We join our Threadfighers in media res…

Distant lightning flashes, the thunder following on its heels. "What?!" J'ral didn't catch that, but nods on relay from his bonded. The bluepair wheel banking up and left hard, using the momentum to sling 'stone to an Arroyo rider calling. He tilts, nosing down, wings tucked, to drop like a spear through the wings, on a resupply mission of his own, pulling up last minute to where weyrlings who aren't flaming burrows are stacking and tossing sacks of 'stone.

On the ground, triage is in full swing, riders, groundscrews, dragons all ferried as swiftly as possible into the shelter of groundweyrs, out of the rain. Shouts rise from one station to the the next, aides running from one cave to the next, ferrying supplies and assistance. A dragon thrashes in pain and roars, the healers tending him flinching back.

In the air the dragons roar and flame, rage sharpened to a bitter point, exulting in each gout that sears. The rain didn't hold, but thunder and lightning threaten in the distance. The air is humid and T'ral idly posits that everyone who survives this day will have a lovely complexion. Exfoliated by ash, cleansed by steam sublimated from the moisture in the air. He hunkers low over Esanth's neck, pain in his leg a dull thumping. Parhelion has joined Whirlwind in the upper tier. Oasis has moved up into the middle tier and the remnants of Hogback fly alongside the Queen's wing. The gears of this gutted machine mesh only roughly, and the groundcrews are being put through their paces.

Like now. Three strands hiss into the turf, writhing, struggling for purchase.

Below, the flashing Gold Wing fire their flamethrowers, searing Thread missed bye the main wings.

A long, thin strand of Thread tumbles downwards towards Temyrth.

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

Kestrath chases one clump of Thread after another, flaming the silvery death to ash with a grim satisfaction. Agertha deftly catches the bag of stone, and just in time to feed more of the firestone to the green she's bonded to. There's no time for talk, just flame, wheel, dive, climbe, rinse and repeat. The small green doesn't bark orders as she would normally, she knows her wingmates will do their jobs.

Avast ye all, for black sails do rise. Zodaiyath and his Ko'an sail on high at Whirlwind's altitude, far above his harbor under attack from this foul and ancient enemy. Little brings out purgatory's wrath and bloodlust more than this, all-consuming in its dark hold on the man on his neck making all else but the battle upon his high seas fall away. As if thunder follows him and the mental dark fog that rolls sickly and thickly o'er vast oceans of dark waters that stretch realms rather than leagues, skeletal beast has speed behind him in these thinned and adjusted upper wings. The spiderwebbing cluster of Thread provokes the bone-deep shudder and damning onslaught of cannonfire. Embers and liquid-like fire appears to drip from gnarled maw of Ghost Ship's haunted and malevolent figurehead, until the full power of his gout of flame explodes into the air before him, purchasing Thread's one way trip to the world beyond this one, leaving the dust of ash in its wake.

The flashing color of dragon wings, the bright flare of flame, and the deadly silver of Thread fills the sky in a cacophony of destruction.

A seething mass of Thread tumbles on the winds, spinning close to Kazavoth in its fall.

A sheeting ribbon of Thread descends stealthily, slipping silently past Tahi in its downward fall.

Two turns ago, Xalatonth shot free from the jaws of certain death. Nine lives on this cobalt blue. He spins and dives with the other fast fliers in Arroyo wing. His thoughts are a song, his voice a hum.

A tumbling ball of Thread plummets out of the sky in front of Esanth.

Golgrainth isn't used to being this high up, near the Weyrleader's wing, near the Weyrleader's dragon; that doesn't mean she isn't ENTHUSIASTICALLY rising to the occasion. Those used to Golgrainth's particular brand of kinetic enthusiasm are probably wishing that she got shunted to the remains of Hogback under Temyrth's command instead. She swoops and dives and flames Thread that may or may not have technically been hers to flame, but it was right in front of her, and she is very aerodynamic! Her rider keeps her just in hand enough that she's not chasing it right out of formation, letting out soft whistles as Thread falls downward right past them — and Golgrainth ducks to flame it into oblivion again. Now it looks like in addition to a great exfoliation Tahi's getting some motion sickness.

