Who

Agertha, Bailey, Brynn, Divale, Doji, Eala, F'in, Il'ian, Ione, Keelie, Lemia, L'xan, M'tej, R'ku, R'xim, S'ayde, Th'bek, T'ral, Vosji, Willimina, Zisiene | Kestrath, Khalyssrielth, Diavath, Lukoith, Oriahysciath, Rhakanth, Sargaeroth, Niatskivhiath, Gruffith, Horith, Nokteryth, Temyrth, Kabelkath, Shalnth, Kataskiath, Tavuqth, Esanth, Iskanzivoth

What

Threadfall over Igen River Hold is anything but the scheduled 'normal' when a sandstorm rears it's ugly head mid 'Fall…

When

It is afternoon of the seventh day of the sixth month of the tenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen River Hold

OOC Date 16 Mar 2017 04:00

 

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Igen River Hold

Sitting on the cusp of a striking juxtaposition of sand and greenery, Igen River Hold hugs both rugged cliff and gentle slope of riverbank. Small fishing craft with brightly-hued hulls and sails can be seen to coast easily along the currents here, as well as larger boats built for transport and the occasional journey downriver to the ocean. Crafthalls for both boat-builders and fisher folk make up most of what can be seen from Igen River itself, the ramps and piers extending past the thin strip of tidal swamp to be found at this point along the water's edge. A smallish sprawl of industry, this hold - but a bustling one, with a colorful and thriving community of river-bound Seacrafters and holders who find such a lifestyle to their liking.


The skies had remained clear and the winds favourable during the time the Wings prepared for Threadfall back at the Weyr. Sweepriders confirmed the conditions over Igen River Hold to be the same, save for the winds being higher but not to an amount to be overly concerned. It's a fairly sunny afternoon as the wings begin to appear over the Hold and arrange themselves for the impending Threadfall that looms close. Just enough time to form before the leading edge arrives, most likely.

Weyrlings in tow, their newly minted Mosaic Wingleaders ready with 'stone to resupply, F'in and the other veterans of Mosaic are arrayed with the ground crews… for now.

Kabelkath is now in 'shit needs to get done' mode, his mindvoice a cool blue fire and all joking shoved aside for what is about to go down. He flies in formation with Whirlwind wing, moving to arrange himself where he's instructed like a good bronze. R'ku is perched easily at the bronze's neck, pausing only to give one last adjustment to the goggles over his eyes. Time to get things done.

As the Wings appear over the Hold, the tell-tale leading edge is visible ahead and confirmation is sent through that contact has been made. Fire blossoms as Thread is met and reduced to nothing more than ash.

L'xan and Nokteryth are here, in the months since his twins were born, he has yet to miss a 'Fall, despite the exhaustion that looks set to age him beyond his 31 turns. Happy Turnday to you bro bronzerider! You get to shut up and fight the ancient foe! Nokteryth's chest rumbles with suppressed gasses and barely suppressed impaitence. This lull before the leading edge is engaged is always hardest for the night-ruined bronze. But still, with age comes experience - the pair awaits the order before plunging into that age-old battle.

Whirlwind takes its place as the pivot of the upper tier, the dragons wheeling to bring thier flame and fury forth, T'ral and Esanth in the port tip of a forward vee, Esanth's mind cool and focused, the pair poised to meet and- THERE. In practiced concert they crash headlong into the fray, bellows, roars, blood and ichor rising on the tide of battle joined.

A very nervous Doji has taken a place with the ground crew. She can't help but shudder when the leading edge first comes into sight. There's no flamethrower for this healer apprentice. Instead, she's here with an emergency first aid kit. Bandages, redwort, numbweed, she's got them just in case it's needed.

Kestrath is in her 'do what y'er told' mood, which means that she's in a good mood. Agertha won't be keeping her muzzled, so that means she will be chattering away, and giving a steady stream of orders to Arroyo. For her part, Agertha finishes feeding the variegated green firestone in preperation for the coming Threadfall, « All set! » Kestrath says, with her typically overly loud and overly enthusiastic tones. No mind-scape here, just all noise.

The remaining survivors of Hogback wing arrive with perfect precision, settling into a position roughly above the queen's wing, as has been their habit since the disastrous Threadfall that took most of the wing. Brown Temyrth, nigh shadow against the bright light, drifts artic touch over the small wing, testing for the last-minutes: «Extrrra stone? Second pairrr of goggles? Waterrr forr rrriderrrs?» even as they wing along under and behind the higher wings. M'tej's gloved hand reaches down to draw along Temyrth's sleek hide, even as he grins, and Temyrth roars.

Arroyo, middleweights, crack through the air in two-second unison, assuming their position in their wing tier. Agertha and D'nnet, his 'seconds, receive traditional communications from Tavuqth, the heavy-headed brown gnashing firestone between his back teeth. Th'bek hunkers down, atmospheric wind catching the tail ends of his tightened straps.

Lukoith and Divale are in place within their formation with the rest of Parhelion Wing, the brown being held back and in check by his grim-faced rider. She'd been quiet all through preparation, while Lukoith was his usual self. Now that Thread looms? His demeanour changes. Time to hunt, time to kill.

Ione is here to represent the goldriders, hurrah! Igen's newest queen recruit has her flamethrower in hand as she and Niatskivhiath chase any tendrils which escape the upper tiers. She can likely be heard swearing quietly as she wields that piece of equipment that never quite wants to cooperate with her. But at least she's in no danger of setting anyone on fire — just missing.

An ornate clump of Thread waltzes past R'ku, dancing elegantly down towards the earth below.
"'s yer first 'Fall, Miss Doji?" F'in calls from Rhakanth's neck ridges. Above them dragons meet The Enemy and Rhakanth rumbles, moving foot to foot, bridling to leap aloft and fight. A gust of wind sends a pattering of ash skirling across the grounds, "Mind the ash!" At his urging, Rhakanth moves to shield Doji from the worst of it.

