Who

Aderyna, Arianne, Catryn, Cha'el, Chirak, Cyrina, Donatien, El'ai, Hannah, Jorlen, Ksenia, N'tael, Prymelia, Rocio, T'ral, Yules

What

You got peanut butter in my chocolate. You got chocolate in my peanut butter. Two great tastes that taste great together — Leadership flights and Thread! Chaos: Southern style.

When

It is midmorning of the thirteenth day of the first month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 07 Feb 2015 08:00

 

aderyna_default.jpgarianne_default.jpg catryn_default.jpg Chael25.jpg chirak_default.jpg cyrina_default.jpg donatien_default.jpg50.jpg 3.png jorlen_default.jpg 71.png n-tael_default.jpg prymelia_default.jpg rocio_default.jpg t-ral_dafuq.jpg yules_default.jpg

MOVE THE DAMN BOARDWALK.


boardwalk.jpg

(The DAGGUM) Boardwalk (AGAIN)

Ancient-cut stone stretches broad, smoothed by the wind and the weather and the rain to create a boisterous center of commerce. Wood overlays stone in places, patterned and pretty, to attract the eye of those traversing the strip to particular vendors. Though not the size of the tremendous markets of the North, the boardwalk's offerings show the knowledge of ageless crafters: Smith contraptions, Herder-certified animals, Starcraft maps and Weaver textiles are only some of the things that may be purchased, among the spicy scents of beach food and the contrast of bright shells and dark stones from the shoreline.

It is the seventy-third day of Summer and 105 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.


Dusk is painted in brilliant hues as Rukbat's light slowly dies in the sky, throwing orange and peach and saffron across the vast blue vale of the sky. Gathered on the boardwalk is the collection of brown and bronze riders who's dragons are in high in the skies over the boardwalk and sea chasing after the elusive pale star that is the glowing form of the massive, air-barge Dhiammarath. Gold lust rages through the weyr, and with it being a leadership flight, it's drawn a crowd of weyrfolk to just walk: whether they are from the jungles, emerging as wildlings to see or crafters who were caught out on the boardwalk or other weyrfolk that happen to find themselves drawn into the seduction that comes with not only a gold flight, but a senior flight.

However for all that Dhiammarath's flight rages on, it is the leading fall of silvery Thread that first sizzles across the surface of the Azov sea. Hiss, hiss, hiss… The first screams of a wildling taken out near the farthest edge of the boardwalk is what reverberates and brings the weyr scrambling into play. It is up to the blues and greens to take charge of the wings, with those browns and bronzes that are either too old for the flight or too young, for the rest of the able-bodied wingleaders and wingseconds are consumed with the madness of a flight. A flight that already rains ichor down upon the men and women that stalk Hannah.

Thread shines wicked in the dying light of day, coiling in silver'd strands of death through the air as chaos reigns down below.

Amongst those bronze and brownriders collected about Hannah, their focus intent on the tiny senior weyrwoman, is Cha'el. Fists clenched and eyes already holding a feral cast, he's adopted a somewhat territorial pose putting his brawny frame between her and those that stalk eliciting more than a few filthy looks and growled challenges. The first falls of silvery tendrils are ducked by the snarling, snapping brown up in the air his focus on that pale glowing tail that beckons while down on the ground there's a sharp curse from the Weyr's current leader. But already, he's too deeply drawn into the chase. Too deeply wrapped in Sikorth's mind.

Panic races through those not embroiled in the flight as people race away from the fall of death while those in the weyr's management - Renalde, Ardstelle - fight to mobilize the ground crews. Novices and the experienced alike are given flamethrowers with the demand to 'sear the ground by the broken shell of Faranth.' A boardwalk that still sees the scars of the other disastrous Threadfall. Burrows form like scars of writhing Thread. Dragons wink into the skies above; Chaos, chaos, chaos.

Prymelia had meant to leave the Weyr. Really. She had. In fact, there's even an overnight bag attached to Issaeryth's straps and she's clearly dressed for the frozen climes of the Barrier Hold, complete with cheerfully striped beanie and a thick outer jacket edged in fur dyed an emerald green. Out. She wants out and awaaaaay from the pulsing heat of the goldflight blanketing the Weyr. Until that first scream splits the air and then training kicks in and without another thought the green pair up and in the air, taking their place in Ocelot's ranks, dressed entirely inapproriately for such a fight.

Despite the fact that Caelth has yet to catch a single gold in flight, the stubborn bastard refuses to NOT chase. Which is why Arianne is down there amidst Hannah's stalkers and not up leading Serval through the surprise threadfall. And you know what? He's actually much further ahead in this race than usual (it helps that he's snapping his maw at any stray piece of other-dragon that gets too close). Until…. until… a short-winged bronze that just transferred from Telgar tumbles right into him. « TZORAAAAAAAAAAATH. I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU DUMB TUNNELSNAKE FUCKER ». Guess whose gasp that just was from the ground? Followed by a "Nooooooo, no. No you can't do that." She starts to hyperventilate, and Tzorath's rider? He's mysteriously disappeared! (The cad.)

Above, one brown figure blinks into the airborne fight, returning from being resolutely Away For This. Flights are always a source of Desmeth's enjoyment, each chase is a new whiskey on the tongue, bringing exciting new flavours. But this one comes tinged with the more exciting palate of danger, Thread. Wouldn't that just be like the Red Star? Desmeth's eyes are red with anger and lust, a battle between Dhiammarath's lure and the pull to fight the ancient enemy. A distracted Wingleader is a danger, but Yules is doing her best to keep her dragon straight and true, flying high over the middle range wings.