And there on the ground, in the midst of the action, is Zavyr. No matter where the youth found to sleep, the infectious pervasive grim anxiety of the Weyr followed the lad, finding him, hounding him, hunting him. And now he's given up on slumber and has arrived here, a 'new' used pair of boots secured and the other one soaking in oil to try to loosen the stiffness put into them by Southern mud. Those borrowed boots are being put to use; Zavyr can run. And a good few months of Candidacy here did at least imprint the map of the Weyr into the lad's mind. He'll situate himself near the healers - racing supplies from the table to where they're called for, though someone else has to give him the right item. Zavyr can't tell one healer item from another, but he does follow basic shouted directions quite effectively.

A brown dragon flies without straps or rider in the ranks of the Queen's wing. Strength of Tusked Wisdom Brown Tolgorunth, from Hogback, whose erstwhile rider missed her date with destiny: a horrific injury caused her hand to be amputated, and the brownpair was still grounded for the fate of Keroon. All morning her strident voice has filled the infirmary, and at least one apprentice has blanched at the sight of her stump, bleeding through its bandages, as she waved it around. 'So slap a hook on me,' she had cried. 'Send me back in.' But the firm hold of her lifemate has held her at bay. There is nothing she can do now but rest. The brown dragon does what he can, thrown firestone by a trusted rider he knows well from High Reaches: Oz'keyn, green Hirikoth's.

Lukoith is among the weyrling crew on the ground, the dark brown keeping in line and formation, eyes whirling red as he growls low, teeth bared and readied as he'll ever be; even if he craves to be above and not chained here below. Still? If there's Thread to kill, he'll kill it. Divale is moving, running, alongside him. It's not an easy thing, by any means, but she keeps up. Those three strands? Are targeted if they're in the clear, Lukoith's aim holding true for now as he flames them to oblivion and dust, kept from any sort of deviousness by Divale's hold on him.

T'ral and Esanth tuck in as they ever do in the gaps, shoring, steadfast, stars glittering in Void wheel, thrumming metal bulwarks and the shrill of alarms, the steady confidence of a crew that knows its duty and executes. Flame licks from gaping craggy jaws, smeared with ash. They're all bound to be on their last of nine lives. Maybe dragons have more than felines. Though 'Fall over Keroon may have disabused everyone of that notion. Everyone can hope, right? » 'Stone! « The bluerider looks around for nearest ready rider with resupply.

Agertha keeps her lifemate in position, more or less, as the green does her aerobatics. The speed with which the green changes direction as she chases after Thread is dizzying. The pair fly well, with only the occassional bark to Arroyo to either fan out, or close rank as the 'Fall dictates.

Things S'rae never thought he would see: a dragon flaming without a rider. But what does he know of dragons? He's only just been taught anything at all he knew in the past seven months. Nonetheless, Tolgorunth's contribution does not only have him impressed, but Wovocyth; all holding the bronze back from offering whispers of praise to the brown's mind are his rider's pointing out that he can't distract him. The fury in his eyes is downright terrifying to S'rae, who can't even make eye contact, is starting to become just a little queasy from that fervent yearn to kill. Just a little bit.

Agertha receives a deep score on the hip!

Selaine receives a medium score on the calf!

From where injured dragons lie, the strangely pitched growl-hiss sounds of bronze Itzquintlith can be noted: someone is particularly peeved that he's not up in the air right now. Or even helping the weyrlings on the ground.

Zisiene has been in the groundcrew this whole time. She's hanging back, and perhaps a little closer to the triage area than she should be. The sights she'd seen not so long ago still have Isie feeling more than just a little nervous about working this detail. Still she's here, and she's clacking the flamethrower on and off as required.