Gruffith is here with the rest of the Arroyo wing, the beasty brown and petite redhead on his back ready to fight! And hopefully not get too much sand everywhere. WHY IS IT SO DRY? They're still learning the ropes of their new wing, but are ever-watchful as they keep in formation of the deadly foe in the sky.

Eala is up near the helm of Parhelion, flying 'Second to R'xim as always. Hey, look at that timing, R'xim. Oriahysciath is only peripherally aware of anything which is not immediately relevant to her, the petite green pushing the edge of formation in her efforts to strike down the silver menace.

A sudden shift in the wind sends some Thread moving erratically towards one Wing, causing a break in formation to avoid injury. Its seared to ash and the disrupted group reforms into their proper positions. During that time, the winds settle, only to pick up again and much stronger. They do not ebb as much as before, but continue to build and the once bright skies begin to darken.

Standing with the rest of the groundcrew, Zisiene picks up her flamethrower and looks over to Doji, "It'll go by fast," this isn't her first time working groundcrew, it likely won't be the petite blonde's las time either.

Diavath and Brynn are here with Parhelion, the large darkling green sweeping her wings with queenly grace. Her mindvoice is sharp and lime green, sparking with violet electricity. « Well, well, well. How are you doing, dear thread. » Is she talking to the spores? Seems like it. « IT IS TIME TO MEET YOUR DOOM. »

Twisted strands of silver weave a taunting dance, as a tangle of Threads snake across Esanth's path.
A ropy clot of Thread sinks, almost lifelessly, past Kabelkath.

Doji jumps as she hears her name, reaching for her kit already. She gives a shy small when she realizes it's F'in, a somewhat familiar face. "Yes, sir. First not in a hold or the weyr. But they asked for help, so I… I volunteered." At the rider's warning, she jumps to the side, narrowly avoiding the ash with the help of Rhakanth's blocking. A quick thank you is said and then Zisiene is with her as well "I believe you. Just make sure you don't give me any work to do!" She doesn't actually want to have to use her healer's kit.

Kabelkath is all business when it comes to Threadfall - he's small for a bronze, but that just gives him all them ore maneuverability when the time comes. Swinging his head around, he sends a gout of flame at the ropy clump of Thread heading his way, being sure to keep in formation and avoid flaming anything but the deadly menace. He doesn't crow in triumph as he usually might - instead, there is a cool blue roiling flame of satisfaction. No words are needed. R'ku, fingers nimble, readies more firestone for his bronze and remains alert. The uptick in the wind has him even more alert and Kabelkath has to adjust his wingbeats a bit more than usual to stay in formation.

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

With the battle engaged, Nokteryth claims his first clump with a triumphant roar. WHO DA MAN? Soon the bronzeriding pair are settled into the glory and violence of what Nokteryth was made for. L'xan is just along for the ride at this point really. When the wind picks up, so does the dark-star wings of the large bronze. Now things are getting interesting! With airborne swagger the bronze switches into high gear, L'xan feeding him additional firestone when required. Nothing like a tricky fall to get the adrenaline pumping and the heart racing.

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

The deal is, Bailey and Khalyssrielth were here before Thread ever started falling. What exactly were the senior pair for Benden Weyr doing in an Igen coverage hold? It's actually quite an excellent question. Pern's smallest queen and her lifemate are left by necessity grounded, not having come attired for the fight; Bailey stands by her lifemate's head and tilts her own skywards, watching the wheeling and flaming of Igen's wings with an analytical detachment.

A long white tendril of Thread tumbles like a dandelion past Diavath, twirling downward towards the ground.

Kestrath's wings work as she maintains her place with minimal effort. As the Thread falls towards Kestrath she flames the net of silvery death before blinking ::between:: to return back in place. Tragedy avoided.

A long snaking filament of Thread kites past Shalnth, fluttering as it sails downward.

Th'bek can't feel anything in the air, all skin covered by wherry and bullhide. It's Tavuqth who apprises his life-mate that the currents have changed, are changing, and that clouds come with them. « The winds shift. On your guard. » Tavuqth's grizzled voice ricochets through Arroyo's dragons, wing spars stretching the membrane between them to steady his position in the air when next he bears flame.

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

R'xim and Shalnth are at the helm of Parhelion, Eala is second because that's her job. Of course. The wing flies a tight formation to keep tabs on one another during this god awful storm as they maneuver with the wind current. Shalnth relays images with Parhelion to help them anticipate what's up ahead and what they're about to fly into. Oh joy.

Zisiene gives a nod to Doji as she moves out to join the rest of the groundcrew. Her flamethrower clacking on and off again as needed. She dances out of the way of Thread, and then clacks the nozzle on and off again. She'll grin as she moves along with the rest of her group.

The winds are accounted and adjusted for, a low growl escaping Lukoith's bared teeth. As Thread crosses their path, the brown lets loose a great plume of flame, reducing it to nothing but a pile of ash and char. Smugly satisfied, he will pursue the next clump that dares drift too close. For a moment, he is caught up in that eerie, distorted image before a sharp scolding from Divale brings him back to focus and the strands are flamed before they can do damage and harm.

Diavath spots that tumble of white weeds and snarls, the tips of her sharp teeth clearly visible. She lifts her wings and emits an enormous burst of witchly flame towards that sickly flower. « DEATH TO THEE, VILLAIN. »

The wind gusts suddenly, bringing with it a sheet of stinging sand from the darkening sky that spirals erratically through the falling Thread. At first it's only a few small squalls of swirling sand, though soon enough the stinging stuff is biting into exposed skin with every movement of the air. It dances teasingly and seemingly at random, robbing visibility at key moments and sending clumps of Thread spinning wildly.

