Who

F'dan, F'in, Jaelynn, Delila | Kadanth, Rhakanth, Otsoath, Amazolith

What

Prior to W'rin's death. F'dan brings the weyrlings out to see what happens when Thread gets through.

When

It is afternoon of the first day of the fifth month of the third turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Protectorate

OOC Date 17 Nov 2014 08:00

 

gif5.gif f-in_default.jpg jaelynn_default.jpg delila_default.jpg | kadanth_default.jpg rhakanth_default.jpg otsoath_default.jpg amazolith_default.jpg


Once-fertile Valley

Lush green crops and trees have given over to gray-green sickness of the Blight. A pall over nearly all the land in the Igen protectorate. The people tired, hungry and poorly. Squalid cots dot fields lined with palid crops and pastures speckled with slat-ribbed herdbeasts. And now riddled with Thread burrows.

It is the thirty-first day of Spring and 86 degrees. It is still pleasantly sunny, though storm clouds gather on the horizon.


Late afternoon, and finally the Fall is over. Exhausted wings are flicking between to return to the Weyr, unprepared riders nursing more than their fair share of injuries. Bone-weary ground crews, stretched to their limits by the many clumps that touched down before the dragonmen could arrive, stumble across an apocalyptic landscape. Blight has touched even this usually fertile valley, and where crops are not stunted they are now traversed by men with flamethrowers. The air is thick with black dust. Presumably the Weyrlings ordered by the Weyrlingmaster are tired too, given the sheer length of the flight to this Hold when the young pairs cannot yet between.
It is a greenrider who missed the Fall due to a healing injury that leads the Weyrlings there, starting their journey long before the Fall ended, but it is F'dan who has called for them. He dismounts from Kadanth's great neck, covered head to foot in ash. His goggles and veil have been pulled down to reveal a sweaty face smeared with the remnants of charred Thread. Kadanth bears the tracing of a minor score at one wing-tip, but he does not seem to consider it: man and dragon are staring intently at a burning hole in the earth, both growling deep in their chest. Other dragons come into land, ready to flame as the groundcrew who hold their flamethrowers ready. For now the burrow is controlled, but they will not risk it spreading before the Weyrlings arrive. Time is of the essence.

F'in and his weyrlings land, having, at the direction of the greenrider, filled their dragons' gullets with 'stone in preparation for the duty ahead. The small squadron lands and, landing at a trot, F'in hurries to take a position at the edge of the Kadanth's fierce presence. Rhakanth treads along after, he and the other weyrling dragons gravid with 'stone, ready to bring death with the birth of flames from young jaws. F'in's eyes are intent on the burrow as he draws up with his weyrlings arrayed behind. Khamsin's veils a rusty sunset orange, an odd echo of a long-ago encounter. He faces forward, eyes looking rather through F'dan as he salutes. They are ragged, but determined. "Khamsin reporting, Weyrsecond, Sir."

F'dan's salute back is brisk, though tiredness weighs down the angle of his elbow somewhat and tremors over hands finally free of their gloves. He looks absolutely awful, so perhaps it is unsurprising that his voice is so harsh. "Wingleader. Weyrlings." Perhaps that final drop of his hand is notably heavy, exhaustion weighting his muscles. "There she is. Let's kill this bitch and then we'll talk. Kadanth."

Kadanth's mindscape reaches out for the smaller dragons', primeval forest sunk under a heavy weight of ash and dust. The vital green is smothered beneath grey and black. « Like this. » The body of the message is a shared experience rather than words, the composite first-person (first-dragon?) view of flaming burrows before: the necessity to burn deep and long, the fierce need bred deep in the bone to destroy.