Another day, another 'Fall. Haggard faces from all around, riders that have barely recovered in time for today. Luckily there is no rain, but the darkness of the sky does nothing to help the situation. The wings fly in position, Arroyo remaining at mid-altitude, Akitith does her duty in flaming those Threads that are go unflamed by Whirlwind and Parhelion. Dive down, restock, fly back up, flame. It's an unending cycle. A well-oiled machine. Blinking *between* to avoid getting 'scored. Fanning out, closing in. Arroyo works well together. And yet… somebody moves in too close and Akitith is forced to veer away, straight into the path of Thread. Selaine's calf receives a score and pain shoots up her leg. Akitith immediately blinks *between*. One… two… *POP* The green flies toward the ground to drop her rider off by the healer's tents. "For Faranth's sake..!" she cries out softly as she limps into the tent to get treated.

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

A tangled mass of Thread cascades downwards, tumbling past Oriahysciath with silent grace.

A brown dragon swoops down, singing a large patch of Thread with his flame.

An old Arroyo rider keeps watch on the weyrlings, helping along in the groundcrew. Aq'gana's an older fellow, dark-skinned, his hair a white buzz, a bluerider with the burnished life wisdom and good humor of a favorite grandfather. At Keroon, his lifemate took a rippling score across the wing and could not rise again to fight, but he will live; the old beast has seen worse.

Agertha's scream of pain is cut off as Kestrath skips ::between::. The variegated green will accept no arguments as she dives for the triage area. Her mind in turmoil as she bugles her distress, « She's hurt!! » Agertha doesn't object to her green's heading to safety. There's no way she's fit to continue, and Agertha is well aware of it. One last call from Kestrath goes to Arroyo's other 'Second, « Take point! Mine is injured! » Not that half the wing did not hear Kestrath's distressed call for help for her rider. Agertha manages to get her straps unfastened, and just tumbles towards the ground once that balance is removed. She manages to catch herself before she actually falls. Tears of pain stream down her face even as she glares up at the sky, "A little help?" she calls as she quickly realizes she won't be able to walk on the injury she's just sustained.

Offering some continuity for the remenants of Hogback, Temyrth and M'tej fly just above the queen's wing, low and wide. Perhaps it is some silent memorial that so much space is between some dragons, and not others; the mute respect given those who are gone. But Hogback's remaining dragons are fierce beasts, and the wing's riders not beaten. M'tej had visited each, after that horrendous threadfall, and meals were eaten together, and visits to the wounded made, and it is not only for the greater good of Pern and Igen, but these riders and beasts fly for the honor of those this enemy has taken for them. The lupine brown's artic mind-voice touches each other dragon, checking in, cheering and challenging, perhaps an odd counterpoint to the feral and lean appearance of the fierce nightclad brown. And M'tej spends as much time looking at the others who fly with him, as he does looking for the thankfully sparser thread down at this altitude.

The Threadfall has been particularly hard these past few days, which means it's also been hard on the healers; that's the explanation for the late arrival of Amarante. She looks as if she's been torn from a deep sleep, regardless of the time of day — entirely accurate, because that's precisely what happened. After having been awake tending to wounds and keeping vigil most of the night, she'd only dozed off a couple of hours ago and has now been pulled back to the front lines. For having been a journeyman for about two weeks, she is not doing too poorly when it comes to workload; she is, however, definitely cursing her mentor under her breath as she presses her eyes shut, brushes off the tiredness and throws herself into work. Work that first involves directing apprentices to help those riders who are unable to walk the rest of the way in.

The upper tier is certainly no place for self-doubt, but when it comes to fighting thread, Parhelion's Wingsecond pair have none of that. Oriahysicath is a remarkable creature in the air, her slight size and impressive speed ideal for avoiding those clumps of thread which prove too large for her smaller flame. She is all but rabid in her pursuit of the silver menace, and Eala does little more than hold on, keeping an eye on the wing formation and checking to see if any of their riders are flagging under the increased pressure.

Zavyr is there, Agertha. A quick few steps and a bundle tucked under his arm. "Ma'am. Whereto? Fancy meeting here, eh?" Words that no doubt are not heard, but which need to be spoken, perhaps to steady the towheaded youth that is normally pale, but upon seeing Agertha's wound has also developed a greenish tinge. "Here here here - Need someone here! Other side!"

Everyone that knows Kestrath knows the sound of that green's vocals. Zisiene stops dead when she hears the Arroyo green bugle in distress. She counts slowly, and when there's no keen to accompany that distressed call, the young woman continues her job of flaming the Thread that makes it through the ranks of dragons overhead.

