Who

Agertha, A'lira, Amarante, E'gus, En'rys, Diem, Divale, Doji, G'tan, I'yn, Katryana, Ko'an, Kyara, Liavhah, Magdaline, Miel, Moanna, R'ku, S'ayde, Sesa, Vosji, Zaria

What

Surprise Fall Over Igen and erratic winds is a recipe for disaster!

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-second day of the first month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr - Northern Bowl

OOC Date 25 May 2018 05:00

 

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« The wind is strong - stay sharp! »


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Northern Bowl

In the quieter spaces of the Northern Bowl, there is less activity; all is kept serene for young, forming draconic bonds. Beneath the sweep of skies' ever-changing colors, this round little panorama hosts the short distances between the Hatching Cavern and the weyrlings' ultimate destination: the barracks and training grounds. More packed dirt and tiny little hillocks than clean white sand, the floor is an uneven thing, a startling trap for the unwary and the clumsy. Further onward, the Ground Weyrs beckon, a haven for those who may seek medical attention.

It is the eighty-second day of Winter and 32 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


Winter at Igen may rarely get truly freezing, today is definitely bordering on it and the windchill makes it feel so much worse! Poor unfortunate souls that have to traverse the expanse of the bowls will find the biting breeze exploiting any possible gap in cold weather gear. The midday sun is about as harsh as the wind, but on the star stones, the watchrider suddenly moves at a glimpse of something and then the blue is bugling for the Weyr at large. « THREAD! IT FALLS!!! » And even though it wasn't on the schedule, weyrfolk and riders alike burst out like cogs in a well oiled machine. Surprise or not, somebody's gotta fight this Threadfall.

Iskanzivoth may have let out an actual profound sigh at the announcement, but he got his act together as quickly as he ever does. It's not that the blue isn't pleased, because he's always glad to rise to fight, but he has this batch of almost-not-weyrlings that he's pretty much whipped into shape, and, time to get things going. « All right, weyrlings, » he directs like this is an orchestra crossed with a boot camp, « Fall into formation. Briamiorth, behind me. Everyone else - you know where to go. Everyone ready? Wings all stretched? Straps all checked? » Vosji's keeping an eye out for the humans of the bunch but is letting Iskanzivoth handle direction as she wraps her scarf extra-tight around her neck, situates her goggles, mounts up.
Zsaviranth walks in from the Leadership Ledges.

Being Wingleader of the wing that's supposed to know all things weather, R'ku knows more than anyone would care to know about the wind chill and even the wind speed, velocity and probably the emotional state of the wind if it was a thing. Thus, when the bronzerider is scrambling up his bronze's side, pausing only to adjust his helmet, he's encouraging his dragon to relay information to the rest of the wings about what is known about the current conditions. « Wind's a bit nippy, but could cause for some erratic thread. Watch your asses and assets! » Kabelkath's fiery mindvoice flickers across to the rest of the wings as he unfurls his wings before vaulting into the air. The rest of Sirocco starts to fall into formation behind him.

Threadfall may not be truly new for the weyrlings, but the weyrlings are still new in the grand scheme of things, including 'Fall. So Kyara and Liareth are quickly in order out at the training grounds, the pretty green abandoning much of the hedonistic steam of her mental baths to help bring their charges to order in the wake of Vosji and Iskanzivoth's call. Her mindscape is heat and firelight and berserkers on the prowl, statues at one moment, perhaps animated the next; it's difficult to tell. Her intent, however is not. « You are all well-prepared. Let us show our Weyr the truth of it, » she intones with deep, fluid firmness as she, with Kyara astride, takes up position at the outer right flank of the formation.

When the call comes, it comes, but its near the sound of a deathtoll to those who are still learning, to scared weyrlings everywhere that call is doom. Yet, if rider you be, then in the skies you go! Sesa bursts from her weyr, still hauling on her gear as she scrambles up Edleveth's side to seat herself between ink-blotched ridges. They are in the skies just as Sesa is clipping on her helmet. She searches for the thread, for the weyrling wing, for SOMEONE IN CHARGE and moves out. Iskanzivith's orders are near a beacon and the blueriding pair makes for the weyrling formation, falling in behind En'rys to fill in the Weyrling Wi2 position as they've been swapping to cover the spot and it's her turn to be there. She's confident that straps and everything are in place. A nervous pit forms in her belly and she has to put up a wall to keep her anxiety from bleeding over to Edleveth, who at this moment, ready to battle the mortal enemy, that thing they call thread, with all his might. «Hear the loud alarum bells! What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! To the battle go we my brothers and sisters, in the still air of a lazy afternoon, we shall fight, and we shall win! To arms brothers and sisters! Let this mortal foe die!» Ok…. He's a little dramatic, but its a good pep talk yeah?

Even without his epic beard in place anymore, E'gus somehow manages to keep his emotions inside and well hidden. Sure, he's probably screaming on the inside, but his face is nothing but business and, sadly for him, only a bare inch-long growth of red-gold bristles. Szokanith seems to be the impatient one here, eager to get into action, « You got the good firestone picked out, E'gus dear? » E'gus snorts and pats the bulging sack at his belt before he pulls at straps, testing them, before climbing up the large green's side, "No time to worry about that, Szok." His voice is deep, as usual, and calm as a cucumber. He works at setting the firestone sacks into the straps and pulls down his goggles. Szokanith lets out a snort, rustling her wings, « You're not the one who has to taste the stuff. » Then there's a mental shrug, a stirring of icy water and flashing lights from her mindvoice and she rises int othe air with ease to join the Weyrling formation.

Of course G'tan would be on his way to a nice soak in the baths when the call for Threadfall goes out. That's usually how it works with surprise 'Falls like this! Fortunately, Zinakoth is as ready as ever, waiting to bring the bronzerider back home for as long as it takes to get them both geared up. He's good to go and falling effortlessly into formation with Whirlwind in no time, Turns of practice making this as second nature as breathing.