F'in nods, stepping aside to fall in next to and behind F'dan. Rhakanth is rumbling deep in his chest. An unlovely sound, as ever, and chilling. The hairs raised on F'in's arms smoothed unconsciously. At a mental command, the bronze and his clutchmates step forward, jaws beginning to gape. There are two obvious voids here. Rhakanth, shaking, growling approaches and lowers his muzzle, breath stirring the matted dust of Thread leavings. His roar is lost in the combustion of flame as it ignites on contact with air, the heat and light blasting out, fury spent along the warren of Thread's passage. That first fury spent, Rhakanth breathes again, eyes whirling red and hot. Wings fan, stirring the dust and ash. Beside him, another warren is flamed by a clutchmate. Rhakanth withdraws, still clearly yearning forward, F'in's hand clenches, mentally winding cord around his fist, pulling Rhakanth back. The bronze's teeth crack as jaws snap together, head tossing, lips skinned back in a fierce snarl, the growl checked up against his teeth, rattling as the wedge head turns on F'in, battle between them clear as Rhakanth, backs slowly, slowly, shivering. Growling. Another weyrling dragon lunges into the spot Rhakanth vacated. There is likely to be little left to flame, but all will have their turn. F'in is sweating, eyes locked on Rhakanth. His own lips parted on clenched teeth, though in concentration, rather than fury.

F'dan is hard-edged with his own tension as he watches, the bronze behind him arching his neck high so that he can angle his jaw for a downwards look at the dragonets. The other watching riders stand in silence, one member of the groundcrew spitting into the ash. It's a feeling they surely all share — the wrongness of this thing that falls from the skies. To those with the ability to feel it the dragons radiate anger. Only once they are all done does F'dan give a sharp nod, a wave of his arm dismissing the final weyrling to flame before he steps up to drop to a crouch by the burrow and examine it. One finger is beckoned to F'in in summons. "You'll need to learn to control that. We're support systems for them up there, don't let anyone tell you different. They know what to do. But they need to be kept in line or they'll flame a wingmate." It's said without anger, handed over with a dull voice as his eyes remain fixed on the hole. Inside is all blackness that twists and crumbles to ash, a roiling mess that hisses as it dies. "That's how we get the burrows. You'll probably never have to do it again, but it's worth knowing." His turn to spit, a gob of saliva lobbed with disgust into the centre of the dying thing. "The others should see." That order though apparently he'll leave for F'in, straightening and giving a nod to the other riders and the groundcrew. Done, apparently: the watchers begin to disperse, making quick pace for the rest of their sweeps or scrambling up straps.

Rhakanth's mind is powerful. F'in is rather in awe of it, the workings rather beyond his ken. And difficult to direct when there is conflict. They struggle still as F'in crouches next to the Weyrsecond. F'dan's words give F'in what he needs to corral the strong-willed bronze. 'Flame a wingmate.' Bred into him is a bone deep hate of Thread. But also an unquestioned love of and protectiveness over his clutch, his kind and the tiny creatures that are their beating hearts. As if a flame extinguishes, F'in's battle is over and he slumps, drawing his wrist across his jaw as he releases a pent breath. "Yes, Sir." The idea of F'dan saying 'we' to anything the two of them are involved in is … strange. His eyes track the arc of F'dan's spite and he stands, dusting hands on his thighs. He waves his wingmates over, "Take a look." He falls back a few steps, eyes still trained on the burrow, wanting to cross his arms over his chest, protect himself from that alien threat, however dusted and dead, but he holds his arms to his sides. Rhakanth subsides, backing several steps as F'in's pressure registers. Behind him he can hear and, through Rhakanth, feel the riders assembling to wing their weary way home. More. We need to do MORE. Teeth grind. This field wouldn't yield crops for Turns. TURNS. Spinning on his heel as Khamsin take their turns glaring into the the burrow, F'in makes his way to Rhakanth.

F'dan recognizes the disgust in F'in, but he doesn't rush to talk to him: instead he stands watch as the other weyrlings come to inspect the flamed-out burrow, offering advice (sharp advice) on flaming here, pointing out the features of Thread there. Only eventually does he move his steps towards their wingleader, eyes cool for all that they are bloodshot with exhaustion. Perhaps a more normal man might offer a personal comment here, given their history, but F'dan is apparently sunk too deep in work mode. "Take all the time you need to look at it. The dragons can dig up some of the burrow if you want to look, but be sure to flame regularly. Don't want to send you back to the Weyrlingmaster with scoring." That done he pulls his veil up over his face again. "Make sure you give the greens time to rest, it's a long flight if you have to go straight. Time for me to join the Weyrleader for the debrief. Clear skies, Wingleader." Wasn't that civil? And then he's gone, helmet and gloves taken from their place at Kadanth's straps and pulled on before he's hauling his aching body up. Kadanth himself seems to have lost all interest in the affair now the burrow has been neutralized, eyes moving so slowly as to be almost frozen. A huff, a repositioning of a great bulk back on thick hindquarters and then he's launching into the air, flicking between only a few wingbeats up.