Jorlen collects a flamethrower, adjusting it for fit and gives a quick test before looking over and joining up with one of the forward ground crews. He looks up at the mess of dragons and then blinks when he realizes what's going on. "Oh this is going to be interesintg"

Cyrina and Zyrwith find themselves in the VERY LAST position they wanted. Having to help lead Lynx through threadfall? What? Isn't there a single bronze or brown in their wing that's popped into the air yet? Lynx where ARE you!? The mass chaos of a surprise threadfall surely doesn't help. But Zyrwith? He is calm; the sky his element, and his mindvoice a zap of lightning to help focus the attention of their ranks. Quickly, what there IS of the Weyrleader's wing starts to form together to dart in like a hunter's arrow for the hearth of threadfall.

A new dragon flames his first patch of thread, and his rider grins proudly.

Here is one able-bodied Wingsecond who is not consumed with the madness of a flight. Well, not the CHASE. He was rather, ahem, busy when the first dropping hisses of Thread unfurled over the — the BOARDWALK. Seriously. Whoever wins this leadership flight… MOVE THE DAMN BOARDWALK. It attracts Thread like there's an All-You-Can-Eat for a 1/16 Mark neon sign over it. Esanth's bugled challenge and urge to fight roared through Dhiammarath's blanketing lust and it is a very wild and wide-eyed, snarling T'ral that lands with Esanth. A heavy thud, splintering planks of the boardwalk — Esanth's angry bugling clearing the way for them and a disheveled — though decent (arguable, shut up, Renalde) — Catryn to the panicky crowd. There wasn't time to drop her somewhere safe There wasn't time to spare to bring her at all but she'd insisted AND she'd been dressed in shorts and tank-top before he'd pulled on grudging leathers. On Esanth's neck, the bluerider shudders, grimacing through the warring impulses, Esanth's to fly and his own to… "BE SAFE," through grated teeth, T'ral grabs Catryn's arm and kisses her roughly, tearing away to spear a look at the first person he spies. "YOU. Take care of her." It's not a request. Who's he talking to. Esanth springs aloft, T'ral tucking low, « Serval, Inverted Vee! Two blades sweeping north by northwest. Go! »

It was curiosity that drew Aderyna to watch the cavorting race of bronze and brown against golds, but it is fear that has kept her rooted upon the boardwalk. Lingering loyalty had her staked out among other wildlings, reveling in the familiarity in the midst of an unfamiliar tug. And so when the first fell, she was close enough for the screams to batter her eardrums and linger there long after she fled from the threat. Although her hands still shake, the wildling collects a flamethrower when one is thrust in her direction. She eyes the thing with panicked uncertainty while basic instructions are shouted in her ear.

El'ai and Sekhaenkath follow in Prymelia's footsteps, the former pulling the latter away from the flight with a sudden intensity that sends the darkly-hued bronze tumbling out past Caelth's startled bellow of rage and pain. The bronzerider struggles to pull himself out of the clutches of the fingers of lust long enough to dash to the bronze that lands so he can mount and join Ocelot - and Yules - in the skies. It's a little hard sitting on his dragon's back, buckled in with the gold lust running through his veins, but he does it and manages to find and hold his wobbly position.

Twisted strands of silver weave a taunting dance, as a tangle of Threads snake across Desmeth's path.

A seething mass of Thread sinks in deadly silence, just ahead of Caelth.

A sheeting ribbon of Thread descends above Esanth.

As a dragon disappears ::BETWEEN::, another moves over in the formation to cover for her.

A silvery tendril of Thread reaches out to curl its deadly grasp around Zyrwith.

A tumbling ball of Thread falls near Dhiammarath, fanning out as if to ensnare her.

Dhiammarath dips and dives, winking ::between:: when a clump of Thread near-tumbles right into her, but the gold has better things to worry about than the Thread that's fallen right in the middle of her Flight: and that is leading the males up, up, up - high into the skies. To those that chase, Thread is but mere gauntlet to what's at the end. The glowing hide is soaked in rich oranges and saffron and butter-yellow, refracting off the iridescence of her golden hide. She is the falling star to the wasteland of death that wages war around her.

For a brief second, Sikorth's attention is split between the glowing prize just ahead and off to his left and the ancient enemy that dares to rain on his parade which allows a bronze just above him to try to muscle him out of the way. Jaws snap, a piece of hide raked by razor sharp teeth and the bronze bellows his anger. Frustration seethes through Sikorth who instinctively opens his maw to sear the silvery death in his path only for the flame that stutters to be a thin thing of little import. A tangle of the stuff gets too close and the big brown blinks Between dropping back in again to find himself that bit closer to Dhiammarath. A new plan is forged.

Some of those who's dragons are flying, half-stumble away from where Hannah holds court to try and grasp a flame-thrower to help, but their minds are too entwined with their dragons. So all they can do is try to help herd the people to safety. One thins is for sure: this is no longer the case of standing around the female rider in hopes of being the one to snag her, not with Thread falling from above. Sizzle, sizzle, pop. Another wildling's life is taken before the bursts of flames high above start flaming the Thread right out of the sky. Death is immediate for those fall to Thread upon the ground.