Two clumps, hiss, flame, roar, twist, duck, Esanth and T'ral hold their position at the tip of Whirlwind's vee, the leading, bleeding edge. Esanth's flame roars louder with the shifting of the winds. « Mind the wind. Kabelkath, swap. » Esanth signals the bronze to take point where his wider breath can better snag the spread of wind-driven spores. SAND TOO. T'ral's eyes narrow.

Thanks, R'xim. With her petite form, Oriahysciath is more easily buffeted by the gusting winds, and Eala has to pull her back to even out her flight. "Careful," she warns in a whisper that's all but lost to the wind. With a roar of annoyance that anything would dare to attempt to knock her from her path, Oriahysciath surges forward again to singe a patch of thread from the skies.

No sooner has the brown leader of Arroyo given his warning, then the sand pelts a drape of Thread whisking right toward that leader, and his green second. Silvery death snakes and dances, macabre, as if somehow recognizing the sudden tactical advantage of the blowing grit as its ally.

If Ione had a moment to catch her breath, she might have something to say about Bailey's unlikely presence. But with the winds and the grit, the young goldrider can do little more than cling to her flamethrower and attempt to adjust for the wind with her aim. She'll have some success, but that ground crew had better be prepared.

Kestrath bugles with glee at the shift in the winds. Trust Arroyo's overly loud green to delight in a sudden sandstorm, and all that brings with it. « This is fun! » the green flames as needed, while she manages to slip, slide, and seemingly remain rigidly in place in spite of the winds.

Tavuqth receives a severe score on the neck!

"Shit!" R'ku's curse is probably stolen away by the whipping wind, but the sentiment is there. Now he also probably got a lot of sand in his mouth, as well - good going, R'ku! Kabelkath, however, is in his supremely focused mode, body and muscles tensed to the shifting winds and now the pelting sand. « Switching, boss! » comes his whipfire lance of cool blue flame as he executes them aneuver, only wobbling a little in the unsteady gusts of wind. He uses his bigger bulk to try to steady his flight, sending gouts of flame at the Thread whipping and spiralling towards him.

The Whirlies, caught on highest level, will bear not quite the worst of the brunt of the storm, but certainly the first surprise of it, as the wash of sand escorts a seething mass of thread, tangled and the most dangerous hard-to-see silvery wisps wasping their way toward the mostly heavyweight dragons. Sand seeps into every crack of leather riding gear, begins to settle and rasp between oiled leather and straining dragon hide.

Khalyssrielth's voice is an icy counterpoint to the summer storm, a volley of scrapnel and snow. « Such a lovely day for a minor brush with calamity. » Her words as icicles, sharp, melting. These last fade with the feel of an internal comment, overheard. « Why must Igen always thrust sand in one's face? » The summer-twilight gold sneezes, dangerously dainty. Bailey moves away, finally waving down the ground crew. She calls over the storm: "I need a flamethrower!" The BURNINATOR is in Benden. :(

S'ayde and Kataskiath are among a fresh wave of Arroyo greens sent to the skies to fight an ancient foe. The shadow loving Igenite green bugels a challenge to the skies as she takes her position with her comrades in arms. Flaming wildly at a clump of thread the green rumbles with victory. S'ayde nearly panicks when he notices the Zingari camp below, but he really need not worry, Willimina has whipped her people into good shape for being ground crews, after all, any helping hand is a blessing.

Gruffith's great bewhorled wings strain to stay afloat - what is this stuff in the sky? A sandstorm is nothing like the wet rains at Southern, to which he is accustomed. He grunts, straining against the onslaught of wind and sand, trying his best to stay in formation, to keep an eye on his Arroyo wingmates and those around him, and their deadly foe, so sneaky in this weather.

Esanth receives a slight score on the mainsail!
T'ral receives a medium score on the upper arm!

Ione receives a slight score on the foot!
Niatskivhiath receives a medium score on the tail!

That's what you get for being a whore, Tiski.

The battle rages on, even if it seems the very earth itself is joining in the fight - obscuring the target tangles and increasing the need to skip and duck as the 'Fall keeps on its inexorable path. There is a rhythm to these things, an almost hypnotic rush and pause of action that the unwary can fall into. Struggling against the sand and the tempo L'xan and Nokteryth keep their position in the wing, and their patch of sky full of char and ash. « Because Igen is a dung heap, luv. » The cocky bronze replies to the currently grounded gold. « It's more entertaining up here » Nokteryth should be concentrating, but he can't resist sending those midnight rainbow tendrils to explore this new golden mind.

Your face is a whore. :(

As the sand is lifted up in backwards torrents, blackening the sky and interspersing with the menace from above, the lower and mid wings are literally caught between the rage from above and the seeming sensation of the very soil of Pern lifting to meet them. The golden dragons, pride of their Weyr, along with Hogback, are enclosed in conditions approaching zero-invisbility. Sand reaches around those big dragons to reach in wicked waves toward the midlevel fliers, who now are faced with turbulance-riding Thread. Parhelion sees a wall of Thread literally shift direction from head on, to a whirling flank attack, even as the sand begins to reach their level.

S'ayde receives a slight score on the face!

Gruffith receives a medium score on the foresail!

Nokteryth receives a deep score on the tail!

Rhakanth roars and the F'in holds him back, sweating with the effort. The presence of a Benden queen has him even more eager to be aloft and fighting. FINALLY, calls for resupply begin and he and Mosaic spring up in pairs to dart (as much as bronzes dart) among the wheeling formations.

Horith walks in from the Eastern Road.
Lemia slides from Horith's neck and lands gently on the ground.