With it being Igen and cold, it's not like Doji actually has to go out of her way to snag her flight leathers. She comes running out of the living cavern with a half eaten meatroll in one hand while the other tries to fasten the last of those buttons. "ooommm…. uhh… 'stone!" With a couple of hops, she's finally fully bejacketed and running over to snag a load of firestone from one of those weyrbrats that's perpetually waiting for the next clutch to happen. Raktraeth meanwhile is waiting nearby, maw ready for firestone as soon as his rider is although he's not in quite the hurry everybody else is. « It's still over the desert, for the moment. » And true, it's mostly where the sandworms will get it, but the leading edge is coming towards the Weyr itself fast.

After a morning of drills with her wing that left a decidedly thoughtful look on Zaria's face, the bluerider is just heading to the living caverns for lunch when the call goes out for a surprise fall. Great, at least her wing should be sharp from drills, she ponders as she hears Azrith call his wingmates to the North Bowl. « Arroyo! Form up! » his mindvoice flashes with bright red silk, shimmering angrily in the wind. Good thing Zaria hadn't changed out of her leathers. She is doing up the loosened clasps of her jacket while jogging briskly in the direction of the North bowl and her blue. Not even stopping, her willowy stride takes her right up Azrith's offered leg and she's settled in one fluid motion. After checking her straps carefully, she turns to look around her and the dragons of Arroyo settling into loose formation aroud her.

Nearer the lake with lower hull and tail semi-submerged in winter-chilled lake is one a'Whirlwind. Zodaiyath, skeletal shipwreck of Black Pearl gleam and taint rises as water falls from the vast sails of him. Freezing mist it is, nigh true to Death's-Touch as Ghost Ship prepares for war. The barest figment of Zodaiyath's presence among the Wing, the roiling, writhing fog that stretches o'er endless black water and figment of something obscured in the distance. Waiting. Impending over World's end. For all that the pair may fall short in the grand scheme of the Weyr's larger cogs, with this they are ship-shape true. The captain would have it no other way, nor the nightmarish otherworldly vessel he's astride. The extra black-dyed straps in Ko'an's hands are left to the elements at lake side, scaling the Stygian bronze's adorned straps like the ropes of riggings. It's fortunate that he needs no detour before vast tattered ebon canvas-like wings stretch to their lengths and in moments, they surge upwards into position within Whirlwind ranks- into the desert-wide sea that is threatened. Their ocean. Faceted eyes whirl various hues of reds upon haunted figurehead, ever darker against midday sky.

There's no oomph to Vazirynath's presence, no eagerness, no real apparent hurry; she is radiating peace and relative calm through her incense-laden mindvoice, mental smoke the only response anyone will get from a direct query of the green's mind. She's largely emotionless, not invested in this moment any more than she ever is any Threadfall. Her lack of real sense of destroy urge may have disturbed other wings she flew in, but she and I'yn are well set in Mirage, their focus more on watching out as dragonhealer-and-dragon than on doing much Thread cleanup. This is her normal; there is nothing broken about Vazirynath, despite what some may say, but she has no more drive to fight than she ever does — just a drive to blend herself briefly into others' mindscapes to wish them well.

It takes very little time for Agertha and Kestrath to fall into place within Arroyo. « We are here. » Kestrath calls to Azrith. There is little mistaking Kestrath's overly loud tones. There's a soft sigh from Agertha, and the pair is set. Th'sher and Githanth fall into place behind Agertha. There's a grim look of determination on the bluerider's face as he feeds his blue lifemate firestone, "Enough?" The question is answered with a soft rumble of assent as the blue waits with the rest of the wing.

And while all the riders are getting to their dragons, Magdaline is busy directing that flow of non-rider folks. Sure, most folks know where they're supposed to do, but anybody with the tiniest look of indecision, the petite assistant will swoop in like a hungry dragon on a plump herdbeast. "You, you and you. Go with Tremos' crew. You…" She narrows on a young teen who was going to head with the newly designated groundcrew helpers. "Firestone. We're short on weyrlings." Seeing as they only have one weyrling class, someone's gotta do the work the junior weyrling susually do.

And Amarante? She's here, as she always is for falls near or over the Weyr proper: as the local expert in score wounds, she's generally requested to be on-hand. There's no real groundcrew participation here — she'd have been a liability with that fear of fire, don't give her a flamethrower, don't even ask her to hold one for you — but she has her bag of Healing Things and is prepared to descend upon any wounded humans the same way the dragonhealer crew may be.

The Senior Weyrwoman and her queen are part of the groundcrew during this threadfall, Diem with her flamethrower and Zsaviranth present within the mindscapes of the dragon populace. Should the dragonhealers need backup, they're here to help with that as needed. They won't be taking to the sky to actively participate and they leave the reins of Mirage to Nasrin and Rajakhelath to manage — it's good practice for them. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) Diem was working a shift in the infirmary and is thankful to have been able to change from her scrubs and into her riding leathers without having to return to her weyr. At last, Zsaviranth bugles her support to the dragons of Igen as both she and Diem join the groundcrew.

Narcissa pops into air with a trill near to Sesa not long after the claxon sounds, fluttering around the weyrling, faceted eyes a-whirl with yellow and red in response to the quickly-approaching threat. While the strongly-instinctual firelizard can often be found whenever Thread appears near the Weyr, she seems driven by a particular anxiety today, and it pushes heavily against Sesa's mind for a moment before hastily retreating, as if a leash has been jerked tight. After that, the tiny queen's taken to the sky, to be found among her wing'ed cousins for the rest of Fall.

Haphazardly, the wings take to the air at the Weyrleader's signal. Any stragglers are just going to have to caught up later. If the wind was bad on the ground, it's ten times worst once in the air. Doji shivers slightly when Raktraeth orients himself in position in Whirlwind. No training for her at the moment since this clearly wasn't scheduled. For as lethargic as Raktraeth may have sounded on the ground, a thunderstorm rumbles over his evergreen forests, lightning flashing as he spots the first strand of Thread within his reach and shortly after, he lets the flame fly. He doesn't get it all, but at least half of that clump is gone.

Curling movements pulsing with every contorted twist, a clump of Thread reaches out towards towards Iskanzivoth.
A small knotlike bundle of Thread blossoms, reaching out like a fisher's cast net, hoping to ensnare Zodaiyath in its hungry grasp.