Zsaviranth remains on the ground during this threadfall and Diem is ready with flamethrower in hand. The weyrwoman remains amongst those that make up the groundcrew and she stays within the vicinity of the Healers waiting close by. She cants a quick look up at the dreary sky where the fighting wings have taken formation. Somewhere amidst the upper tier activity is R'xim leading Parhelion as they bear the brunt of the 'fall with Whirlwind. Silver tangles drift down around them, rattling already frayed nerves that the junior queen does her best to calm. Zsaviranth is here. Present. She touches the minds of all dragons with scents of herbaceous sage to help get them through the worst.

The emptiness of some of Hogback's spaces is drawing Wovocyth's attention; his focus largely on that wing and what they may drop. The queens, they can take care of themselves, can't they? But Hogback has lost dragons, and he is yearning to be up with those dragons, much as S'rae is forcing him to not even think about trying to fly. Occasionally a wingbeat escapes him, only accompanying the breath of flame carefully aimed skyward toward twisting silver strands swiftly obliterated by his innate rage.

As if climbing on wicked waves swept from storm-angered seas, Zodaiyath surges upwards after twisted, writhing clump of this menace that falls athwart him leewards that must be sent to the afterlife, that must never reach what he has claimed. Faceted eyes whirl blood-tinged in battlelust, tarnished and corroded jaws snapping shut as the gutteral roar of the massive spew of fire shudders and dies. The Darkness bound pair drag anchor briefly, just long enough for the bronze to be fed more stone; for another cannon ball to be readied and flint to be struck on waiting wick. And brief it is as they yet again bear down, picking up knots of forward speed within their formation as they chase down yet another tangle that dares trespass.

Rhakanth bellows his raucous steel-barrel-full-of-doorknobs-falling-down-a-metal-staircase-in-an-empty-grain-silo bellow, the assistant weyrlingmaster on resupply duty, and ready to stand in if a larger dragon takes a grievous grounding wound. There's a call in the upper tier… F'in may be skimming the supply, because Rhakanth breathes to ash a clump that slipped past headed hissing downard. Broad wings snap open and break momentum slinging stone to the target. The bronze and rider pause at the crest of upward streak until the stall and turn into a dive.
A group of Threads fall past Diem, one after another, plodding downward with mindless determination.

A silvery tendril of Thread drops silently off Zodaiyath's wing.

In Arroyo's formation, Wingsecond R'bior pulls his dragon into lead. Blue Adrutth gives a ringing cry of vengeance for Agertha. Out of the spinning whir of blue and green dragons, Xalatonth rises to join and hold position. Rh'maz hadn't expected Agertha's hit to strike him as deep as it does; she has been a nattering constant in his new life here, a despot, a bratty sister. But Arroyo needs another 'second now; he'll take that place. As Akitith veers away to avoid collision, Xalatonth reaches out for the minds of the wing. «Spread out, keep your space, keep smooth. We have this.»

Once she's certain Agertha is well, or well as can be expected, Kestrath heads back out to the fray. She won't take to the air, but she'll help to keep an eye on the weyrlings. Agertha's eyes are filled with pain as she leans against the youth that's suddenly at her side, "Thank you," said in a strained whisper, then there's another to bolster her other side, and another strained thanks is whispered.

Thread slips past the wings, as well as they are fighting.

A green quickly dodges as a small piece of thread nearly scores her.

Selaine is assisted into a tent by two apprentices and told to sit on a cot. A nearby healer gets to cutting away the rest of her pants up to her knee to get to the score, though Thread has burned most of it. The 'score is not too deep, but enough to put the greenrider out of the fight for now. She hisses through her teeth as the healer gets to work on it. Akitith, on the other hand, joins Kestrath in going back out, doing what she can to be useful, now that her rider's out.

Lukoith and Divale both fall back, likely not far from where S'rae and Wovocyth are now and still well within Aq'gana's sight. The dark brown looks skywards as well, a low menacing growl rumbling from his throat as he takes note of the fighting above and the gaps between Hogback. Divale will just grit her teeth and keep him from creating chaos with his "good" intentions, standing close to the brown's side until they're required to move or she stands back to allow him to flame at a strand of thread that escapes the Wings above.