Anyone who's been at Southern long enough has seen Caelth mad. But have they seen him enraged? Not until today. He should land. He should allow himself to be checked for wounds, and he certainly can't fly threadfall. But at first he starts chasing poor clumsy Tzorath in a race towards the ground, his jaws large and looming and his eyes a bright vicious red. No, he really did mean he was going to kill him. Really. But hey, we all get to see why he picked the poor woman that he did for his lifemate. Her face is pale and already tight with pain, but Arianne's focus is solely on her dragon now. A battle of wills to keep him from doing something unforgivable. And for now, when his jaws snap shut on nothing and he twists himself away, she's winning.

Flame licks out from Desmeth's muzzle to sear a surprise snaking of Thread across his path - it was too close by a hair and while Desmeth seems to take this in stride, Yules has to take a moment to settle herself, even as she's trying to pull her attention to the task at hand. « Ocelot. » Desmeth's mind-voice is trying hard to keep its usual authoritative tone. « We fight the Thread here to keep Dhiammarath safe. Keep formation and do not panic. » Easy for Desmeth to say this as he turns his head for more firestone, belching it with forced casualness to take out a clump of the hated stuff.
Cha'el would be amongst those that manages to snap his mind free in the few seconds that Sikorth's breaks away from his when he Betweens and without thinking, he makes a grab for Hannah, of the intention to drag her to where a stall with an metal roof offers a modicum of protection. Whether he's successful or not, remains to be seen.

Rocio ambles down the boardwalk, squeezing her way through a crowd of people that seem to tighten shoulder to shoulder as she practically gets elbowed in the ribs by a rider pushing past her. "Hey, do ya mind?" she growls when she sees the dark haired man disappear into the crowd in front of her. Oh hey, he was actually kinda cute. But that ain't the point! People are beginning to race by now, voices growing louder and wait a minute… did someone just shout for the Headman? Proverbial ears prick and the huntress spots Renalde right before half jogging, half fighting her way through the growing panicky crowd. "What's goin' on?" Rocio's just about to take another step toward those assembling the ground crew when T'ral snarls an order at her, leaving the archivist in her charge without so much as another word otherwise. Catryn, on the other hand, looks mussed and a bit panicky herself when Rocio grabs hold of her arm. "Girl, come with me and at least try to keep up!" Wow, there's some TONE there.

Thread falls past the scrambling wings to burrow deep into the ground near Aderyna's groundcrew group!

Jorlen frowns a moment and then takes up a position not too far from the flight riders with a couple other ground crew members then makes a dash towards the thread that just made it past the flight crews.

A bronze dragon trumpets alarm and disappears ::between!::

Prymelia's not panicked. Nope. And she is totally NOT squirming around on Issaeryth's neck. Double nope. Also totally not checking out the bluerider from Siberian flying resupply and tossing a sack of firestone up to her. And briefly checking out El'ai's ass while she feeds her angered green firestone? DEFINITELY NOT!! She's the picture of professionalism!

With Ocelot focused on keeping the Queen and her suitors safe, Lynx fans out at Zyrwith's sugestion to spread out as far over the boardwalk area as they can. « Single line formation. We rely on the low altitude wings to get what we miss. » Because no one single wing can be everywhere at the same time. Thus, the even keeled blue projects to Esanth who appears te be leading Serval, what he's asking Lynx to do. They must work together to bring threadfall to justice this day.

Silver upon silver: deadly strands interweave to form an intricate quilt of roiling Thread, awaiting to blanket Esanth.

A tangled mass of Thread drops alongside Desmeth.

A silvery tendril of Thread slips past Cyrina, writhing in hungry eagerness to reach the ground below.

A writhing knot of Thread sinks, almost lifelessly, past Sekhaenkath.

You know who loves a good goldflight? Donatien does. You know who hates a good Threadfall? Donatien does. But he's HERE, whether he likes it or not and in the mad scramble of panic, the Weaver has lost his cane. This… is going to suck so much more now. A flamethrower is thrust at him and Dien straps himself in - his limp forward is slow and somewhat tortured but Donatien advances, flaming that which must be charred.

A large chunk of Thread tumbles like a dandelion past Caelth, twirling downward towards the ground.

Armed with a flamethrower, Aderyna is moderately more prepared than her bretheren, who are apparently dropping like flies. STOP KILLING WILDLINGS, THREAD. There's no honor in going for the unarmed. Still not entirely certain of her own ability to handle something that apparently spits flame, the wildling girl lingers near the back of the group into which she's been thrust. Her attention wanders, seeking out the familiar forms of others of her kind… until a shout from her side snaps her attention back to the here and now. There's thread burrowing into the ground directly in front of her, and her comrades in arms are shouting and flaming. Without giving herself the chance to doubt, she aims the flamethrower at the deadly burrow and sends a jet of flame in its direction. Hopefully thread is the only thing she manages to hit.

Sekhaenkath echoes Desmeth's sentiment, hyper-focused on the Fight of Thread rather than the flight. They are the cover to protect their queen. Khalyssrielth is far, far away - held safe outside of this morass of chaos. El'ai grips the straps and wings to the side before spiraling into the cold of between when a clump of thread comes too close. Sekhaenkath emerges flaming to incinerate the Thread that nearly got past him. The bronzerider's war cry can be heard from the skies.

Thread falls from the skies, no longer slipping past the wings managed by Serval, Lynx and Ocelot; though it appears as if Tiglon is called in for Lynx's coverage is thin with most of its riders chasing after Dhiammarath. Still, burrows have sprouted near Aderyna, Rocio and Catryn and Jorlen. They chew the ground and grind through the dirt. Meanwhile, Cha'el's grapple of Hannah is successful, though she fights him because she is one with Dhiammarath. Nails score and leave bloody trails, but she is a small woman that fights like a hellcat.