Under Eala's orders, Parhelion has rallied to the surprise Threadfall and rises to meet it in full force. The windy conditions are so far handled well, with most of the Wing's riders fresh and alert despite the surprise, no yet weakened by exhaustion and carelessness. Lukoith holds position where he takes his spot among the formation, the dark brown growling in predatory anticipation to face the ancient foe once more. Divale, however, is far more grim and apprehensive… not that that shows beneath the gear she wears. Her focus is sharp, yet divided, as she keeps tabs not only on their own hides but those of the Wingrider's under her charge as Wingsecond. When they finally meet Thread, Lukoith snarls and let's loose a burst of flame almost immediately; a definite improvement for the brown, who normally toys with his enemy first!

Tumbling end over end like a dandelion, a delicate wisp of Thread dances on the wind, bouncing past Kabelkath as it drifts lazily downward.
An angry, hissing knot of Thread falls into Azrith's path, writhing in eerie gyrations as it seeks the lush earth below.
A snakelike filament of Thread hisses its way past Liareth, slithering across the sky towards the ground below.

En’rys is right where he should be: at Briamiorth's head, feeding her 'stone piece by piece, his mind at one wth hers. She's still, only the tip of her tail twitching slightlyy as she faces the direction her enemy will come from, working steadily through her first supply before taking to the air as ordered. By now, they've gotten it down to a science, though she's still learning not to hyperfocus!

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

S'ayde and green Kataskiath soon fall into line behind Arroyo's newest leader, taking their place in the grand scheme of things. Kataskiath's raging fires sear the minds of those closest to her with the eagerness she holds in the fight. «To the skies!» She trumpets gleefully when the call comes, following her brothers and sisters on wings to the battle. S'ayde is sharp and ready too, and eager to see how well this new bluerider leads.

Kyara grits her teeth against the biting wind as Mosaic ascends, Liareth bellowing her encouragement to the younglings as they go. Just as the AWLM gets her lifemate topped off with firestone…contact - a single snaking filament escaping the upper tiers already. "Shards…" This wind is not going to do them any favors. Veering off from the vee of weyrlings and diving after it, Liareth lets loose a long gout of flame, charring it quickly to ash before winging up to resume her position.

R'ku hunches down slightly as Kabelkath leads Sirocco into the chill wind, brazen and uncaring. The wing has obviously drilled endlessly for this, learning to take the tricky wing movements needed to help meet the windblown Thread head on. Kabelkath uses his slighter frame with ease as he slips through the air, whirling eyes focused and concentrating. A gout of flame erupts from him, searing the first bit of Thread that seeks to go past him. His mindvoice shifts and changes, the orange flame turning to cool blue from its usual orange, the voice within calm and collected and eerily focused, « The wind is strong - stay sharp! »

Like a hot-blooded wherry caught in the sight of a rising Queen, Katryana finds herself amid chaos as the bowl of the unfamiliar Weyr. No stranger to mobilizing as soon as the alarm is sounded, she quickly stashes away the jars of supplies she's been sent to acquire in her bag and promptly ditches it the Infirmary, swinging into action with the rest of Healer contingent. If she's here, she's helping! She's momentarily waylaid to become part of a firestone-loading assembly line and when she looks up again, she spots Amarante and hurries over, breathless with anxiety and excitement, "Appr…" GASP "..entice…" GASP "Katry…" GASP "…ana." Properly introduced, she stands at the ready, finally catching her breath, "My hands are yours if you'll have them, Journeyman."

The swearing under Vosji's breath isn't actually understandable — not that she's trying, but even if anyone tried to hear her — as she wraps her fingers even more tightly around Iskanzivoth's straps, white-knuckled underneath gloves. The wind nearly knocked them off course, and that doesn't keep Iskanzivoth's battle-smart mouth from going. It makes it worse, in point of fact: « Kabelkath, Kyprioth, can you turn the wind down a little out there? » Since that's of course their job. He's staying on course, letting out a displeased noise as a spore gets closer to Liareth than he might like, but of course she's got it.

As soon as they are in the skies, and despite the appearance and warning from her mother's gold 'lizard, Sesa and Edleveth are near immediately struck by a clump of thread. Sesa shrieks at first, but Edleveth is now focused on that passing clump and chases after it, flaming it from the skies with a deep, hot flame that's white and purple at it's center, something Sesa hasn't seen her blue accomplish before. «DIE THOU HORRID BEAST!!!» His inkiness shouts to all that can hear him, his inky mind broiling with blue and green. He moves back into foramtion before Sesa can even get her heartbeat under control. Fine work my love. She compliments, eyes now sharply on the lookout for more thread.

Zaria nods her head in approval as both Agertha and Th'sher fall into their respective places. Looking around, she notices her wingsecond arriving and taking up his position next to her. Reaching down to grab a sack of firestone from a passing weyrbrat, she tries to catch B'taar's eye but she doesn't quite manage. She's still not sure whare she stands with that one, but now's not the time. Firestone aquired and chewed, she gives the signal to take to the skies. they'd only just settled alongside Parhelion when Azrith spies that first angry knot coming towards him. With a sinuous twist of his head he belches a rspectable flame that turns it to ash that is blown right into Zaria's face as the wind shifts wickedly.

"Oh!" Amarante looks up from her careful inventorying, setting the clipboard aside to survey the girl who's approached her with a bright smile. "Hello, good to meet you, I don't think you're one of mine?" Her mentees, that is; little does she know the apprentice isn't even one of Igen's. "But of course that's fine, doesn't matter," her speech is a mile a minute, but healers learn early to follow that sort of talk, "that bag's full of a mess of clean but disorganized bandages," Amarante gestures with a bangle-braceleted hand that clangs when she waves toward the bag in question. "Roll them up neat and have the corners ready to start wrapping. We'll have work for those bandages soon enough. How experienced are you at score cleaning," rolls off her tongue as not even a question so much as a casual statement as she keeps checking to make sure all the other equipment is in perfect order. Which she's already done before they moved it out here, but … never hurts to check again. And again. And again.

Late to the party, Moanna and Maeveth also arrive, moving quickly to insert themselves into Arroyo's ranks. The wind buffets them about a bit, but the green pair seem to do fine, twisting and moving with it, instead of against it. After all, Moanna's dance training had to come in somewhere, right? The faery queen green Maeveth singes a clump of thread from the skies with a roar of triumph, her rider calling out a loud whoop of victory before they are on to the next, Maeveth's brightly painted mid flinging blotches of colorful paint like ammo into the minds around her.

