward.

A long white tendril of Thread falls near Oriahysciath, fanning out as if to ensnare her.

So close again! Fel-desire shatters in the wake of that clump. Bronze and bronzerider sear, explode, rise; and skip once more so that life ( or semblance of ) maybe prevail over death. Sargaeroth, victorious roar.

Moanna is snapped out of her trance by Agertha's tug. "I can't do this." Moanna mutters, even as she adds her flamethrower to the mix, quick short bursts working at the bits of thread missed.

An angry, hissing knot of Thread falls into Zodaiyath's path, writhing in eerie gyrations as it seeks the lush earth below.

A snakelike filament of Thread hisses its way past Bamfth, slithering across the sky towards the ground below.

From Bamfth's neck, Max receives a medium score on the lower back!

From Golgrainth's neck, Oh, no, you didn't: when Thread goes for Oriahysicath, Golgrainth returns the favor and is on it in less than the blink of an eye, aiming flame only for the spores and not for the other dragon. Again, their small sizes work to both dragons' advantage! If it hits anyway, at least Golgrainth did her best, and did not flame her wingmate.

Tangled into a convoluted knot, a clump of Thread races by Golgrainth, as if to elude her dragonfire by its speedy descent.

A long snaking filament of Thread drops alongside Zodaiyath.

A delicate spiderweb of Thread looms before Sargaeroth, waiting to ensnare him.

Twirling around like some spiraling child's toy, a group of Threads spin dizzyingly down past Oriahysciath.

Thread is falling thick and furious. The air is filled with the roar of dragons, the hissing of Thread, cries of pain.

The shimmering silver Threads continue to fall, raining destruction towards Pern.
A silvery clump of Thread slips past Rhakanth, writhing in hungry eagerness to reach the ground below.
A tangled mass of Thread sinks, almost lifelessly, past Esanth.

Painted in fury, verdant green glows in the backdrop against putrid, bruised purple. Sargaeroth winds and twists, wings snapping. Thread bursts into flame as the heart of the daemon beats within. Intent achieved, Purpose once more notched into the belt of the trophies consumed. Thread lies no more: instead, a shower of ash falls to those who stand on the ground below. Ashy tears of death.

Thanks, Golgrainth! Oriahysicath may not appreciate anyone taking the glory of BBQing thread to a crisp away from her, but at least Eala can toss out a brief nod of thanks for the assist. The green twists swiftly to pick up that second clump, in a movement that's almost as dizzying as the chaotic tumble of silvery death.
A hissing roar pierces the air, midnight blue wings faltering before Bamfth pops between, Max looking a bit green around the gills when they emerge eyes bleary with pain. As though to take vengeance, Thick gouts of narow flame burst from Bamfth's maw, Thread is going down.

Bookends of the Thread's silver burning spire, Esanth in the teeth of Thread's rage flames fury at the Thread… was that one even trying?

In Black Pearl sheen and ghastly, phantasmal verdigris gloam somehow made all the more supernatural in blinding light of early day, Zodaiyath veers to adjust, tightening tattered sail as the mass of Thread reaches all too close. It reaches for him and then, worse, it tries to get past him. No mercy is to be found here, no quarter to be given. As dark wings spread and snap to steady himself once more, fire erupts in disasterous quantity to take the alien menace out of this one world, and into the next.

A long, thin strand of Thread tumbles like a dandelion past Oriahysciath, twirling downward towards the ground.

A seething mass of Thread kites past Oriahysciath, fluttering as it sails downward.

From Oriahysciath's neck, Eala receives a deep score on the lower back!

A sheeting ribbon of Thread tumbles downwards towards Oriahysciath.

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

A tumbling ball of Thread tumbles on the winds, spinning close to Sargaeroth in its fall.