Prymelia receives a deep score on the chest!

In the chaos, Ksenia's visage in brilliant hues of lemon, sunshine, and peach can be seen dashing into the throng of ground crew members, her hands on a flamethrower, and she yells at someone — Rocio? Catryn? — "This way!" Flame belches; she is the fierce mama bear that was caught out in Thread. BURROWS WILL DISAPPEAR beneath her rage.

Yules receives a severe score on the wrist!

In as much as Hannah fights him, so does Cha'el hold onto her with bruising strength, hands tightening one about her upper arm and the other about her waist. The rake of nails open up gashes across down his neck and across his chest with one catching him across the side of his face. "NO TOUCHING!!" Bellows a bronzerider and hauling back, slugs the Cha'el a solid one to the side of his head sending him staggering backward briefly out of the small shelter.

Esanth and T'ral are anchoring the eastern blade of two small formations, a wide-blanketing net opens and Esanth blasts the wide, fierce flame of his first blast into this fresh fray, roaring. « Break left, mind the breeders! » T'ral and Esanth's formation wheel and dip, blasts of flame sheeting out, searing Thread like the scythe of a farmcrafter. A farmcrafter who harvests wheat with a blade made of flesh and flame. Inefficient for yield, but spectacular. The only nominally today Queen's Wing and Serval dip and flow around one another, the aerobatics of the nimble wing on fine display. « Aye. Copy that. » DAMN! Esanth blazes holocaust at the unfurling net that would snare and devour. T'ral's lust has shifted to a roaring defiance, his characteristic focused silence obliterated. When this is over, his throat will be raw. And his junk. Dammit Dhiammarath. Some PLANNING would be nice. « Steady, Serval. Steady. » Esanth's typical loud roaring has, perhaps in some balance with his bondmate, gone silent. Even. Calm. Driving his wing through the Fall in orbit around the Weyr's burning star, Dhiammarath… drawn in, but not as the others. A shield against the silvery teeth that would devour her and with her, their future.

Screaming his frank and utter dismay at this state of affairs, Desmeth dives to flame the tangle of Thread so close to his wingtip. The battle of lust versus fight is easing, Yules taking a moment to check on Ocelot, flying well and true. It's at that very moment that Yules is looking at one of her older brown wingriders that the man is hit by Thread, a single filament across the throat. His brown screams and skips *between*… only to not re-emerge. There's no time to mourn, especially not since pain is suddenly lancing up Yules' arm - thread has hit her lower arm as she raised it to signal Prymelia forward to take that brown's place. The Thread curls hungrily around Yules' wrist and arm and Desmeth skips… but it's not fast enough and Desmeth is roaring as he comes out.

Of between.

The second casualty is felt: The dying screams of a weyrling dragon. One of Khalyssrielth's has escaped the barracks to attempt to fly thread with a knot of weyrlings. The fierce cry of a wildling weyrling is heard just before Threadfall sears across his neck, sending his blue into ::between:: forever. The other weyrlings that have defied orders fall into a panicked knot that knocks a chaser out of the sky: D'rak's brown Ronith.

Arianne may or may not have the cognizance to trip the bronzerider that just slugged Cha'el. The man's trying to keep the Weyrwoman safe! Idiot. Alas, she's also busy keeping her own large winged idiot from taking his rage out on those around him. The tears that squeeze out from the corners of her eyes are pained ones while she struggles to push her way out of the stalking throng of chasing riders so she can stumble along towards the infirmary that she's fighting (mental) tooth and nail to direct Caelth towards. Much injuries, and Serval is in good hands. Migraine? Who cares! Dragons need healing.

Jorlen cringes as he looks up and the loss of the dragon, keeping an eye open for more borrows while keeping another on what he can see of the flight

Desmeth receives a medium score on the foresail!

A delicate spiderweb of Thread kites past Zyrwith, fluttering as it sails downward.

A knotted tangle of Thread tumbles downwards towards Esanth.

A ropy clot of Thread tumbles on the winds, spinning close to Sekhaenkath in its fall.

El'ai curses as another clump of Thread comes close, Sekhaenkath bellowing a gout of flame that chars the Thread to ash; an ash that drifts down to the ground below in a rainfall of inert dust. This act sends him nearly into the brown rider that gets the score to the neck, the keening cry of battle death emerging from his bronze's throat. Time to mourn later. Especially as the weyr is shocked with another death: a weyrling death. He skips ::between::.

Hot from the waves of lust being given off by Dhiammarath as well as the too thick jacket she's wearing and a hefty does of adrenaline, sweat slips down Prymelia's forehead and stings into her eyes. One moment she and Issaeryth are sweeping along the glowing gold's flank into the position Yules calls them to, dodging a vicious bronze from Fort (how did he manage to wangle his way into the flight?) who lashes out and then next she's hit with a searing flash of pain that drapes across her right shoulder from front to back and trails down her back. Her scream of agony is high pitched and swallowed by the black of Between when with a bellow of rage, Issaeryth blinks out. Longer than they should be the green pair are gone and then suddenly re-emerge, trailing into the mid ranks of Ocelot, Prymelia ashen and slumped forward over a verdant neckridge. There fight is over this day.