Sharp, indeed! A'lira and Kyprioth follow, the rider pressed tight to his dragon's neck, the pair falling easily into place where they should. To that smart-mouthed comment about controlling the winds, there's a mere tendril of lemongrass and brimstone — a definite hint of 'less talk, more flaming' there for the brazen Iskanzivoth. So there.

Iskanzivoth isn't going to let you forget he outranks you, puppy. He just … doesn't have anything to need to call attention to that right now.
A tangled mass of Thread sinks in deadly silence, just ahead of Briamiorth.

For a moment, a very brief point in time, Ko'an looks away from Whirlwind in the general direction of Parhelion. And then it is over; whatever friable barrier between Dark One and dagger, dragon and rider, are dissolved, and a grin stretches across scruffy face mostly masked by the riding gear which covers the man in some appearance of safety. Any day could be a last day. O'er Worlds End do they fall, willingly engulfed. To fight on blackened eroded decks eaten by time and made Timeless by the eternal river they sail. The bronze pair are battered by the winds, but the great size of Zodaiyath overcomes the worst of it, masted sails angling, steadying on troubled seas. Ko'an reaches, and the great gnarled corrupted head of the bronze takes the firestone, crunching it in the preamble of battle. The delight and glory in utter bloodlust fills them both in chilling passion, a euphoria in being released. Fire flickers between teeth, dripping embers down corroded copper'd throat. The Thread that comes to them and spreads out as a net to snare the piratical pair is met with the bone-deep rumble and eruption of canonfire. Gouts of flame burst from draconic maw, spread wide in the space they'd taken to turn their enemy to ash.

A long, thin strand of Thread descends above Zinakoth.
A delicate spiderweb of Thread looms before Szokanith, waiting to ensnare her.

« Harsh gusts and downdrafts, » Zinakoth reports, stone crumbling along with a crash of thunder to mark his displeasure. « Too much is getting to the lower tiers. » But he's certain that will tighten up shortly. One that will not be getting any lower is that thing tendril the bronze spots coming in above them. He slides sideways and cranes his neck, maw open to destroy it before slipping back into formation, the stiff wind carrying the ash well away from the rest of the wing.

Though buffeted by the winds, Kestrath makes staying in place look easy while behind her the green can since the difficutly that her bond's cousin and his bond are having. The green bugles out a challenge as she begins to char Thread. Dipping, rolling, and skipping Between as needed. Agertha dutifully feeds the green firestone, and directs her lifemate when that is called for.

Once in the air and actually chasing after Thread, Szokanith loses her disdain over the taste of firestone and seems to gain a righteous fury aginst the silvery menace. For her first few flames, she goes a bit overkill in flaming the clump that whistles past her nose, letting out several gouts of flame almost akin to machine-gun fire. Even when it's already charred to ash, she flames it again for good measure, all while spouting out a string of colorful insults and swearing, « Dare to try to touch me again, liver-spotted, yellow-bellied bastard of Faranth's toenails! » Her mindvoice is like a srieking tempest amidst the waves, full of churning icy water and salt spray. She's all but roaring in her hed now, fury building. E'gus, still calm but dtermined, obviously put the mental brakes on the green, as she reluctantly simmers down a bit. But she still seems rather peeved at having to do so.

Vosji receives a deep score on the forehead!
Agertha receives a deep score on the lower back!
Sesa receives a slight score on the wrist!
Edleveth receives a slight score on the haunches!

« Agreed, » the wispy, bitter spice-scented wafting of Vazirynath's feedback to Zinakoth's observation of too much in the lower tiers. Don't you dare say this is a waste of your time out loud, I'yn thinks forcibly to his dragon, though he knows she'd prefer to be back on the ground; they'll fly their half a 'fall as required, but that doesn't stop her from complaining. At least it's largely only to him. She dips and flames low, unaware of the scores to humans up above.

Kestrath shrieks in anger, but whisks Agertha off to the safety of the healers. She knows her rider well, and won't allow the stubborn woman to continue. ** « Mine is injured. We are heading for help. »** is sent to Azrith. There will be no arguements from Agertha permitted.

As winds gust, Lukoith makes a hasty readjustment, lips drawing back to flash teeth in a silent snarl. Divale tightens her mental hold on the brown, to keep them both from madness that'd surely see both of them killed. They've a duty to do aside from fight and it's to that that the young brownrider focuses. « You two! » Lukoith's voice is a guttural snap of teeth and eerie, unnatural howls. « Don't be fools. » No gentleman here or silver tongue. He's all beast and wolf now, in his relaying of commands. Another gust, another rapid-fire adjustment and Divale is silent cursing under her breath.

"No, m'am, I'm one of Southern Weyr's," is Katryana's quick reply to the Healer Journeyman, paired with brilliant grin, "My Journeyman sent me out to bring some supplies to your Weyrhealer and collect some things we had need of in return." The slight girl doesn't miss a beat, pulling a sanitizing salve from a pouch tied at her waist to cleanse hands before diving into the assigned task with steady, precise movements despite the thrill running through her body. "I'm Weyr-bred, ma'am, and a deft hand with cleaning and wrapping, humans and dragons alike. My Journeyman is trauma-specialized," is relayed as she works, though she fails to mention her Journeyman's distinct and irritating disinterest with treating dragonkind.

Sesa moves into postion with Edleveth to flame another clump of thread when the wind shifts and a sliver hits Sesa on the wrists and one hits Edleveth on the haunch. Both disappear between quickly and come back just as fast. "Shit!" Sesa curses and looks about. Neither of them are hurt enough to go down, so she meneauvers Edleveth back into position, flaming a clump of thread just above another weyrling's position just in time. «WATCH IT BROTHER!» Edleveth screams to bring the small brown to attention.