Chaos is now wreacking havoc on the wings as the wind causes formations to become less rigid as dragons attempt to compensate. Thread is still falling, though amidst a roiling flurry of sand. Visibility plummets unexpectedly and wind gusts, causing Thread to clump and spin in erratic motions. The wings make attempts to keep formations through random pockets of better visibility when the sand clears unexpectedly, though a lot of clumps seem to be escaping the upper tiers to filter down towards the ground.

R'ku receives a slight score on the wrist!

Rocking, a dreadnaught in a tempest, Tavuqth cuts a flame short when the single filament of Thread is instantly shriveled into coarse powder. His torso folds, a quick turn (for him) executed to catch a clump off guard, sparklers from his maw making inconsequential damage to the deep sepia hide. Th'bek orders Arroyo to increase the gaps between its riders to account for the extreme drop in visibility. The pair climbs, then a spate of rough wind slams a clump of Thread into the base of the brown's soft neck where muscles and flesh operating the left wing are grounded. The sound creeps, at first not able to compeat with the sounds of blistering sand scouring surfaces. Then it manifests as a full-bodied roar, acute pain and surprise, as Tavuqth and Th'bek are no longer in their occupied space.

The thread comes out of nowhere, hitting them sidelong. It just brushes Ione's foot, but that yelp of pain is overpowered by the bellow from Niatskivhiath as thread sinks into her tail. The poor gold gets a bit singed in the process as Ione utterly fails to protect her from that flying menace, and the pair quickly blink between. When they reemerge, the gold is clearly feeling the pain, but her tail isn't yet enough to take her out of the air.

T'ral groans as Thread pummels his arm and glances off, searing through leathers to eat at his arm and rip through Esanth's wing. The pair skip ::Between:: and return to chaos as the storm rises and makes visibility nil. « STEADY. » Constellations wheel, showing the individual stars of Igen's dragons in formation, place and order in the cool blanket of starlit Void all wheeling around the hated Star. « STEADY. »

« PAIN!! »

Divale receives a deep score on the ankle!
Lukoith receives a medium score on the neck!

A fine haze now silts the air, dust whipping past the heavier grit that grinds itself into every orfice and ichor and blood-laced wound. Freshly-oiled dragons may find themselves heavy with abrasive dust that also finds itself insinuating through fabric and into boots, firestone sacks… Thread, only, is not inconvenienced. Whirlwind, in the cleanest higher air, has the brightest view of alien death slicing gracefully through the air. An especially wicked attack has almost diabolically spaced single threads spanning the left side of the wing.

Khalyssrielth isn't really the type to be explored: what a barren, dangerous stretch of ice and iron lies for those who dare the attempt! « Focus, » the grounded gold commands, the twining force of her birthright tendriling ivy-like over the edges of her words as frostbit filigree. Bailey's reach for a flamethrower halts the moment Tavuqth roars, and she turns blindly toward the sound. Khalyssrielth's haunches are already bunched, wings switchblading out in readiness of launch, should the brown's injury precede a catastrophic freefall.

Threadfall is often difficult for Iskanzivoth — who has, of course, been in this scene the entire time, but Mosaic wasn't even in the air then — as he was once a high flight leading dragon, and that meant something to him, and he was good at it. His strategy being even finer than his Vosji's, and his flying was once so marveled over! But most of the time he forgets that, it's only a brief wistful moment that's coming more from her memory than his; it comes up mostly when they're sitting still. Now, though! Now they're in the air, directing a pack of senior weyrlings. Iskanzivoth is barking mental orders, mindvoice clanging roughly against the weyrlings' minds. Vosji is the focus that Benden's gold orders, attention on the fall as her lifemate directs his charges.

Doji hasn't been called for an injury on ground crew yet, but the healer winces every time she hears one of the cries from the dragons being scored above her. As the winds pick up, she starts coughing as the sand gets in her face. Unfortunately she had forgotten to pack a scarf, but she does break out one of the bandages from her first aid kit to fashion a make-shift mask. Can't be ready to heal someone while coughing up a lungful of sand after all.

Shalnth is fed more firestone just in time to torch a tangle of silver thread that's pushed in his direction by an erratic wind current. Ash and sand pelt against his hide and R'xim exhales a breath after dodging that proverbial bullet. Barely able to catch another breath, more thread shifts toward Parhelion's flank and Faranth knows where else. There's a sharp awareness for Arroyo's wingleader through the dragonlink and Shalnth intensifies his presence amongst his wing to keep them focused.

Kestrath moves to fill the gap left by Tavuqth's sudden absence, « Steady! » is sent to the wing. Agertha's focused on the fight against Thread, there's a bound to be more casualties and she's likely going to spend a lot of time beating herself up later. Now? Now's not the time.

Hogback, caught between the golds they are trying to protect and the dust that has fully enveloped those queens, and the rain of Thread from above, disperses somewhat at some silent command from someone - Some dragon - They rise, higher, as a unit, until they can at least see each other; only a few wild flames had marked their ascent, and now they begin the battle with a desperate edge; to fight the enemy they cannot see.

Nokteryth bellows in anger and pain as an unseen clump of Thread tangles with the length of his tail, sand and spore combining to create a monsterous wound that punctuates the ice-field scolding of the Bendan queen. The bellow cuts off as Nokteryth skips, seeing a cold deeper than the one sent over the mind link to prevent further injury. « Right you are luv! » The oil-slick smooth cockney rumble announces his return, an illusion of confidence sorely tested by the pain in his ass. Nokteryth and L'xan can technically still fly, but with the sand joining the party it would be better for them to seek medical attention. This is a bad fall for the experienced pair. « Need healers. » L'xan instructs Nokteryth to pass along the chain of command, before they wheel away creating a gap in Parhelion's formation.