Agertha dances lightly out of the path of the Thread that rains down. Her flamethrower is aimed, and the unmistakeable clack of its use rings out. A gout of flame searing the Thread as it hisses past Agertha, "Careful," snarled at a member of the groundcrew who has got too close to Agertha's flamethrower, "The purpose is to flame Thread not people," said in that same snarl as she moves onward. Looks like someone's sore about not being in the air for this.

Thread and threat intensifies, riders blink between, and some are not replaced. Changeover approaches…

A tangled mass of Thread descends stealthily, slipping silently past Esanth in its downward fall.

A silvery tendril of Thread plummets out of the sky in front of Esanth.

Esanth receives a medium score on the mainsail!

Thread lies ahead, Sargaeroth's speed picks up - it is inevitability running into a wall of death, silver'd in macabre beauty. A single second, frozen in time: then flame spews forth, the scent of it acrid in the nostrils and pretty death drifts down to the ground below. A bellow of victory - Fate's hand lies true, or does it? Luck lasts only so long, but for now, the pair twist with Whirlwind. Enthralled, ensorcelled, enslaved to Pern's greatest Enemy.

Esanth roars the pain of his wingmates, flaming, snarling. He swarvers to flame, sears a rope into ash and jerks as Thread punches a hole clear through his wing. The blue blinks between and … … … returns.

From Bamfth's neck, Changeover approaches, and Bamfth is amoung the first to rotate out.

A writhing knot of Thread cascades downwards, tumbling past Zodaiyath with silent grace.

A large chunk of Thread drops silently off Zodaiyath's wing.

From Zodaiyath's neck, Ko'an receives a deep score on the thigh!

Zodaiyath receives a medium score on the mainsail!

A bronze blasts a clump of Thread with a massive gout of flame, scattering charred remnants in his wake.

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

From Sargaeroth's neck, Il'ian receives a deep score on the upper back!

It seems suddenly that the threat of thread is everywhere at once, and even Oriahysicath's sharp turns and unrelenting speed aren't enough to escape the inevitable tumble of silver toward them. Eala realizes too late that they should have skipped between, as the pain lances through her, too intense to just be a mere glancing wound. She bites back a pained scream before the pair disappear disappear between, emerging only seconds later. It's a balm for the pain but not enough to stop it — but in spite of the fact that she can't hold herself fully upright, the greenrider seems determined to last until she's forced from the air with the changeover.

Thread pounds the wings, changeover approaches…

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

A mirrorlike pane of Thread suddenly appears before Sargaeroth, reflecting him image back in eerie silvery distortion.

A delicate spiderweb of Thread sinks in deadly silence, just ahead of Esanth.

Agertha is tapped for replacement by fresh face. The flamethrower is handed over, and Agertha makes for the living cavern post haste. Now that she's not armed, it's too dangerous for her to remain. She skites into the shelter of the living cavern just in time to avoid seeing anymore dragons or riders injured. It's a boon to her eyes, but not her ears as she can hear her Kestrath bugle in rage at the Thread that they can not battle together just now.

A knotted tangle of Thread descends above Zodaiyath.

A ropy clot of Thread falls near Oriahysciath, fanning out as if to ensnare her.

Oriahysciath receives a medium score on the haunches!

Ahhh, Fate is a cruel mistress: not even the Hunter can go unscathed. A twisting Thread of Fate whirls in graceful pirouette to score, mark, burn into the back of Il'ian. A terrifying, terrible sound erupts from the heart of the beast, a fel-driven explosion of tainted neon green explodes from a shattered world hewn in bruised hues. It is a time, terrible. A moment, displaced. That drifting clump of thread slowly whirls down, down, down, even as Sargaeroth winks between in a skip to a moment, a place in time. Only to return, emergent in agony to flame and char that offending clump that slipped past to score the back of his powering force. Until finally, they drift down, down, down to the ground. Pain is a flashing red at the edges of consciousness, until a healer's cool hands can take care of what must be taken care of. It is an end, but not the end for the Betrayer and his Fel Iron and Intent heart.