Wish we could command the winds, » is Kabelkath's fiery blue reply, full of grim determination, « Fly better in them! » He keeps his wings moving, his body shifting to adjust to the various wind changes. « Wind shifting to the north - hard gusts. Adjust! Thread is falling in hard. » R'ku keeps his head bowed low to keep from being directly in the wind, though peers around every so often to keep an eye on the sky and cloud formations for any hint of a shift to more dangerous weather.

ns have done, said or otherwise represented a lack of respect for his command authority is washed away from Iskanzivoth, for two reasons: one, first, cheering on Szokanith's feedback as well as her work. « Atta girl, » he's crooning in her mind, adding his harsh waves to hers, but then there's an unexpected spore — again, thanks, weather. The angle of the wind stops him from searing it fully, the pair dipping and diving in a way that isn't quite as planned, and despite all of their careful maneuvers and training, something can always go wrong. No matter how good you are. Sometimes it's luck. Sometimes it's that the wind is miserable. The spore strikes Vosji at an odd angle, tunneling deep into her face as Iskanzivoth blinks ::between:: and back. « Liareth, you're in charge, » he relays as he takes Vosji down to be cared for, regardless of the Weyrlingmaster's protests.

Kabelkath receives a slight score on the tail!

S'ayde and Kataskiath seem to have been moved into harsh winds and it's a chore to keep up with the thread flying at them from every which way. Kataskiath disappears ::between:: once when a slither of silvery menace wraps itself around her tail. The pair are back moments later, and fighting valiantly when another clump heads their way. They appear some ways away, Sayde cursing. Perhaps another score?

From the depths of the lower caverns comes out another battery of Healers, a secondary triage unit brought forth by the ominous demand threatening to swell and overwhelm those already assembled. Among the ranks are a newly-come journeyman to Igen, white infirmary coat tossed over a sleek charcoal dress that otherwise curves a little too closely to Liavhah's silhouette to be entirely appropriate for an Oldtimer. She's distinct in the fact she's out here in heels, and though she's tied her hair back the rich, glossy darkness of it is carefully curled. Her eyes roam the skies above, and the trauma journeyman starts tracking falling dragons with knowing eyes that defy the socialite aura she may otherwise exude. She absently pats her kit, kept in a sachel thrown over one shoulder, as if in confidence of having familiar tools in such an unfamiliar environ.

So this is how it goes: En'rys and Briamioth flying along, flaming, ducking, dodging, turning on a wingtip — until! The flash of a burn across his face lends force to En'rys' yell, and Briamiorth follows with one of her own as her foresail is hit. As well-trained as they are, the reaction is immediate: they disappear ::between:: to kill th stuff before it can do more damage than it already has. And, like clockork, they reappear, spiralling down to have their injuries seen to, for Briamirth can't fly n that wing.

Somehow, in this mayhem, Amarante is still all sweetness and light. "Excellent, so am I," she says as regards Katryana's mentor's specialty. "Well, wound care, but — you know, they're very close. We don't do anything with the dragons here though, there's another team for that — with much bigger bandages — oh, here we go," The injuries are starting, and the dragons and riders are coming down to receive aid. Amarante springs into Triage Mode, directing those riders that appear to less-experienced journeymen or apprentices as needed, at least until something complex enough she has to take it herself appears. Katryana gets a pair of younger greenriders, both with shallow wounds to their lower legs.

The winds are not being kind and both infirmaries are starting to fill up pretty quick. Luckily a lot of the early injuries are minor, but the numbers are starting to stack up.

The winds are playing havoc now within Parhelion's ranks. Commands are fired off and executed, but Thread spares no one. Minor scorings and injuries occur, causing the ranks to shift and adjust to make up for the sudden disappearance of one pair. Lukoith soars, wings dipping in an effort to keep from being pushed off course by the gusts. Another clump is seared, though he has to dodge fast (for his size) to avoid the ash that is suddenly whipped back. Divale hunkers down, teeth gritted beneath her mask as more commands are relayed. All while she keeps a mental iron grip on Lukoith, to keep the brown from straying in focus as another large clump drifts in their path. It's dispatched with ease, ash blown away this time and out of harms way.

There are weyrlings getting scored and it is not sitting well with Kyara and Liareth at all. Faranth, when are the Starcrafters going to figure out what is causing the surprise Falls? Then Vosji takes Thread to the face, and the greenrider can't help but let out a cold-roughened cry of frustration and worry, echoed in Liareth's bugle before vented emotion is brought under tight control once more. « Count on us, » comes Liareth's sharp reply as the wing up to take point and Briamiorth takes En'rys down. « Tuanhjaliteth, shift forward. » And there will be more adjustments to come, of course. But no more weyrlings going down if she can help it!
When she hears that shriek of anger neaby, Zaria looks around just in time to see Kestrath whisk her rider to the healers. Azrith relays the green's message and it just makes the bluerider set her jaw and relays a command to loosen up in the face of the strong winds so they don't end up running into each other with bodies or flame. A couple of riders near the back of the formation don't comply fast enough and narrowly miss a collision when a gust of wind knocks the green out of her position. « And that is why we loosen formation! » Azrith quips sarcastically before he drops suddenly to avoid a clump that flew in from the side, Zaria grapsing at his straps for balance.

Moanna and Maeveth have thus far escaped thread, but not for long! A particularly nasty clump, partially flamed to dust by Maeveth seems to have left them unharmed, until it doesnt. A lrage thread flies back, wrapping itself around Maeveth's muzzle. The green disappears ::between:: and comes back, only for Moanna to take thread to the shoulder. After they reappear this time, both head for the ground to be looked at, Moanna more worried about Mae's snout than her own body.

Considering Amarante is better known to the Igen riders and is often taking charge, it's not her but Liavhah, who isn't as expected to be yelling orders at people, who gets the battered Vosji. The Weyrlingmaster has removed her helmet and scarf, and ::between:: has cauterized the wound, but it's deep enough it may yet start bleeding as soon as anyone starts to clean it. "You're new," she mumbles, seeming none too pleased about having to approach a Healer. Whatever else she might think is kept firmly in her head, blue-grey eyes marred with pain despite her obvious-to-a-journeyman attempts to mask it.