Indoor girl meets outdoor girl. Catryn is dragged along the edge of the crowd by Rocio and then stops dead in her tracks when she manages to lose a sandal in the process. "Wait!" The blonde bucks up like a draybeast and attempts to turn to pick up the sandal when Rocio yanks on her arm to keep her in step. "We ain't got time to go back for your precious shoe, girl! We gotta help these people now COME ON." Yank yank, yaaaank. Hollering over her shoulder, Rocio's got a death grip on Catryn's hand as they make their way through the panicky crowd. They struggle, hand in hand, and emerge near a burrow that they dodge just before Ksenia's flamethrower stops it in its tracks. "Miss Ksenia Roma!" says the huntress, dragging Catryn over to Mama Bear herself. "Watch out for that one!" The burrow. Behind her.

Aderyna's aim with an arrow may be impressive, but her aim with a flamethrower seems to be less so. One of the young men in her party yelps and stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to put out the fire she has set to his boots. He lands hard on his backside, screaming again in earnest as his hand makes contact with the silvery denizen of one of those burrows. "Sorry!" The wildling drops her flamethrower - probably for the best - as she rushes forward to slip her hands under the young man's arms and drag him away from the nearest burrow. "He needs help!" she calls out, as her group goes back to work with their injured out of the way. The wildling girl shoulders her own flamethrower, only to be met with an, Are you crazy?? look from the boy whose feet she set alight.

Threafall has raged for what seems like eternity. The last brilliant hues of Rukbat's descent lending blinding orange-red light like flames of fire into the eyes of those that fly Threadfall: straight at the glowing ball of fire in the sky. The wings fight in the thick of it, the middle of Threadfall already upon them, but the silvery edge of the end is within sight. Not close enough to bring relief, but close enough to know there's an end in sight. Especially as the cries of the injured fill the air. Hannah is knocked free of Cha'el's grip when he's knocked in the face by the bronzerider. Stumbling, she crashes into the stall at the same time Arianne pulls her awesome move of sending the bronzerider to his knees. "Damn you!" he curses, but Arianne? She's still standing, who's laughing now?

There is no way for Yules to cradle her arm in a way that will not cause even more pain. She drinks klah with that arm! Desmeth is frantic, tail lashing and seeking comforting firestone - the lump Yules tries to pass to him drops harmlessly onto a Serval rider below. It's in this distraction that the brown is hit by Thread on the wing - a rookie move that both rider and dragon know better for. Another skip *between* and Desmeth's already sinking to the ground, trying to break his glide to the ground. Lastly, a message, threaded through with pain: « Sekhaenkath. You're up. » before the Wingleader lands very unceremoniously on the ground.

Nooooooo, not a weyrling! Cyrina chokes back a cry of dismay when people and dragons begin disappearing between and do not return. Tiglon's arrival is probably met with far more relief than she will EVER admit to, as Lynx adjusts it's formation to allow the other wing to slip in amidst their ranks and coordinate the coverage. There's no fancy flying from them today. Just flat out flaming in as wide an arc as possible to get whatever they can, however they can.

Thread writhes and churns within the burrows scarring the areas around the boardwalk. Ksenia turns to look as Adeyrna tends to the boy she set on fire — WTF? Wildlings need some serious instructions in this stuff! — and wields her flamethrower with a growing ease. She turns towards Rocio, a fierce light in tawny eyes. "Got it! You get that one!" She points off towards another, before gleefully pushing the button on her flamethrower. Cha'el better watch out lest she flame his butt when this is all said and done, but for now, Ksenia leads Catryn and Rocio through the burrows!

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

Esanth receives a medium score on the wingtip!

T'ral receives a medium score on the ankle!

Chirak was here to watch the flight but when thread started to fall he panicked slightly not knowing what to do. A flame thrower was shoved in his direction which he took whilst trying to listen to the orders being shouted. He joins the nearest ground crews and copies what they do as they seem to know what they are doing and hopes he can figure out how to work the flame thrower as he nears a burrow of thread.

Sekhaenkath's purring rumble has turned to a growl. « Yes, Wingleader. » The bronze takes point while El'ai motions to Ocelot to lead them over and around the path of the burning star of Southern: Dhiammarath's flight is reaching its culmination, the browns and bronzes dodging thread with each sweep of her wings. The pale queen skips between more times than she can count. « To the east! » El'ai sends Ocelot towards a particularly thick clump of Thread that hovers towards the edges of the Fall of Thread. Sounds of battle fill the air, but it's getting close. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Arianne will take just a moment to flip off the bronzerider that just cursed her, but then she's finally gotten herself free of all the sweaty and grabby-handed riders (who better seriously hope she never finds out who just tried to grope her). That's when she can literally make a run for it, relying on the riders above them giving everyone cover. If nobody knows where she's headed by now… seriously people.

Recovering his balance, Cha'el whips about, and punches what he assumes is the idiot that decked him. Problem. Arianne downed the douche and is almost the one that gets that large fist in the face. But then D'rak, whose dragon has been knocked out by WEYRLINGS of all things, is suddenly trying to make a grab for his shirt and its his snarling mug that saves Arianne's far prettier one. A flash of bright color from the right catches Cha'el's eye at just the wrong moment and the blood freezes in his veins. "KSENIA!!" A bellow of rage, frustration and horror but he's too tightly packed in by the brown and bronzeriders all trying to shove into the shelter not to mention that Sikorth in a clever calculation has once again punched out of Between. Almost on top of an Ocelot blue, the brown makes a dive for Dhiammarth only to find an ugly squat brown in his path instead of pretty, pretty gold.

Donatien spots a set of lovely ladies with flamethrowers making their way through the blighted burrowed sands. He starts to make his slow, limping way over, pausing once to flame a thing and again to avoid getting buzzed by some big damn brown dragon who's decided to drop in. Ksenia, Rocio and Catryn earn a loud, "What are three lovely dames with flamethrowers doing at a party like this?" It's all meant humorously because very obviously. Something catches his eye and Dien yells at Chirak, "You pump it first and THEN press 'go'!" Clear as mud, right?