Golgrainth tries, oh, she does; she is obliterating whatever comes by her, especially what goes right in front of her, even if she is tiring. She is tiring only because of her stature and the fact that changeover means she must ground, no matter how much she rallies against it. If only she were a larger dragon! If only her body had the fuming pulse of her mind. But Tahi appreciates the fact they have to land halfway through — just as Golgrainth is not happy about the fact that wingmates are scored as she is distracted by other spores. After two triumphant flames, she lets out a low hissing sound, anger powering those wingbeats.

From Zodaiyath's neck, From domination of the sea- er.. skies- to being abruptly surrounded by writhing, twisting masses of mortal enemy, Zodaiyath finds no heading to take. Between calls to him, a skip to bring him out of disaster's path that is not yet Hellbound. This enemy deserves not even purgatory, for its end calls to the Fates to cut that string, to make it completely and utterly no more. When the Ghost Ship reappears, crashing o'ver waves unseen with gouts of fire spilling from his maw in preparation to take this war to its bloody end, to take no captives and take no plunder siunce all that should remain is ash and dust- he is met by naught but the very same. Writhing masses still surround, now too close and too sudden for cannonfire to fully rid him. Tattered-edged wing is struck through, draconic cry ringing loud from above. Thread meets rider as his netherworld vessel is swept up in hatred enough to run him a'ground, unsteadiness suddenly found in mainmast sail burns in pain. Ko'an, again uncertain as to what comes next as Death shares his mind, as ominous tides bare him quickly again Between when sudden realization of pain not just Zodaiyaths erupts in fire too across his side, writhed deep into thigh. The pair would re-emerge, far below, attempting with questionable success to find harbor without crashing hull upon firm ground before dragonhealers for growling, white-visioned rider and dragon both.
I don't understand that.

Fury flames from Rhakanth's jaws, adding dragons the plummet like crippled crows from the sky, nothing will reach the ground on his watch!

A green nimbly twists to sear a stray twist of Thread with a precise burst of flame.

Stubbornness, it seems, is no match for thread. While Eala does her best to simply grit her teeth and bear the pain that has her half-collapsed atop Oriahysciath, the green continues to flame with an energy that's only just beginning to flag. She's perhaps even more enraged by her rider's injury, and attacks the thread as though it has committed some personal offense. But quick as she is, those silvery strands are an unpredictable foe. A seeming web of thread reaches out to ensnare her, and as the green twists to take it out, she exposes her haunches to another clump. She makes her pain known with a roar before the pair disappear again, their disappearance almost too long. There's a lingering moment in which they fail to reappear, but it's only the space of a few heartbeats before they're back. Safe, if not entirely whole. With the pain of their injuries echoing back upon each other, the green pair are forced to abandon their position, coming in for a heavy landing down below, where both will no doubt be the sort of patients the healers would rather forget. That is, as soon as someone is able to get Eala off of her dragon, because the woman isn't likely to be able to dismount on her own.

Brutal fall takes it's toll, but despite Thread's ferocity, few ropes reach the ground and the groundcrews. Perhaps it is because the faces of those upturned are ones the riders know… perhaps it is the discipline instilled by G'tan… perhaps it is simply luck.

The fight continues for hours, while groundcrews below race to reach what does slip past. In the end, there are many wounded — some badly. The infirmaries are filled with cries of pain. But today… today no deaths. No wingleaders will carry black knots to grieving families. No fathers will rage for their sons. No mothers grieve for their daughters. No Weyrmates weep. No children cry. It may be a small victory in the unspooling of decades to come, but it is a victory.

Riders Injured:

  • Eala severe, lower back
  • F'in light, ankle
  • Il'ian severe, upper back
  • Ko'an severe, thigh
  • Max medium, lower back
  • T'ral light, T'ral, shoulder

Dragons Injured:

  • Golgrainth medium, wingtip
  • Esanth medium, mainsail
  • Oriahysciath medium, haunches
  • Zodaiyath medium, Mainsail

Songs Referenced:

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