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

The waves are tall, this ocean not so kind. The Ghost Ship snarls, reeling on beam-ends as the winds catch even him. Fire whips around the ancient draconic figurehead, no pretty thing be he, threatening to make it back to the rider held in his straps but the wind dashes even the longest of errant flames. Thread is everywhere suddenly. Zodaiyath vanishes Between, a long three seconds which to Ko'an might as well be fading, a lack of heartbeats. No sound. No feeling except the somehow familiar skeletal presence of the psychopomp and the ore which dips deeper into lost-sould ridden waters. One more ever-slow sweep of ore and the pair reappear slightly higher where it had, seconds before, been clear. They remain near their spot, despite the chaos that has pressed even some of the most experienced a bit out of line. Canonfire rips loose again, shaking them both from the utter, raw power of those weapons thankfully tied down 'less they have slammed back from the shear force of that fire. Ko'an leans forwards to catch a new sack of firestone from a weyrling just close enough despite their more erratic positioning. « Under fire! » Rushes the sound of the Stygian River, furious and quick, and the fall of something faint, something metallic. It's a warning that comes right before they go Between again, Ko'an missing the sack and it falling somewhere to the ranks below. Abruptly they appear and immediately in a worse spot, the tangle of Thread they had avoided spreading in a far worse manner and getting caught in an updraft. It rips over the wingtip of Zodaiyath and onto Ko'an, covering the left shoulder of the man and eating through his leathers. Eating. Burning! Ghost Ship vanishes yet again to the safety and potential of no-return of Nothingness, in a demonic, draconic roar of an outburst cut off by the disappearance. Furious to be taken down. Another tear to his war-beaten ghastly wings. They reappear much lower, beneath Mirage, heading for ground.

Kabelkath is twisting, turning and sweeping through the harsh winds, his training in such conditions making it a bit easier for him to keep on course. Still, it's difficult weather to fly in at the best of times and, this being a surprise 'fall, the lack of adequate preparation is starting to take its toll. R'ku stays vigilant, keeping flush against his bronze's neck and keeping a sharp eye out at the way the Thread is falling, trying to predict where it might fly. But even the Wingleader of Sirocco is not immune to the erratic fall. Kabelkath shifts to one side, neck extending to flame a passing clump of Thread. At the same time, a gust of wind swirls dangerously, snatching another clump of Thread out of the range of Whirlwind wing and into the path of Sirocco's Wingleader. The silvery filament curls and seems to coil languidly in the gusting wind, twisting around R'ku's right calf and clinging there like some deadly limpet for several seconds. Kabelkath, in mid-flame, takes several more seconds than needed to change positions, causing the Thread to graze his tail before the bronze can wink *Between*. When Kabelkath reappears, he makes a straight line towards the ground, a sagging R'ku clinging to his back with a sheet of blood running down his leg. « Injured! A'lira? Kyp? Take over? » It's a quick, sharp flash of blue fire to the Wingsecond.

Diem is currently helping an older brownrider sit down so that she can tend to his threadscored thigh. "Easy now." The man's arm is draped over the weyrwoman's shoulders and she helps settle him as best she can. "Try not to move, I need to cut these leathers." A small knife is unsheathed from within in her boot and she makes quick work of cutting the leather to better see the wound and its damage. Luckily, thread had cauterized it before the pair temporarily went ::between:: to help numb the pain. "I'm going to get you into the infirmary, this needs to be sewn up." Zsaviranth walks the northern bowl, her presence attempting to calm the injured weyrlings and their riders.

With that rate of injuries, looks like change over is going to come much earlier than halfway through the 'Fall. Reserve blues and greens are already flying to the relief of those injured. And with that, still gaps are forming in the wings as the casualties grow. Strangely enough, the wind seems to be particularly rough on the middle flight so far.

Apprentice Katryana seems just the slightest put out at the re-enforcement of her Journeyman's no-dragon strictures, mentally berating herself for picking the wrong Journeyman to attach herself, at least until the casualties start rolling in and she's instantly in the Zone. The greenriders' wounds could've been avoided with a bit more attention, she mulls as she patches up the man and woman's legs in turn, all efficiency and dependability, determined to prove herself an asset to the unfamiliar Amarante. She directs the man to someone else who looks sorta like they're in charge, deeming him good enough to go back up but needed the approval from ranking Healers present.

As dragons land with wounds by the plenty, Vazirynath and I'yn rotate out of Mirage's fighting force and touch down next to Zsaviranth. Changing riding gloves for healers' cloth ones, I'yn removes his helmet and pins his hair out of his face. There's so much off-kilter Thread and wind that even he's a little bit on edge, despite Vazirynath's forceful pressing of calm. Her skills are good for a green, but she is no senior queen; thankfully, Zsaviranth has the brunt of the panic. I'yn is quickly met by those needing his attentions as well, and before long is standing on a stepstool examining and suturing a bronze wing that's hanging above his head.

A wild clump of errant thread whips by S'ayde and Kataskiath and while Kat singes it gloriously from the skies, it's not before a good piece of it lands on her haunch and another smack S'ayde right in the cheek. Screaming, the pair disappear ::between:: and head for the ground below when they reappear. Sorry Arroyo. Mae and Kat just drew bad luck this time. Down and out two greens. Boo.

"I'm glad you possess enough wherewithal to judge that and communicate it efficiently. The wound must not be as bad as it seems." Liavhah's response to Vosji is not as brusque as it may otherwise be if delivered from someone perhaps taller, or with less lingering temperment of sympathy even in the depths of clinical observation. Lia sees the weyrlingmaster situated in a manner in which she may even reach the wound to begin with: there's a foot of travel between them, and the weyrlingmaster's wound is peculiarly placed. It bleeds like the devil's own work when Liavhah carefully starts cleaning out the cauterized area, though at least the Healer is one of the philosophical camp of numbweeding the wound prior to cleaning it. "Hold this," she instructs the tall blonde, doubling over a large bandage at eyebrow level. "Keep it out of your eyes."

Zinakoth is strong, sturdy bronze, well-adapted to navigating the challenges of the winds at great heights, but that still doesn't guarantee that he and G'tan will escape unscathed. Veering to avoid one clump, the bronze is suddenly buffeted by one of those blasted downdrafts - complete with a peppering of Thread. G'tan only has time to start a yell before it's swallowed by ::between.:: When they emerge, he gasps at the stinging and cold suddenly washing over his chest, Zinakoth's whistling over his own pain soon taking away concerns for himself. Grimacing, he looks over his shoulder to find tracks of ichor dotting his lifemate's mainsail. « It isn't too bad! » And G'tan will let it slide until, after a few more maneuvers, things are utterly miserable for them both. « No, mate, we're gonna have to go down. » Any more pushing and they're both going to be out of them game for far longer than necessary. To the dragon healer's yard they go!