The call was out for all the Weyrlings to come and help with things of course meant that all would come. Jaelynn and Otsoath was last as she made sure the rest got a chance to watch how things were done. Though soon enough she's up there peeking out at the mess of earth, ground and the scarred and ash filled hole that now remains that was burned deep to make sure the burrow was dealt with swiftly. "What a mess.." Is said softly while her gaze flicks up to F'in a touch and then back out over the field, it makes her frown a moment but that is quickly gone. Otosath lifts his great head high with a deep rumble escaping him, the brown has a hate for Thread much like others and for good reason, but it as if he has found a new 'foe', a new reasoning to be the best he possibly can be. His large wings flutter some at his side, tail lashes while it curls next to him, tip flicking and lashing much like a angry feline might.

F'in has seen past the veneer of humanity that F'dan presents to the world. He respects the knot the man wears and his capacity as a Threadfighter. Beyond soaking in what the man has to say about Thread, he neither expects nor wants any rapport with F'dan, any more than he expects or wants rapport with Thread. He, instead, is glad that F'dan is on their side and rather endeavors to keep his weyrlings and himself out of the man's particular sights whenever possible. F'in nods, face carefully neutral, "Flame the burrow, rest the greens." He salutes, "Clear skies, Sir." There's a return to frustration and grim resolve as F'dan spins away to Kadanth. Rhakanth pads up alongside Otsoath, bumping his clutchmate's shoulder and rumbling, the gold cord of his mind spilling out to surround and choke the burrow, criss-crossing at one location. « X marks the spot. » He sends an image of himself digging, then Otsoath flaming… ash and char and Thread dying. F'in has a smile, slight and mostly in his eyes, for Jaelynn. "'Second," a beat. "How is your squadron?" F'in split the weyrlings into two groups, one lead by Th'bek and Tavuqth, the other lead by Jaelynn and Otsoath.

Jaelynn is a bit happy to come up after F'dan is gone, the one time she had a conversation with that one she didn't enjoy it. A polite salute is given to F'in. "Yes sir, there following well. No problems as of yet. There not too far behind me actually." Her squad ready to take up the lesson and get to searching for burrows it would seem. Otsoath rumbles out to Rhakanth, a shoulderbump offered back while he is quickly following after his bronze sibling, seems he agrees with the idea of him flaming and has his firestone ready to do the job. His mindscene is that of a vastly open field, covered in white, which has faint ashen hue to it as if it was a field full of the ash they are finding themselves around at the moment actually.

Rhakanth rumbles and sends out other 'X's for dragon pairs to dig and flame. F'in hauls hard on that golden cord and Rhakanth nearly sits down with his haste to halt. F'in straightens, brow furrowed, he looks out over the lumbering dragons and the determined and tired riders and groundscrew. He gives Jaelynn a nod to call the milling dragons and riders of Khamsin to attention, they're abustle now, since Rhakanth, gave his 'order.'

That order will be followed fully, everyone needs to learn and then comply with the lesson after all. This is now part of life, part of why they are riders so they have to learn everything. Jaelynn calls out after the others to join up and come to attention. Otsoath lets his mindvoice flow with Rhakanth's, the thought is carried out to the other weyrlings to get moving and come join in once they are teamed up.