S'ayde blinks between with Kataskiath when he's scored on the face, a single sliver of it escaping one of Kataskiath's flames. "Shit!" He exclaims as they blink back into existence. Kataskiath sends comforting flames into S'ayde's mind, but she stays focused ahead, bugeling her rage before ripping loose an impressive flame. The targeted thread shrivels into dust as Kat fights the winds to get back into position. «Ssssteady asss I can be…» She replies to Kestrath, the hissing flames of her mindvoice hungry for more thread.

Steady is what Kabelkath embodies, that's for sure - he sends back a calming blue flame to Esanth in response, « We are steady - we shall prevail! » But even his big bronzen bulk is not enough to prevent some wobbling and unsteady flying as the wind intensifies and flying grit makes even dragon visibility suffer. Taking advantage of being in the more clearly visible areas up above with Whirlwind, Kabelkath rains gout of fire and gout of fire after the Thread, though several times he's forced to dodge or awkwardly bank to avoid a half-hidden netting of deadly filaments. It's during one of these maneuvers that R'ku, his hand outstretched to grab more firestone for his bronze, receives a score right across the top of his forearm. Hissing in pain, the bronzerider snatches his arm back and the pair goes *between* as soon as it is safely able. Fast enough to stop a bad score, but not fast enough to stop the Thread from eating into his flesh at least a bit. It's not enough to ground them, however, and Kabelkath redoubles his efforts, moving back into whatever unsteady formation the wing has managed in the wind and sand.

An entire section of the sky, which had appeared to be dust only, now clears to reveal itself as a fierce rain of Thread. Having slipped past the struggling wings, it now threatens to fall on the farther-spaced groundcrew that had been huddling to try to protect against the horrific sands.

A swirl of white spores pinwheels out of the sandy storm, drifting with deadly purpose towards Gruffith and his monstrous wings, which move at just the wrong time, his calm distracted as their wingleader's Tavuqth roars and then disappears, and then Niatskivhiath is injured as well during the fall. His wingsail is bitten, and the brown grunts, glancing backwards for a moment and then winking between after another moment's hesitation at the searing pain, that chops through his seascape mindvoice like an axe through a tree. They reappear soon afterwards, a bit aways from their wing, the young former wildling, Keelie, on his back, trying to get a good look the damage - but it's so difficult to see in all of this sand.

That wall of Thread is seen, noted and Lukoith prepares to lay waste with flame to the silvery menace when the winds shift again and strong this time. Strong enough that he's pitched off balance, a snarl of fury lost to the storm as he dips to avoid being struck. He manages, but drifts out of formation and from there things spiral out of control fast. Divale's hardly had a chance to recover and to regroup when a second-too long pause from Lukoith finds them right in the path of danger. Too late, the brown tries to veer, tilting dangerously but his escape proves futile. Divale is hit bad in the leg, most of the clump seeming to target her ankle. Pain lances through, hot and blinding and before her shocked mind can react further, they fall prey to Thread again; only Lukoith takes the hit to his neck. It's with his scream of pain and fury that the brown disappears Between… only to reappear, then disappear again in seek of aid. They are down and out for the remainder of the Fall.

Neither Th'bek nor Tavuqth register the severity of the injury until the brown gathers himself after betweening and his body slopes forty-five degrees, Th'bek launching himself backward to avoid the dangerous pitch. Sand pelts the pit of flesh at the side of the beast's throat, and his performance is only a locked glide, Tavuqth's position in the sky just barely above Oasis. « Ag—! » They're gone again, no fatalistic scream. D'nnet cedes to Agertha as the senior wingsecond among them, and rushes with Cnenyath to fill Kestrath's place.

Horith trumpets a challenge of her own towards the skies as she and Lemia join Parhelion for the battle. Better late than never, though Lemia is looking a bit piqued. Thread doesn't wait for the sniffles to go away. The springtime green beneath Lemia lets loose a mighty flame as thread falls from ahead, she banks right after and wings back into position.

One of the wings is suddenly blanketed in a howling wall of sand mid-maneuver, leaving them completely invisible for a few heart-stopping seconds. All that can be seen for those few seconds are dark shapes and a single gout of flame amidst the sand before visibility suddenly clears again. The clumps of Thread that the wing had been aiming for, however, have spiralled past them and careen erratically towards the lower tier wings.

« Could you at least try not to injure yourselves? » comes the rarely-heard voice of Oriahysciath, her rich feminine tones roughened by the strain this threadfall is taking upon them all. Although R'xim is no doubt on top of things, it doesn't stop the green pair from reaching out to ensure those holes left by L'xan and Divale are filled, as more and more of Igen's riders fall prey to injury.

Il'ian and Sargaeroth have always been, always will be: in the midst of the Parhelion pack. They flame the world like ever-creeping fel-taint: in sinister demise. Words wash over, but there, the warglaive-Sargaeroth swings right and consumes what death may fall in living flame. Begone, begone, by fire be purged.

And just as sudden, the winds begin to ebb and the gusts come more infrequently, allowing dust and sand to disperse. Only what should be a blessing only makes things unpredictable; each new gust sending Thread twisting away or spiraling erratically. By now, most are starting to feel the added stresses of exhaustion, as well as added stress as more injuries occur.

« No, Kelrannath, the other — » Iskanzivoth, directing a young green whose first time it is flying Thread, careful, cautiously urging her mentally in the opposite direction; his distraction is just long enough, that millisecond of missed chance when his normally precision-perfect flame isn't doing the right thing at the right time. He is too concentrated on his charges to be on his own duty; those tendrils being missed by the higher wings take root far closer to the blue and his lifemate than they should.

Eala receives a medium score on the lower back!

Iskanzivoth receives a medium score on the neck!

Horith receives a slight score on the tail!