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

A writhing knot of Thread sinks in deadly silence, just ahead of Temyrth.

A proud bronze swoops down quickly, flaming as he goes, singing a large path in the heavy patch of thread.

A large chunk of Thread descends above Kazavoth.

D'kan and Kazavoth have been near the back of Whirlwind's formation, but with every bad 'score that requires a pair to drop out, they fill in, drawing closer to that leading edge with every pass. The dark brown's wings beat furiously at the wind and drafts, swirling ash in their wake and nearly missing Thread left and right, while that straight ahead is obliterated time and time again. The non-stop work keeps the brown quiet, however, which is beneficial. Right up until D'kan reaches for more firestone and comes up empty. He relays the need to refuel to his wing, then he and Kazavoth disappear ::Between::, reappearing far below the chaos with a scathing comment from the brown that, « You know I can carry more, D'kan! This incessant stopping for more stone is as annoying as your need to stop mid-sweep to — » His rider manages to cut him off there before he can pollute too many minds as they prepare to receive some fresh sacks of firestone.

The brown dragon is warned by one of those of Hogback - perhaps the dragon's cry is too shrill, images of few days ago not having yet faded from draconic memory. But Temyrth heeds, slamming wide his wings while strong bones and wingsails flare to slide the brown up, while serpantine head snakes down to flame the thread that would have .. But did not. M'tej sends a grin and arm-pump back to the rider and dragon who'd warned them. Hogback's confidence begins, perhaps, to struggle back to life.

Zisiene skips out of the way of a clump of thread, and clacks the flamethrower on after aiming the nozzle at said clump. She watches as a pale youth is there to help an injured rider. She's much too short to be of much assistnance in that regard. The 'Fall seems not to be quite so bad to her untrained eye which gives Isie the strength to keep going. It'll be over soon, and then everyone can rest but right now the girl is gripped with anger, fear, and anxiety in equal measures.

A bolt of lightning strikes down through the formations catching and searing stray thread before grounding out, the crash of thunder is immediate, leaving ears ringing and hair standing on end. Riders lift warcries, arms thrust skyward!

In a healer's tent with Selaine, an apprentice kneels with the greenrider as he treats her wound. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts," he tells her, in a fine Fortian voice. "It will start to feel numb any moment now." He is a gentle young man, dark-skinned, with great warm amber eyes. "What's your name? I'm Ayolehe. Do you come from Igen?" Questions meant to distract. His hands are red with her blood.

Diem signals the weyrlings to keep moving just before clicking on her flamethrower and torching what small silver has made its way to the ground. "Got it." she says through grit teeth. "Get to the firestone." A bronze weyrling nods and returns to the supply where bags of the precious 'stone are waiting to be passed to those flying. She signals Divale and S'rae to take position further down where thread may slip through Hogback and Mirage, while she herself jogs back to the Healers.

"Here, now." Zavyr hails a healer, reaching to help support Agertha on her way down to a cot set out hastily for the purpose. "Here. Leg!" This is not Zavyr's best moment, as he stutters and reaches to pull a blanket off of another patient, before blinking and, with small fanfare, and an apology, returning it. Then Zavyr is sidestepping over to a pile of other blankets, to pull one off the top and, half folded, lay it over the top of Agertha. "Right. Now. HERE!!" Zavyr calls to one healer, even as another shoves him out of the way, beginning first to sluice numbweed on Agertha's wound.

The wing glides down and ravages the terrible thread.

Dragons swoop down and burn huge patches in the ever-present thread.

The hiss that comes from Zodaiyath is nothing of this world, the Netherrealm's wrath something that seeps, that oozes toxic and intoxicating. Ko'an's expression is mostly hidden beneath protective wears and the painting of ash that smears him only contributes to the roguish darkness and the sinister grin that is present there. It's too much pleasure for the destruction that surrounds them, even as ghostship adjusts his tattered and blackened banners to give chase to that which dares try to escape his starboard side.