"Thanks." The bronzerider nods to Jaelynn as the ragged weyrlings come to order and he steps up. F'dan's gone. This is their show now. "Who are we?" F'in puts his head back, bellowing a question at the top of his lungs. "Khamsin!" A chorus of shouts roar back from throats, human and draconic. The sound of those voices joined crying defiance together beats back the bleakness. But not enough. He throws his head back again, "WHO ARE WE?" Defying them to tell him. The roar in response is quicker, louder. "KHAMSIN!" F'in head snaps down and nod. Eyes flash, That's right. He paces along the front of the ragged formation, "We are a wind rising to meet Thread." Quieter, firm, still projected out. Voice hard and sing-songed, "We will be strong!" A rumble of approval. "We will be swift!" Another rumble of approval, louder. "We will be smart! Why, Khamsin?" It's not really a question. The growled roar, "The Infirmary Sucks!" F'in's eyes narrow, cocking his head sharply, a hand cupped to his ear, "WHY?" A roar, deafening, returns, "THE INFIRMARY SUCKS!" F'in nods, "The infirmary sucks! That's right! But also—" He clears his throat, "Them." He raises an arm to point out at the riddled field, and the groundcrew assembled. "They're why we will fight, fly, flame." A pause, "Die." He drops his arm, pacing, "Look well, Khamsin. They face Thread. On foot. Without dragons." He stops and turns to face the groundcrews. A long moment, riders and groundcrews look at each other. F'in inclines his head at the groundcrew leader. The man's face is hard. Filthy. Tired. He raises his arm, fist aloft, at the riders. The salute is one riders use over long distances. Defiance, resolve, acknowledgement. Amongst the ranks of riders and groundcrews, arms go up. Fists clenched. F'in's too. A hard smile. Enough. His arm falls like a hammerblow and he rounds on Khamsin, bellowing, "Tight, controlled flames." F'in, feet planted, tuuuurrrns to look at Rhakanth. Pointed. And then back, "Dig, burn. Repeat. Let's be about it!"

Jaelynn nods to F'in and grins a touch before she is chanting along with the others, she is agreeing with all that for certain! She doesn't want to wind up in the infirmary thank you!! Her voice mixing in with the rest of the group, and even a deep roar of a howl from Otsoath can even be caught to prove he is eager and read to get going! Soon enough they are off and Otsoath is chewing on that bit of stone while following after Rhakanth while they go about searching, he is eager and ready to get to work burning the threat from above and showing them who's really in charge!

Delila rubs her throat with her hand a bit and tries to clear her throat. Her throat is always sore after having to shout back the responces. She's not a big fan of it, she'd rather just get right onto the business of flaming threat that's been making burrows into the ground. She feels rather silly doing them, but everyone else is doing them and this is their wing now. She does do it though with the others as she is doing her very best to be part of a team. She doesn't want anyone to accuse her of slack and she doesn't want to let anyone down. She puts her mind back on her task as she moves Amazolith in place. The green's fire is stoked up and her claws are poised to get into the black rich earth to find some burrows and flame them before they can do any more damage. The green pair is merely waiting for the signal to begin from the Wingleader. Amazolith of course loves to roar back along with the others and steadily encourages Delila to lighten up and enjoy getting to yell as loud as you can. The green dragon is of course trying to drowned out everyone else. Amazolith sets off with the others and Delila keeps her eyes peeled for any burrows or any other signs of thread.

Rhakanth claws the ground in great furrows, revealing the winding warren of the Threadbore. Unseen, unknown paths are his essence and the bronze seems to know just where the burrows will turn or shift and dig in just the right 'X-marked' spots. He digs, and backs away, making room for Otsoath to flame. In short order Amazolith, Rhakanth, Otsoath and the others render the field a ruin of unearthed burrows, embers, ash and acrid smoke. But the Thread is no more. F'in goes to talk to the crewleader, leaving Jaelynn and Rev to round up their squadrons for their eventual return. On his way to talk to the grizzled man he tips a salute to Delila's green as he passes, "Nice bit of flaming, there, Amazolith," he grins tramping along. Rhakanth's head comes up, the golden cord of his thoughts flaring as he growls, tail lashing, baring teeth and flaring wings at Otsoath, a draconic chestbump. The cord whickers along twisting paths that mimic the eviscerated burrows before falling in with F'in. He rumbles agreement at Amazolith in the wake of F'in's pronouncement.

Otsoath has no problem following towards the burrows that hold the 'enemy', he will learn soon enough where they are himself, and when that happens he will take great care in killing them, every one of those bits of Thread that he can ever find. Once the hole is dug he is moving forward, head lowered while he inhales a bit of air and then with a great rush air escapes matched with fire that bursts forth from his maw and slams into that burrow in a wave of death and destruction to the enemy below. The flare is ended when Oat feels the deed is done and his wings unfurl slightly as he follows Rhakanth along to the next burrow and the like taking care of business so the speak during each one. That mental chestbump is gladly taken; he seems to offer one back that is a wave of cold wind that flows from his mind back into Rhakanth to show his happiness in how things have worked out. The call is heard from F'in and Jaelynn nods quickly before she is calling out for her squadron to round up and get ready to head back to the Weyr it would seem. "Great job Delila." Is called out to the other with a smile. Oat warbles out to his green sibling, yes they have all done well this day!