A green and a blue both go for the same patch of thread, and the green quickly dodges as she sees the other dragon.

In the process of getting dragged by the huntress, Catryn manages to yank her hand from Rocio's death grip and prep the flamethrower that was given to her. The burrow that crops up near the edge of the boardwalk is her target and the explosion of the chemical reaction lays waste to the menace on the ground. The archivist stands there, staring at what she just did, frozen with pumped adrenaline through her veins when Rocio grabs hold of her shoulders and hauls her closer to Ksenia. "Wooo weee, girl! Didn't know you had it in ya!" Rocio says, clapping Catryn on the shoulder and spinning around to face another burrow. She points at it, "Miss Cate! GET IT!" And without another word, Catryn targets the next burrow with flames as Rocio starts hollering and cheering for both the archivist and Mama Bear. "Miss Ksenia! Break left!" Because there's another BURROW!

Chase tail or be a warrior it was like, the easiest choice that N'tael and Tlazotezath have ever had to face. Sorry Dhiammarth, she's just not pretty enough, Tlazotezath is more the silver-death-from-the-sky kind of bronze. As Desmeth falls the pair attach the neverending sandstorms to Sekhaenkath's, and veer eastwards. How they've managed so far to get away with nothing more serious then ash burns will be something to think about later. They sweep under a large clump, flame even, and focused. No smile for N'tael, he's wrapped up in sand and bone, and the rhythm of thread.

Dhiammarath is so pretty enough!! Worth getting eaten by Thread kind of pretty! (Sikorth)

The ice queen is hot.

Ksenia's rage lights a fire to the burrow that Rocio points out, giving Donatien a fierce smile that's full of teeth. The bellow of Cha'el's is responded with, "YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME RUTTING DRAGONRIDER!!!" And with her fingers on the trigger, Ksenia spots something. "This way!" Dragging Rocio and Catryn with her to be unwitting accomplices, she angles towards a burrow that's a little too close to the dragon riders. With a fierce cry, she lets loose a gout of flame that keeps going and going and going… until she stumbles and if that flame might singe the ass off of Cha'el's pants when he turns to slam his fist into D'rak's face? Ksenia says, "Whups." Then yells to Rocio, "I GOT THAT WHORESON!" Is she talking about Cha'el or the thread burrow??

Tlazotezath receives a medium score on the tail!

A brown backwings to flame a large clump of thread.

Look, it's not the wildlings' fault that no one taught them how to work these fancy, fire-spitting doodads. Having injured one member of her party already, Aderyna is somehow still shocked to find herself all but shoved out of the way when she attempts to go for the burrow again. Assistance has already found the boy she rescued from… herself, and her group has kicked her to the curb. What's a wildling to do? Why, flame the burrow that just asserted itself a few feet away, of course. With far better aim — or at least, no one too close by to fall victim to her flame-wielding — she attacks this latest threat.

Jorlen just shakes his head and calls out, "You're suppose the flame the borrows not the weyrleader's butt!!" before he goes after a borrow just a couple feet to his left.

RIGHT. Ksenia's got flaming Cha'el's butt covered.

T'ral, smutty with ash and well, smut bares teeth the knot that falls ahead of he and Esanth, eyes squeezing shut against the stab of mourning that spinners through the dragons as one, then two — a weyrling! — that fall to Thread, disappearing ::Between:: forever. Dhiammarath's coiling passion burns through skies and ratchets emotions wildly out of true, or, rather deepens them and T'ral's teeth bare against the lump in his throat, fighting through to focus. He isn't sure if he shouts it or says it, "We need to cover more ground!" Esanth, fortunately is on a more even keel. « Break into triplets. Spread out. Obelith. Ynsyth. With me. BREAK. » A green is scored heavily and winks out, back to the Weyr. And another. And another. Nuyith. Janath. Acath. Bang, bang, bang. Serval's strength down 10% and fading fast. « Hold. HOLD. Steady Serval. » A silver arrow drives down towards the bands of groundcrew and buildings below. Esanth's triplet stoops, skipping ahead to catch the hissing arrows tumbling. They flame and pull up, twisting, heat of their breath and blast of their wings driving ash and vented gas and heat over the groundcrews as they pull up hard and beat for altitude. The dive and jerk at the end to pull up, slips T'ral's foot free as a stray strand of unburned Thread bites deep, skimming a burn across leg and wingtip… one pain shared. They roar together, T'ral and Esanth, as that bite of Thread hits in the middle of a flaming dive to sear a web arrowing towards the boardwalk. They blink ::Between:: and re-emerge ahead, still in formation, prescion flying that, through the burning sear. Nothing cuts through goldlust quite like a 'score. Thanks, Thread!

D'rak, L'fon, D'xon. Its now just a melee of swinging fists and the language of sailors as Cha'el tries to fight his way back to Hannah. A cut above his eye, scratch marks on his face from earlier and some bastard just split his lip. None of which are improving his mood any with the burn of lust clogging his veins. And then…. Oh then. "SONOFFABITCH!!" Thread has his ass. Frantically he slaps at his singed trousers and whips about with a deadly snarl in place just in time to catch Ksenia's shout. Shoulders hunch and he takes a step thattaway but, up in the air, after raking a wicked line down squat brown's side, Sikorth has finally figured it out. One moment he's there, amidst the snarling fighting pack and the next, he's gone, blinking from Between RIGHT in front of Dhiammarath with wings widespread and talons and tail reaching for her.