Whoever is taking too long, they're getting sidestepped — Amarante actually jumps over another person lying down to get to where Zavyr is hollering. With a pillow! And a whole bunch of towels and warm water, because, "You'll need more for that. Good work, keep it coming," she may be sleepy, still, but she is able to assess the work of those less experienced with Threadscore with a careful eye. The kind that also is ready to pull people off as needed. Zavyr, now that he has been placed as Zavyr, gets a broader smile from Amarante, before she — vanishes back into the fray rather than taking a moment to actually say hello. Later.

The hiss from Selaine is really the only sound of pain she makes, though her facial features betrays just how much pain she's in. She's had worse, however, and she simply nods in response to the healer apprentice's consolation. "Selaine, green Akitith's." comes her response, words slightly staggered as pain shoots up her leg a few times before the numbweed can really take effect. "Originally from the hold. You're from Fort?"

The variegated green is careful as she flames Thread that makes it close enough for her to do so. Kestrath's eyes whirl an angry red even as the numbing of Agertha's wound begins to seep through to her through their link. "Where's…" is started, but Agertha falls off as she sighs with relief as the pain starts to subside. She levers herself to her elbows to look down towards her injury, "Goin' to need sutures," probably.

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

Eala receives a medium score on the shoulder!

Still unscored, for once, Golgrainth remains hyperfocused — nothing gets too close to her wingmates, nothing passes her watch. It does, of course, in reality; she cannot always be everywhere, but that fervent belief that she can definitely fix everything keeps the green going. Her spins might give her rider whiplash, but Tahi isn't chiding her, knuckles white on the straps underneath her gloves.

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

Ko'an receives a medium score on the neck!

Hi Amarante! Zavyr registers the healer as a sort of aside, with a quick blink, before looking down at Agertha and over to th healer who nods in agreement with the injured rider. Zavyr, feeling the candlemarks moving, turns to head back to his original destination, to now deliver the well-squished bundle that has remained under his arm for much of this. But there's a parting murmur, "Heal well, ma'am." And he's back to running.

A wingleader dives quickly, his wing following, as he finds yet another patch of thread.

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

Knifing across the sky, a sharp strand of Thread cuts across Tahi's path.

The weyrwoman's signal has Wovocyth's ambling trot becoming more of a canter, and S'rae really has to step on it to keep up with him, but at least those wings are staying down.

An ornate clump of Thread waltzes past Kazavoth, dancing elegantly down towards the earth below.

A delicate spiderweb of Thread falls near Zodaiyath, fanning out as if to ensnare him.

A buzzing swarm of Threads zip in front of Temyrth.

A knotted tangle of Thread drops alongside Golgrainth.

Catching the signal from Diem, Divale nods her head, expression grim as she looks up to Lukoith to be sure the brown is good to go before they move ahead, along with S'rae to the intended location; further down, as instructed but on high alert for trouble above or below. As Lukoith steps up to match the pace Wovocyth sets, Divale's likely cursing in her mind as she does her best to keep up alongside.

In the healer tent, Ayolehe continues small talk with Selaine, attentive and sweet. He does what he can to clean her wound and care for it. "Akitith is a beautiful name," he says. "I lived many turns at Fort, but I was born to a small oasis in the west. I have good memories of the winter festivals at the hold. What was your favorite thing they did?"

The beasts that make up Hogback rev up their game, now settling into a fractured semblance of the confidence they once proudly bore. The riders have not yet lost a one, nevermind that their elevation has thinned out the remanent thread population considerably. But this is the small victory they need, and even while Temyrth slides nearly in front of his temporarily-appointed second, the faux pas is forgiven on high spirits as the big blue darts in to annihilate the erstwhile thread.

Zisiene almost feels as though she's dancing with fire, and her movements begin to reflect that feeling. Zisiene's mindful of where she aims her flamethrower, but the whole of it begins to look like a dance with the booming thunder providing the beat of her 'dance' and the clack of the 'thrower being turned on and off again acting as a counterpoint. The pattern of the girl's feet is something that becomes, with time, seared into her mind and she'll be working on a new dance when this is all said and done.