Kestrath keeps herself aloft by sheer force of will. She flames as needed, taking more firestone as needed, and continues along with the rest of the wing. She'll be exhausted when this is done, but she'll be satisified that she did everything she could for wing, Weyr, and Pern.

Tantalizing blue patches eventually start to show through the swirling sand as the wind gusts start to die down. The sudden improvement in visibility, though, only shows that there are still a few clumps of Thread falling in erratic spirals from the sky. Even with the storm dying down, exhaustion preys on a few more unfortunate riders; stupid mistakes are made. What was scheduled as normal became anything but and yet the Wings push onwards.

Khalyssrielth yields back groundward as Arroyo's wingleader is taken from the theater of battle. It does not stop Benden's queen from work, grounded as she may be; Bailey's reach has stopped short of a flamethrower, and instead her hands are filled with numbweed and redwort. Despite the condition of sand and air and the unfortunate marriage between the two, the woman has shown profound disregard for her well-to-do attire and is instead elbows-deep in a critical wound seared into a poor Hogback blue's haunch.

« They are behaving like peasants. » Diavath answers Oriahysciath, thorns sharp in the briar patch of her regal mindvoice. Her wings are tiring, but she will not show it, diving and dipping out of the way of a clump that blooms whitely, like a rose. She'll backwheel and catch it with her own particular blossom of flame.

With the sudden clearing, Hogback's brownriding female wingsecond sees both that wall of thread and Lukoith's failed attempt to attack. The wing, initiated by her call, swings toward the groundcrew that, having seen their peril, had been running pell-mell everywhere, though one in a Last Act of Defiance, had stood his ground, flaming straight up with the AgNO3 sprayer, only to have it lash back over his own face. But the Hogback dragons, as if on some vigilante mission of their own, call and separate in nearly ground-level pursuit of these errant threads.

There's a grunt of pain from Eala as the shifting winds cause a twisting strand of thread to sneak up on her from behind, sinking into the flesh of her lower back as she leans forward to press herself to Oriahysciath's hide. it's a good thing the woman isn't particularly vain about the already damaged skin across her back. They blink between, and when they reemerge the greenrider is hunched forward, trying to relieve the pain by putting no pressure upon that tender skin. With so many riders already down, the pair won't make for a landing until they're forced into it — Eala's pain doesn't keep Oriahysciath from spitting flame at the erratic strands.

Horith roars with dismay, blinking ::between:: as she receives a score to the tail, hadn't seen that one coming! She reappears seconds later with a crack, Lemia sneezing and sniffling upon her back. «You are sick…» Not sick enough to be missing this, love. «Alright.» Flame erupts as Horith catches a tight clump of thread to her right.

It is a fair move, perhaps, on the part of the madness and weather, that Kelrannath is hit by her selfsame stupid mistake just as Iskanzivoth is. Kelrannath may even be scored worse; this would seem fitting to a less charitable dragon, but Iskanzivoth's cry is possibly worse for the weyrling green than it is for himself. She is grounded, though he just blinks ::between:: and back out again just as Vosji lets out a cry — at first. "Land," she orders, voice sickly sweet as she directs him, fights him to go to ground; the score is deeper than he'd like, and is far too close to where she is trying to sit for eventual comfort. She thinks of the consequences as he thinks only of the battle right now. One very, very unhappy Mosaic blue, forced to be attended to before he can return to the skies. If he can return to the skies before next time.

Esanth and T'ral recoil with the shock of Tavuqth's injury and the pair fan their presence to Whirlwind. A blue's strength goes only so far and what he lacks in volume, he makes up for in raw, grinding stubbornness. The both of them. The middle tiers seem stable, the lowest tiers aren't visible particularly through ash and sand and bodies to and fro. The strangeness of Khalyssrielth's presence, at once chilling and familar, like the echo of a phrase they hadn't spoken, shivers. Roaring into place, Esanth relays Abraxath's call for the greens and lithe blues to begin rotating out.

Kabelkath receives a slight score on the mainsail!

With greens and smaller being swapped from their wings, D'nnet ensures some of Arroyo's fresh riders are properly acclimated to recent events.

Kabelkath was doing so well with the sand and the wind. Stands to reason that once the wind begins to die down, one of those stray bits of erratically spinning Thread would manage to clip him. Tired from his constant maneuvering, the bronze dips low a bit too late and ends up with the deadly filaments dragging across the top of his mainsail. With a hiss of pain, the bronze is quick to blink *Between* to deaden the score and rejoin his wing. It's a bit painful, but the bronze is so not going to wimp out and limp off - he stays in formation, sending another gout of flame to sear more Thread. He's totally badass and all. Nevermind that it's a very minor score, anyhow.

At last, there is an end in sight! The storm is gone and now Fall comes to its gradual end. Those that survived can celebrate doing so for another day! The wounded can count themselves lucky (or not). With the last of the silvery menace reduced to nothing but ash, the call goes out to return to home; those that remain will check in with the ground crews and be certain no burrows have taken root and to assess any other damages.

Eventually, Eala will be called down from the air and tended to properly. Probably sooner rather than later, given Oriahysciath's small size and the greenrider's painfully-placed injury. And eventually, Ione will admit that Niatskivhiath is struggling to control her flight with than injured tail, and they'll come in for a (slightly rough) landing as well. Hopefully, Bailey won't laugh at Ione's limp, and the sulking she's bound to be doing about her inability to wear nice shoes. Thread sucks.

Nokteryths landing is not one of grace, but one of great reluctance. He probably should have returned to the Weyr, but it's a tail-wound and his rust-stained hide is a testament to previous scorings more severe and survived. "If I can get some numbweed on him we can get back up." The burly form of L'xan yells into the dying dust and ash on the ground. He's not a dragon-healer though, and still in the grips of the battle-lust that is driving the mad-eye whirl of Nokteryth's great eyes. Unclipping from his harness L'xan takes a moment to swivel and assess the damage down the back of his lifemates hide.