The Flight has raged on far longer than it ever has before. Dhiammarath shoots straight up into a sky that's growing darker and more indigo by the minute. Stars dot the vast vale of the night and it seems to be as if this is the moment she's waited for: the deep richness of those last vibrant rays of sunlight set against the encroaching night. She falls, and swirls, her wings sending her collapsing down like a falling star. A star that will fall straight into the body of Sikorth. The moment contact is made, the pulls of mating shoots outward like an explosion in space — rippling through the whole of the weyr, driving the Threadfighting riders to distraction. The ground crews begin to stumble, a young boy falls into Adeyrna and nearly flames her himself. Cries split up as people try to push past the need for mating to fight the Thread that threatens. Southern's Weyrleader is secured, held once again by Cha'el of brown Sikorth. It is this distraction, this moment that has the wings parting to allow a clump of Thread to fall through. Straight onto the wildlings that emerged from the jungles to help the weyr. All told, the casualties have been very heavily skewed against those indigenous peoples of the Southern Continent. Hannah is pushed towards Cha'el, a driving need to complete that final culminating moment in the final rounds of Threadfall. Everything is so, so, so wrong.

N'tael receives a medium score on the calf!

Rocio's like a cracked out cheerleader — hey, goldlust does WEIRD things to people — as she directs Catryn and Ksenia where the new burrows are. "Here's one, Miss Cate!" Wave, wave, POINT. "Miss Ksenia's got the one over there, now get this one!" There isn't time to waste and Catryn's on it, squeezing the trigger of the flamethrower and burning through the menace on the ground with precision aim. The huntress manages to escape without catching her pants on fire and hollers victoriously — at the charred burrow, or her pants? Who knows! "Rocio, watch out!" Catryn pushes the teen away from another deadly burrow before slipping on that one sandal of hers and dropping the flamethrower by sheer accident. There's a screech as the Harper is saved by Ksenia, who then drags her away from the burrow with Rocio in hot pursuit, dropped 'thrower in hand.

A long white tendril of Thread descends stealthily, slipping silently past Tlazotezath in its downward fall.

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

A long snaking filament of Thread plummets out of the sky in front of Zyrwith.

A silvery clump of Thread cascades downwards, tumbling past Sekhaenkath with silent grace.

Two greens break formation briefly to flame several clumps..

Jorlen spots another borrow somewhat close, but not too close to the smoking rump and he takes care of it quickly before relaxing slightly as it seems the thread might be tapering off.

Chirak hears instructions for his flame thrower shouted at him though he can't tell who shouted. "Thanks" he shouts back as he aims at a burrow. He attempts to flame the burrow but instead gets a patch of ground to the side of it. Fortunately there isn't anyone nearby. He tries again adjusting his aim and this time manages to flame the burrow.

Almost two turns without a single injury. It's enough to give anyone an ego, much less one such as Tlazotezath. There is confusion there at the sensation. What is it? It should impact the bronze more, the score that has sliced through his backside, winding lovingly (or not so much) upwards. Only when that thread slips up to entangle N'tael in it's embrace does realization of what has happened break through the cycle of stone/burn/char/ repeat. A full second ticks away before a strangled gasp is heard from N'tael, and the pair disappear between. Heartbeats pound and the two return. They should fall out, N'tael's calf and leg twisted and black, and Tlazotezath's flexibility diminished. But with leadership in chaos the pair remain up, wings, neck, arms not impacted. Flying, fighting. Only once not a single more thread falls will the pair leave the skies, Tlazotezath to come to understand the meaning of pain. They should probably go to the healers. Soon.

Sekhaenkath and Ocelot finally get their grip on Thread, the trailing edge of the 'Fall leaving the starry night sky to wink in cheerful mockery to what's gone on. Silvered strands fall from the sky, but this leaves El'ai to briefly see T'ral and give the bluerider who is also leading a wing, the fist-in-the air salute of wild freedom, before the bronzerider skips between as a clump of Thread sails past. Emerging flaming, the bronzerider spots T'ral's scoring the same time he sees his wingmate get scored. "Almost done, almost done!" His rallying cry splits the air, as the ragged wings hold it together for the last of it.

Dien continues flaming as best he can but old knees are just not meant to support this sort of activity. Soon, it's just him trying to flame and keep his weight on the other leg as much as he can. His eyes widen comically at the sight of not only the Weyrleader's butt getting flamed but also the ladies he'd passed earlier slipping and falling and dropping their throwers. Young things that they are, Dien doesn't have time to shake his head - just trying not to die himself.

Chaos is strong on the winds of Southern as the Threadfall slowly, finally begins to ease up. Clumps still fall, but they are not falling as heavily. The wings are better able to manage - or they would be if they were not fighting a surging tide of lust from the culminating moment of Sikorth catching Dhiammarath. Ksenia cries out when Catryn loses her flamethrower, and it is, at least, enough to prevent her from seeing Cha'el making a grab for Hannah. Another burrow catches her eye and the rage of flaming supersedes the lust of a gold's fall through the skies. Jorlen, however, might just earn himself a brief, flashing look for that comment! And Adearyna is gestured at to draw her ground crew in the direction of the beach where the last of the burrows chew through the earth.