Amazolith teams up with a blue dragon and they take turns, one burrow the blue dragon will tears into the field and Amazolith will flame it and the next it is the green tearing the field and letting the blue flame. Amazolith's flames are tight and controlled as are the blue's they work well together as a team. Delila whews softly as she wipes some sweat away from her face. Even though Amazolith is doing all the work Delia's is doing her best to help watch for burrows as well as Amazolith's flaming to make sure they got everything. She watches F'in as he comes back once they are all done and Amazolith rumbles her appreciation. Delila nods to Jaelynn, "Thank you." She says as Amazolith warbles back to Otsoath.

The bronzerider spends a few minutes in conversation with the crewleader, shakes his hand and returns, scratching at his jaw as he stands near a gutted burrow with the others, "You guys ever seen a burrow before?" He kicks a rock into the trench Rhakanth had dug. His own brow is damp with sweat too. Holding Rhakanth back from flaming was a job. They'd be doing some practice on their own when everyone got back.

Delila shakes her head, "No not until today. They are scary and I'm glad to get rid of them so is Amazolith. I'm glad that we could save this field. Hopefully the ash will be good furtilizer." She says as she pats Amazolith's neck, "Do we have any more fields and burrows that need to be flamed?" Amazolith is very excited to be flaming burrows and would love to do more.

"Me neither. Not like this." Rhakanth, over F'in's shoulder, rumbles at Amazolith. Him too. F'in hadn't let him flame at all after that first one. He turns, craning to look up at the young dragon, "How much you got in that gullet of yours, still?" Rhakanth erps nasty fumes. Hmm. He looks out over the fields, "It'll be turns before this field recovers. Thread's worse than the Blight." Definitely worse. "But at least we can fight it." Hard to fight a … wasting death. F'in shivers, rubbing one hand up and down his arm. "How's Amazolith? It was a long flight here." He looks over to the tiny green. She was a good benchmark for how soon they could leave.

Delila nods, "Yes it is horrible, but I think we caught a lot of it. Imagine how worse it would be if we didn't flame the burrows. The thread would burrow for miles." She hmms, "She's about at half, maybe a little less, she and the blue dragon we partnered with were trading off flaming and digging up." She pats Amazolith, "She's doing good, not tired at all. It wasn't too bad, she might need to rest a bit before heading back."

"We got to the end of our burrow. You saw the end of yours, right?" F'in looks mildly alarmed when Delila says 'I think.' He straightens and looks to the groundcrew where they're going carefully, pace by pace, over the burrows. They seem to have things well in hand in case the pairs missed anything. He nods at Delila's report. "I'm gonna do some flaming practice when we get back. Need to fine tune some control." READ: Butt heads with Rhakanth. The bronze's flaming is impressive, but not totally under the bronze's command. Or F'ins. Which is not impressive. Not this far along. Frustrating. F'dan was right. They needed to get that straightened out. "Want to join us? Having a wingmate will be helpful." Since not flaming wingmates was important and all. The infirmary really does suck.

Delila nods, "Yep we got to the end of the borrows that we uncovered." She looks over her shoulder to the groundcrews. She looks back, "Flame practice is always good we'd be happy to join you and Rhakanth. Amazolith needs to work on her teamwork skills." The Green snorts a bit, "And I do too I guess." She admits and she smiles, "After you Wingleader."

F'in rocks back on his heels. PHEW. "Good." THAT would be embarrassing, if they'd missed things after all that speech-i-fying. "Yeah? You think?" F'in looks over at Amazolith who, along with a bunch of the other greens and blues are stretching wings sore from flying straight. "Maybe she can teach Rhakanth how to be a little…" his face rumples, "Smaller?" That's not the right word. "You? You got something on your mind, Dee?" F'in cocks his head, "C'mon, let's walk the field. There's a bit Thread didn't get. I'd like to see that too." The dragons, under Jaelynn and Rev, stretch and recuperate. It is past lunch by the time tired dragons and hungry weyrlings return to the Weyr and their regular duties. Recuperation. Rest. They'll need all the reserves they have for what comes next.

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