Sargaeroth is a beast: a war cry given in the midst of fire whilst ash falls around. Is it in response to Oriahysciath? Or to Diavath? Or to the void that spawns such organic menace as Thread? Difficult to discern, but Il'ian forces his lifemate to not break from the pack. To follow the lines given, though that will remains incredible to do. Die, Thread!

A wingsail torn is not a good wound to have. During the break in the storm, with Gruffith strugging to keep an eye on his Arroyo wingmates, he suddenly falters in the sky, the girl on his back urging him down. The neverbeast tries to stay afloat, but, alas, it is a losing battle, and he lands with a heavy *galumph* in the sand. And just in time for it all to end. At least he made it through the fall.

Doji watches in horror as that one section of dust turns Thread menacing a nearby section of ground crew, although not an immediate danger to herself. The arrival of Hogback was barely noted as she's focusing on the man who just burned his face. She looks around for the nearest person with a flame thrower and grabs at their sleeve and pull them along with her. "I have to get over there!" And you know, doesn't want to run into a burrow by herself.

The blue Hogback member's wound and a few minor and medium scorings have Hogbackers reconvening briefly on the ground, with their borrowed Whirlwinder; M'tej takes volunteers for dragons and riders able to assist in groundcrew; everyone else is sent back to the Weyr, to tend their dragons and wounds and help there.

Rubbing. Th'bek doesn't recall disassembling the straps that lead him to the ground, but he's rubbing Tavuqth as if coaxing a genie from his leg and breathing heavily through his mouth. Quiet in all other fashion. The terrible strain of struggling with gravity has Tavuqth laying his skull on the ground, head spun at an awkward angle. It similarly hurts to fold that left wing so it sprawls, oxide spatter prominent in coloration. Healers are packing the open cavity with numbweed and the brown's eyes burn a combustible yellow.

S'ayde and Kataskiath are doing their best to keep up with the craziness of this fall, but being part of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny little greeny dragon club has it's drawbacks. S'ayde sends confidence and reassurances towards his lifemate, they're doing their best! Kataskiath eyes her injured bretheren and those still fighting. She keens for those badly injured, whether wingmates or no. What a catastrophy.

The worst is over and as soon as they are able, T'ral and Esanth, they leave the fray, making a beeline for Tavuqth and Th'bek. « Tlazotezath. Bring us home. We're needed on the ground. » With a salute, the bluepair tuck wings and weave through the falling ash where dragonhealers on duty swarm over Tavuquth. T'ral joins them. Esanth ambles up, wings folding awkwardly with his wound, eerie croon a steady thrum. Stars. Pulling off goggles and gloves, T'ral rushes forward calling for redwort.

Zisiene has returned to the area where the healers have set up, "Sent to collect a healer," she states matter of factly looking almost expectantly at Doji. She'll guide the healer apprentice to where she needs to be, and clear Thread as they move.

« Calm yourself, » Khalyssrielth's clipped voice directs to Nokteryth, among others. Other golds hold control for dragonhealers' touch with smooth warmth and comfort, but none of that can be found here. It is the cold touch of the frozen tundra, the freezing blankness of the too-cold, touching on the inertia of slowing blood. "Taralde, you are short three gallons of numbweed!" Bailey's voice briskly calls to the arriving T'ral, still focused in on the Hogback blue she's finishing an assist on. "The flesh wounds." They always get you.

Kestrath finally lands, and Agertha's out of her riding straps and on the ground in record time. She moves through Arroyo, checking on each. She pauses by S'ayde, "Alright?" she asks, and waits for an answer. She'll work her way over to Th'bek to check on him sooner rather than later, but right now she's going to check on the first rider she's come to.

Doji was already on her way, but lets go of her dragooned volunteer as Zisiene says she was sent to get a healer. "Well, let's go!" And she's dashing off to where she last saw the severely injured man go down, having faith that the other girl is following behind. When she gets to the spot, she lets out a gasp of surprise at just how bad it is, but immediately sets to work. It doesn't seem likely that her little first aide kit is quite up to this level of facial burns though.

Kabelkath comes in for a slightly awkward landing, his scored wing making him wobble just a tad on the landing. But hey - he made it. « All in one piece, boss. But I must say - that was a shit show and a half. » Now that danger is over, Kabelkath's lewd comments and fiery orange sparks of a mindvoice have rolled back into life. R'ku awkwardly dismounts, having to be careful due to his left arm/wrist being slightly scored. Sweat pretty much has made a mess of his wavy dark hair beneath the helmet he pulls off. That and his mustache is slightly askew. He'll make his waver to T'ral, though, left arm held awkwardly away from his body, "T'ral - hey." His voice is a bit of a rasp from the sand, "I think we need to talk to someone on how to deal with conditions like this again or we might even lose someone completely."

As riders are wounded and leave the fight, certain advanced senior Weyrlings take positions in the Wings at Thread's ebb, to get experience that isn't winding and wheeling through. Rhakanth and F'in slice between the tiers, bolstering these — some of them — first timers, steadying the young minds with the bright cord that ever Shows the Way.

L'xan and Nokteryth succumb to the bullying of the dragonhealers in a way that they refuse to succumb to the injuries of their duty. Slowly the whirl of bloodlust fades as numbweed takes effect and today's mistake can be assessed. They'll not be sky-bound for a while yet and dispondance settles upon the pair as they await the okay to head back home (but not with tail between legs, cuz that has a bit of a boo-boo).

Lemia and Horith race to the ground as soon as they are able, Lemia leaping from the straps to inspect Horith's score, coughing all the while. Are you alright?? She asks her lifemate, invoking the psychic link between them because she can't stop coughing.