Light scores on arms, clothing, wing tips, and are small distractions. There are threads that fall from the sky. Light despite the chill of seriousness, Ynsyth skips through the sky, taking up wide swatches as directed by the Wingsecond. Holding steady, filling. « You know, it really is pretty. If it wasn't trying to kill us.» She's conversational too. Until someone tells her to shut up. « It goes well with Dhiammarath's hide. Though it doesn't look nearly as good on everyone else. Oh, look! » Distracted by another silvery clump Ynsyth falls to flame it, her rider on her back giving her a thump for irreverance.

The charred thread drifts down from the sky, covering the land below in black ashes.
Rocio trails after Ksenia and Catryn through the maze of charred ground and burrows that crop up along the way. Flames burn through the deadly menace as the huntress squeezes the trigger of the 'thrower, hollering victoriously before running to catch up with the dragged archivist. Catryn, on the other hand, has had just about enough of the excitement, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she whips around to see Rocio coming up behind her in a full sprint. "Miss Ksenia, we gotta get back to the Weyr!" Rocio hollers to Mama Bear, skidding to a stop near them both and motioning for Catryn to follow her. There's little protest as the Harper starts running completely barefoot back to the lower bowl with the huntress following close behind.

Aderyna grunts with surprise as the unfamiliar tug of goldlust hits, followed by the actual physical impact of someone stumbling into her. While his flamethrower may miss roasting her flesh, she's not quite so lucky with her own. The flame is still spitting as she reaches out with one arm to brace her body for impact, and the pain that ricochets up her forearm as palm meets unforgiving ground is compounded by flame searing her skin. The wildling shrieks and slips her hand from the flamethrower, cutting off the immediate danger — but the damage has already been done. She kicks and shoves at the boy atop her, snarling out words that only her people would recognize as the vicious insults they are. Injured and infuriated, Aderyna should call it quits — but then her people cry out again, and the wildling stumbles to her feet, cradling an injured arm to her chest as she shoulders her flamethrower yet again. She catches Ksenia's gesture and nods, kicking the boy who knocked her down and urging him to his feet. "Come on." Time to chase down another burrow and avenge the fallen.

The burrows are slowly consumed by the flame of flame throwers, the dragon riders that have lost are filtering in to help consume the last of the Threadfall. Finally, the injured are tended to, the dead taken care of while the last of the Thread is getting seared out of the sky by the tattered remains of the wings. It will take a quite a bit for Southern to recover from this Threadfall. Aderyna, Jorlen, Ksenia, Chirak, Rocio and Catryn, their duties are finally done as the last of the burrows dissipates beneath the might of their flame throwers. "To the weyr!" The groundcrews are urged to get back to the safety and to help anyone who needs assistance, as well.

Yules, having been dislodged from Desmeth's back by the force of his landing, has tumbled onto her back on the sand. He is anxious while in pain himself - one dragonhealer has come for his foresail but three healers have surrounded Yules. She's cradling her arm where Thread has ravaged through leather and skin and the Healers are trying to get a look at the exact amount of damage done. Finally, they are able to pry Yules' arm out of her own grasp because she's fallen unconscious - a litter is pulled over and Desmeth croons, hot firestone breath permeating everything. Eventually, they manage to get rider and dragon organized to make it back to the Weyr for a thorough examination. Donatien would love to get a litter himself, but he'll settle for shrugging off the flamethrower to another groundcrew. This calls for a drink.

Quick and dirty, this surprise Fall. Quick, dirty and cruel — exacting a harsh toll on the Wings and Weyr and… especially the Wildlings. Dhiammarath is secured and that wash of victory blasts out, the epicenter brown and gold twined, slams outward into the Wings. Those wildings never had a chance. There's little of T'ral's voice to cry out — he's looking that way when he and Esanth are re-orienting to address the gap that opened. "No… nononono." Fuck. Hands bite into the straps, as he and Esanth lead the ragged, worn out, strungout remnants of Serval through the trailing claws of Fall's raking. His return salute to El'ai is grim, the bronzerider's sentiment echoed in Esanth's call to his wingmates, « Almost done. Trips, break right and scatter. Wind's coming up. Mind the gusts. » In threes, their agility still on fine display — though fewer in number — Serval guts out the last of Fall until, at last, T'ral and Esanth call it, « Home. Back to base. Debrief in two hours. » The fading patter of post-flight commands is a comfort. Strange to be issuing them… for young T'ral, but… a comfort nonetheless. Pain is taking it's toll. His hands shake on the harness and worry strikes deep in his gut. Catryn. The ground crews are scattering to the Weyr. He'll find her there. Home. Faded echoes of Dhiammarath's lust leave the bluerider a husk. « Home. Home. Home. Back to base. » Repeated. Esanth's mind a steady beacon broadcasting and re-broadcasting similar patter from Ocelot. Tiglon. Lynx. A Weyrleader secured… stability, at least. But so many deaths on the ground. So many. What would the butcher's bill be?

Finally, Serval, Lynx, and Ocelot have charred the last of the rogue Threadfall: and when the tally comes of those that got injured and those that died, this will weigh heavily on those that fought. As the wings flood the weyr with their return,, they will need attendance by healers as well as dragon healers. Very few escaped without a scratch and those that did are seen as having been too lucky. As Rukbat sinks behind the mountains, shrouding the weyr in the cloak of night, Threadfall has come to an end. In the depths of the jungle, however, unrest stirs as news of the days events are spread by word of mouth to those that dwell there. And uneasy silence sits in the heart of the jungle. The unease of a coming retribution, but for this night, beneath the twinkling stars and soft-light of candlelight, the weyr mourns and tends its wounds. Leadership is once more secured — surely nothing else can befall this cursed weyr that cannot seem to escape the deaths of a gold flight.

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