Szokanith, somehow, remains aloft and uninjured for the time being. Her curvy body seems to be brimming with energy, indignation and righteous anger at the Thread. Perhaps her erratic flight being as erratic as the falling Thread is doing her some favors? She's certainly flaming a lot - short, orange gouts of flame spreading to turn clumps to ash as she tries to be everywhere in the wing at once. She's a larger green and, thus, has more stamina, though E'gus is already strating to run to the end of his firestone limits. With a grunt, he slaps at Szokanith's shoulder and the green makes a disappointed detour to get a new sack of firestone from below before they rejoin the fray.

Just so long as no one is saying anything about attention making it easier to avoid Thread wounds out loud, Amarante will remain impressed enough by the apprentice's work. She allows for the fellow that the apprentice fixed up to move on, with her usual warning about getting it checked two days later, or sooner if there's any pain. The usual instructions. She moves through patients quickly, shooting Diem a sympathetic look for having something bad enough it requires cutting clothing, before she's assigned a particularly bad hand score and taken off triage duty for the time being. Technically she's still in charge, but she's also … not watching everything at once.

Just when it appears as though 'Fall is going well for them, luck runs out. It takes but a moment of distraction to draw even Divale's attention away and they run afoul of Thread. It strikes Lukoith first, as a small clump is blown their way but caught too late in pursuit of another. The first filaments hit the brown deep on the neck, eliciting a sharp cry of pain on contact. His wings flare as he pitches dangerously forwards on a dizzying tilt. Divale is thrown off balance and so her concentration shatters in the same instant that another filament reaches her ankle and curves up to her calf. As the familiar burning pain of scoring bites both flesh and hide, Lukoith roars just before blinking Between to kill the strands. Remerging, it takes but seconds to realize the damage done and that Lukoith can no longer fly. Furious, the brown snarls at the skies but he is forced to bank heavily and seek the safety of landing. Through the pain, Divale sends orders through to Eala to be relayed to the rest of the Wing for Parhelion's other Wingsecond and the one she trusts as backup to take up the helm of their absence.

Zaria receives a medium score on the chest!
Azrith receives a medium score on the tail!

"Succumbing to pain is for — " Vosji doesn't literally bite her lip at this moment, but she does stop herself from saying anything about the weak. She's learned that's inappropriate at this point in her life, even if her feelings about healers aren't all that great on a good day. " — people who are not me," she finishes the sentence instead, now pressing her lips together firmly as Liavhah does the cleaning. There may be numbweed, but there's still a sting, and it's not a fun one. The first sound out of her mouth is more of a "tsss" than actual words, as she holds bandage to brow carefully. "That's disgusting." It's not, it's just thick blood, but maybe the speed of it's a little disgusting.

With Amarante's attention otherwise placed and human injuries well in hand, Katryana slips through the crowd towards the Dragonhealers' yard, obvious enough even among the chaos. Steeling herself against the stench of ichor, she heads purposefully towards Doji and I'yn, throwing herself into position to observe things closely and casually starting to hand people things. It's hardcore 'act like you belong' and she pulls it off well enough that one of the dragonhealers has her tasked with rubbing numbweed into a light score on the flank of an anxious blue.

Kabelkath lands in whatever open space he can find that's close to the healers, wings rustling in part worry and part annoyance at the way this 'fall is going. There's not much he can do for his rider, R'ku, who seems to be clinging to consciousness for now despite the bloody mess that his calf is in. He tears at his straps, unbuckling himself by some miracle, and sort of half-climbs, half-falls off the bronze. He has the unluckiness of landing on his injured leg, causing him to go down to one knee with a groan, "Well … that's …. not good." He grits his teeth and makes an attempt to push himself up, though he kind of just wobbles and sits back down. Well. Someone will just have to help him here. "Well … shit." He's succinct about his whole situation.

Their landing is hard with the Black Pearl'd dragon favoring a wing once more, the tear furthering as he struggles to not make himself truely a ship wreck upon solid ground. Two blue dragons are forced to move out of the way or be slammed into as Zodaiyath's momentum carries him into the ground, sand and stone erupting about his paws and talons grasp at beach-er- Pernese soil. Dark-ridden rider struggles from his straps, holding his left arm- the one that already causes him much chronic pain, close to his body. It only sours his mood further that he can't simply.. leave and take care of the antidiluvian beast's sound himself. Numerous curses fall from Ko'an's lips as he watches some others taken from the sky, some particular 'others' as he divines them from the other falling colors and spouts of flame that continue to color the Thread-grey'd sky. Bronzerider pulls off his ruined jacket despite the cold, numb to it, the ice-rims of his blue eyes hidden behind the goggles and helmet he keeps in place for now. Grounded in the dark, disembodied feeling associated with Death's-Touch of his Lifemate, that feeling of steady rocking upon black deck with semi-broken masts swaying canon-holed sails o'erhead lazily, languidly on eternal journey, he and Zodaiyath wait aside for faces in particular that know how to, well, deal with them.

With the wind buffeting them, Azrith has to put all his strength into keeping them in position while ducking and diving. Looking around, Zaria doesn't like all the holes opening up and then Moanna and S'ayde fall in quick succession. What is up with this fall? A roar of frustration from the blue as he insinuats his larger frame around to try and fill those gaps. The remaining riders are called to tighten back up, and fill the gap. It's while she's distracted with getting her remaining wingriders back into order that she misses the clump that blows in out of nowhere. When it hits her square in the chest, she grunts in surprise and Azrith trumpets his alarm mixed with pain as he gets a strand wrapped around his tail, before blinking between.

Doji looks left. Then looks right. One wingmate falls and then another. Looks like they'll be flying the rest of the 'Fall a bit light in the wings. The dragonhealer trainee looks a bit mournfully down at the infirmary, but can't dwell on that too long unless she wants to become one of the injured. "Come on, Trae… just a little longer…" Although in order for them to keep up the flame, they gotta get more 'stone. « Weyrlings, a refill here! »

Sesa receives a deep score on the upper arm!
E'gus receives a medium score on the lower back!