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

Zodaiyath receives a medium score on the haunches!

Oh no you didn't. That tangle has no hope; it is definitely not escaping the wrath of Golgrainth, especially not when coming so close as all that. She doesn't hiss or growl like some of the others, but she does make a peevish noise quite impossible to define as she thoroughly scores it. What Thread?

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

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

A ropy clot of Thread slips past Kazavoth, writhing in hungry eagerness to reach the ground below.

Kazavoth receives a slight score on the neck!

The predatorial green is on the prowl, her sharp, darting movements never leading her out of formation, but still more aggressive than the fighting style of the larger dragons. She blinks in and out of between once as a clump comes too close, and she can't quite dodge it. A dangerous, spitting hiss leaves her throat as she watches that tangle tumble further down, into the mid-tiers. But her attention cannot rest on such things for long, not when the foe remains in the sky and all that bestial craving for destruction still spurs her on. They've pushed too hard in these two threadfalls, but neither dragon or rider is willing to admit defeat yet. Not even when the warning cry from a brownrider behind them comes a moment too late, and Eala is stuck by thread from directly overhead. It bites into her shoulder, prompting a cry of pain from the greenrider before the pair skip between. The blonde slouches slightly in her seat when they return, but she has one good arm and no intention of heading to ground until this thing is over.

"Thank you. I'll let her know she's been complimented." Selaine offers a genuine smile, only barely tinged with a wince as the numbweed does its job. "Favorite thing at the hold?" She repeats, trying to recall any fond memories. It feels like it's been a long time, though truthfully it hasn't even reached a full decade. "Probably the winter festivals, as well, now that you mention it."

One of the kitchen aides, whose duty often becomes to alleviate the possiblity of more, and preventable, problems catches ahold of Zavyr as he jogs by empty handed, and the lad is swung around but dips down to hear new instructions. A water jug is pressed into the lad's arms, and a pair of mugs looped into his fingers. Now he turns to head toward the ground crews. So it's Zisiene encountered first, with Zavyr shambling to a halt with the unaccustomed weight in tow. "Here. They say you need to drink water. Hi." The greeting is afterwards, but now Zavyr will offer a mug, before tilting up ice-blue regard to see what is actually going on up there.

D'kan and Kazavoth return to Whirlwind Wing from below, blinking in from ::Between:: in time to take the place of another brown pair that has just dropped out. Immediately, the brown sends a spear of flame toward the dragon in front of them, just catching a twisted ball of Thread that threatened the bronze's tail. They then need to make a quick barrel roll to the right to avoid another tangle off their port bow, but just as Kazavoth levels out again, he catches a strand of Thread buoyed by the lightening storm's wind. The brown skips between, reappearing seconds later, but not in time to miss a 'score on his neck. With an angry bellow, he dives momentarily to catch the last of the offending foe with a sizzling hiss of flame before he returns to formation.

Arroyo dragons hold mid with Oasis: controlled chaos at this level, with the upper and lower exchange of dragons. Some swooping low to fall out of combat. Others rising again into the effort. R'bior and Rh'maz have split the wing in halves, playing loose, even as their lighter fliers burn out their energy reserves. Some of the smaller greens have peeled out of the conflict, while fresh ones swap in. Xalatonth hums to his brothers and sisters: don't be afraid. Fight.

With every flicker of pain that Zsaviranth senses from the dragons, Diem is able to feel the anxiety. The intensity. It manifests in the tightening of muscles in her neck and shoulders that give way to a headache rolling in full force. The weyrwoman swallows back nausea. She's feeling it. Everything. Yet, she pushes through even if she does look paler than normal. "Move onward. Go." she rasps to another set of weyrlings. They do as they're told and Diem moves with swift purpose through the groundcrew to get to where she is needed.

Zisiene pauses at the sound of Zayvr's voice, "Thanks," she says as she tucks the flamethrower out of the way. Achieved by setting it on the ground, "It's amazing how they don't crash into one another," she comments after draining the water. The mug is offerred back to the youth, and she's back to work again. Each step weaving ever more intricate patterns as she chars Thread that reaches, or threatens to reach, the ground. Ever mindful of where she's aiming the nozzle so she doesn't accidentally burn anyone.