S'ayde sighs with relief as the fall ends, and directs Kataskiath to the ground, their injuries are minor. Kat lands close the Kestrath and S'ayde slips from the straps, his cheek burning from the score. "Mostly…." Is his response to Agertha's question. "Shit, this stings…" Kataskiath settles down and turns her sylven head to inspect S'ayde and his cheek. «You are hurt.» ((pose fix))

Agertha gives a nod to her friend before she winds her way over to Th'bek, "What's needed?" she asks, with a glance up to the sky. Kestrath will climb back into the fray should that prove needed, but she's reached her limit for the moment. Even at that the green is still barking orders to those Arroyo who remain aloft.

This is where most of Willimina's assistance comes in, she dispatches her healers to assist those from the hold and weyr. She directs others to join the ground crews in searching for burrows. Water and whiskey is handed out to all, and Willa makes sure there's food for those who want it.

Th'bek's head, in short order, presses against his bonded's forearm, the firestone stench phenominal, but he ignores it. His neck, in their shared state, hardly seems to hold his head; it isn't long before a shoulder succumbs to the lean too. A wide eye tracks Agertha and T'ral and the brownrider coughs forcefully. Tavuqth has yet to regurgitate his ash pile, but here in Igen Hold's courtyard there is much commotion. D'nnet's landed but is too nervous to approach, so like Agertha he circulates through Arroyo to support whom he can.

Don't remind him. 'Taralde' has a sear on his arm the pain of which hasn't quite burned through adrenaline's wash. A healer, spotting the injury, catches him while he washes up. The bluerider's teeth bare, belly clenching. He turns that teeth-bared expression on Bailey. It could charitably be called a smile, "Don't they?" He shuts his eyes hard as the healer scrubs, sans numbweed — they're light, you see — and he forces his eyes open at R'ku's voice. "Scrub up," he commands the bronzerider. "Talk while we wor-" Lemia and Horith land, the rider hacking, the dragon wounded. "Get some water!" R'ku. Get some water. "We'll talk later!"

Agertha turns to look around before she snaps, "We need a healer here! Now!!" then she grabs a waterskin from a passing member of groundcrew, this is handed to Th'bek, "So what do you need besides a healer?" because Agertha's going into full on bossy mode. The kind of bossy that's hard to ignore.

R'ku blinks his mismatched eyes once and then twice, suddenly becoming aware that - hey yeah, he has a score on his arm that needs taking care of. "Yeah - later. Water. Numbweed," he manages to rasp out to T'ral, though he has a distant kind of look on his face - you can almost see the cogs ticking along there at /some/ kind of idea. A rumble from Kabelkath breaks R'ku out of his trance and he frowns and then blinks again, "Divale and Lukoith got hit? …. where?" And he'll start off into the milling crowd - first to find a dragon healer to attend to his bronze's minor wing score, then perhaps a healer to attend to his own and then off to see how Divale might be doing.

Doji kneels down in the sand beside the severely burned man. First things first, she's checking for a pulse, frowning. After a minute, she must have found something as she drops his wrist and grabs for her redwort and starts trying to clean the burns with visibly shaking hands.

Tavuqth is likely yielding to the succor of Esanth and a queen, though his skull pitches on the contact of his chin and rolls to the other side where drag marks in the imported sand follow. His mouth exposes an armory of too-long teeth. Dewlap and keel soon sink into the courtyard, in time, haunches should follow. "How, tell me how bad." Th'bek appeals to Agertha in a dire voice. Air is inhaled over cracked lips.

Bailey and Khalyssrielth remain until the dragonhealers of Igen have the worst cases firmly under control. Then she passes T'ral with an absent pat to his shoulder, a wordless declaration of good-job, and scales her lifemate with tidy steps. Her eyes land with sympathy upon Tavuqth and his rider for a singular moment. Khalyssrielth withdraws to be replaced by another's firm command, and then launches into the air, a scintillating firefly spark that disappears into the space between places.

"S'ayde's got a miner score to his face," Agertha starts as she looks around, "He shouldn't be out for too long. I haven't seen Th'sher," there's little concern to her voice. Agertha sounds almost clinical in her assessment.

Kestrath has worked her way over to where Agertha stands. She drops her head over the woman's shoulder and wuffles at Tavuqth before she backs to butt at her rider, "Guess that's my call to get back to the Weyr. There are others back there that need checking on. I'll get you a full report," but probably not for a day or two, and with that Agertha's pulling herself back up onto Kestrath's neck to head back.

After a couple minutes of trying to clean the wounds, a very shaken Doji has to admit to herself that they're just too extensive. She hastily gets to her feet, wiping some tears from her eyes and runs back to where the more senior healers had been working. She frantically flags down the first journeyman she can find. "Sir.. his burns… I can't… they're too deep!" For someone who usually can't stop talking about healing, she's having trouble finding the words now. "I think he needs fellis…" This comes out barely as a whisper. The journeyman looks at the rather distraught apprentice, grabs his kit and follows her back.

Words, acute aches, Tavuqth's pain-laced ire, a camp of sorts begins to take shape by the injured dragons, both here and back at the Weyr proper. A journeyman starts to determine if the wingleader has any injuries himself and it will be determined that Tavuqth has damage enough for them both. Th'bek hasn't realized they will come to call Igen Hold home for some time, and bids farewell to Agertha with one word. After his clean bill of health, he will circulate and use his firelizard for much needed intel.

T'ral rubs at the sweat, clumping in be-ashed streaks. In the sky, no Thread. No dragons. On the ground, the wounded and the intent bustle of a field infirmary. There would be much and more to review on their performance on this 'Fall, but for one more seven — Igen prevails.

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