There are many things in which Ko'an likes to see his reflection in, but the silver strands of Thread are not one of them. While distracted starboard, Ko'an's turn of attention to find the next target to engulf and destroy was far too close. Descended from above and suddenly right next to him, his own image staring hauntingly back at him until wind current and dip of dragon movement bring it to him. Onto him. It tangles onto his flight jacket's lapels and shoulder, searing, eating away at leather, clothing, flesh at the curve of his neck. Zodaiyath's echoed ripples of pain comes a beat after his own, finding themselves surrounded by Thread, one daring come abreast the vessel's hull to eat away at the aged and ageless virdigris of his haunches. They disappear Between, the count of three long and breathless when part of one's bond already tiptoes the line of Death, of the feeling of the last gasp of air, the last heart beats waning weaker.. But the Darkness bound pair do return, Hell's wrath heightened, red-stained and furious. Ko'an leans heavy against his straps, a hand pressed over exposed tissues, but they stay airborne.. for now.

They're holding. By the shining stars and tiny broken shards, they're holding. Weariness sings along T'ral's limbs, a deep ache, he breathes slowly, carefully, reading the weave and dart of formations in the tiers. His eyes burn and his body trembles with strength at its wane. And he smiles. A fierce smile, relaxing into a crouch over Esnath's neck as the blue lifts into him on the heated air from a brown neighbors bellow. Next to him, Zodaiyath's takes a hit and blinks away …two …three … …back. Moisture flashes to steam from their bodies re-entering the heat. They live. They all live. A tumble of Thread falls before Esanth and the dragon breathes it to ash. As one the bluepair roar, their defiance. He is going to be so sore tomorrow. But he'll have such lovely skin.

A large gold swoops down low, as her rider fries a patch of thread with a flamethrower.

In the healer tents, Ayolehe finishes up with Selaine as best he can. "Stay here, ma'am," he says, "and someone will come check on you. Then you'll be able to put weight on it, and we'll get you to shelter." The young man offers her a warm smile, tired, yet genuine. "A pleasure meeting you. I have to fetch something for my journeyman."

Hogback's trepedation yields to assurance on the back of so many small wins, many of which could better be defined as the absence of losses. That assurance gradually builds to determination. The holes in the formation are felt anew, every time a rider looks forward and sees the empty field that had housed a friend of months or turns. Every time a rider calls to warn a dragon who is no longer there. But they continue, fortitude succored both by the nearby gold's attention and by presence of each other - the survivors who will carry the fight. M'tej reaches to draw his hand along Temyrth's sleek neck more than once, as if reassuring himself that the dragon is there, and hale and well. This act is, no doubt, echoed through the wing.

The dragons soar around, looking for more thread to devour by flame.

A blue dragon hops ::BETWEEN:: as his rider's hand is painfully scored.

"Indeed." Zavyr returns, but is almost immediately distracted by another flame-thrower-wielder coming over for a drink to douse over parched lips. And another. And far too quickly will Zavyr be jogging back with the empty jug.

In spite of the pain of the score in her shoulder, Eala grits her teeth and continues on, battling as best she can. Oriahysciath is aware of that aching wound, but there is still thread to flame, and the sleek predator in her cannot rest until the last of it is destroyed. And so they'll continue to fight, until both rider and dragon are too exhausted to continue — or until the fall ends, and they can return to the ground triumphant, if wounded.

Igen's Threadfighters hold against the onslaught, a heavy, hours-long onslaught, with no respite despite the rain. Weary, wounded and grieving, aloft and afoot. Few escape unscathed, by the bite of Thread, burns, ash or simpler and no less painful breaks and strains. Dragons, dragonriders. Groundscrew. Weyrlings. Healers. Weyrfolk. Undergrounders. It is the worst they can face. And they have come together, casting their defiance into the the teeth of Thread. It is fitting that the last of the 'Fall is seared to ash by a surviving Hogback rider. A roar goes up through the wings, ragged, raw and very much alive.