"The proceserus is wholly intact," Liavhah can be heard stating, deft fingers examining the musculature impacted by Vosji's unique wound. "Limited damage to the frontalis. Eyebrows appear to be unaffected. Should you keep it from gaining an infectious nature you may get out of this still able to raise your eyebrows." She finishes debriding the wound, rinses it once more with staining redwort (with nary a warning for the woman who declares she will not succumb to pain), and packs a clean quarter-folded bandage against the body of it, holding pressure. "Trade me. You'll need to hold this firmly for no less than five minutes." There are others racking up and Vosji, despite appearances, doesn't seem to be in any immediate likelihood of losing her grey matter out the front of her head.

Sesa is focused, maybe a little too focused, because suddenly, as she and Edleveth are about to wheel north, there's a deep, wrenching pain in Sesa's arm and she screams, Edleveth's roar mingling in and cut off when they disappear ::between::. For those watching, it must be an eternal moment because it takes a minute for them to reappear, far below Mirage and heading for the ground, Edleveth in hysteria and Sesa on the verge of passing out. It may have been a score to the arm, and thusly, not life threatening, but shit, she'd never experienced pain like that before. Ever. Once on the ground the pair are shuffled to the nearest healer where Sesa actually does faint, much to her extreme embarrassment later. (fix)

Down and down, steeply at first and then banking sharply, comes Lukoith to crowd in on an already crowded 'Yard. The brown seethes, pained and frustrated both, enough that he snaps at a neighbouring dragon; truthfully, he catches nothing but air but it's enough to earn a groaned-snarl of protest from his target. "Enough." Divale grits out between her teeth, almost as guttural beneath the mask she's now pulling back from her face. Her eyes are still covered by her goggles, but there's enough paleness to her cheeks to indicate the amount of pain she's enduring for the both of them. She can see from where she sits, titled oddly to alleviate the sting to her ankle, the damage to Lukoith's neck; the amount of ichor already oozing to the front worrisome. "Hold still." She may as well wish for the moons, as Lukoith gnashes his teeth and growls deep in his chest. Unbuckling herself, Divale makes the awkward, if increasingly painful, dismount; it's hardly graceful too and it's by sheer luck that she doesn't end up falling. Still, she needs to lean heavily against Lukoith's side, as she works on collecting herself and keeping the brown from chaotic mayhem.

Szokanith's rampage doesn't seem to be cooling - full of rage and the want to be ruler of the whole ordeal, she's becoming more adept at flaming the clumps that come her way and dodging to avoid ones that don't. Her bigger size gives her a bit of an easier time with the wind, though it helps the Weyrling wing is near the lower formations where the gusts are not so severe. But, as over-confident as she is, it's not surprising that the erratic 'fall would come to bite her eventually. Or, more exactly, her rider. E'gus is grimly determined as ever, his jaw set and deep blue eyes narrowed in focus. He totally doesn't realize how close they're getting to a nearby clump as he bends forward at the waist to grab some more firestone. A traitorous gust of wind spins the Thread right into the base of E'gus' spine. And probably some went down the back of his pants a bit, by the looks of it. Even the emotionally calm E'gus can't help but give a grunt of pain at the sensation and Szokanith, sensing it, immeditalye winks *Between* to kill off the filament. But the damage is done and E'gus, fighting to keep the pain off his face, gestures for Szokanith to land. It's probably a right pain for E'gus to stay seated right now.

This is the reason Kyara and Liareth go back into the wings when there are no weyrlings about. They're a fast, efficient, precise pair, and while it doesn't guarantee that they'll stay injury-free, it certainly lowers the odds. They dart and roll here and there, doing their best to keep the ancient scourge from their charges…and still it isn't enough. First En'rys…and then Sesa and E'gus, each one making her heart stop in her chest until they reappear. "No! Faranth damn it!" There's no helping her railing at all of it, perhaps loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the air around them, and knowing it's the wind's fault doesn't help her avoid a near-sickening sense of guilt anyway.

Zsaviranth stops moving and stills so that she can focus on calming injured dragons and weyrlings. She touches upon Zodaiyath's and Kabelkath's mindscapes, then Iskanzivoth's and Zinakoth's to let them know she is aware of their injuries and that she's sending help. Diem receives the notice from the queen and does her best to delegate to the dragonhealers and healers before seeing the brownrider she was tending to off to the infirmary. As the goldrider wipes her brow with the back of her hand, she catches sight of an injured R'ku and heads straight for him. "Easy now. Let me see." Once his leg injury is determined to be of high priority, she crouches near him. "I'm going to help you to the infirmary and you'll have to lean on me. Give me your arm and stand when I do. Okay? On three. One… two… three. Up we go!"

« They'll be alright! » Comes Ivaenth's neon-bright reassurance amid the thick of the fight. She can't know for certain, but it doesn't stop the green from echoing a rallying thought of support, even for those weyrlings who've fallen so far to 'Fall. Miel just grits through it, ignoring the sickening lurch her heart makes as more and more succumb to inexperience in a surprise and chaotic Threadfall. The pair show no sign in tiring and they forge ahead with the rest of the Weyrlings that are still in formation. Attention turns to them, in hopes that none fall to another foe: discouragement and fear.

"I can even make it ten," says Vosji bristlingly as she takes over the pressure-holding duties; it's not personal, Liavhah, she just really doesn't like healers. Ask Miel sometime about her sinus infections. Or Amarante about her everything. "My eyebrows, I would hope, can recover twice." There is a scar under one of them, though it's so faded it appears she was very young when it happened. But forehead muscles, and more specifically forehead fascia, are a big pain overall. And this? This is just a distraction from how angry Vosji's going to be when she finds out how many of her riders came down with her.

One dragon under her hands later, nothing more that she'd treated as a matter of course in previous falls when the specially-trained dragonhealers were occupied with injuries requiring their more advanced knowledge and experience, Katryana knows better to play out of her depth and falls in with a proper Healer journeyman again as soon as she's called by one. Her little indiscretion might not have gone unnoticed, but her terrible judgement hasn't hurt anyone, at least. The 'rider she's directed has injuries severe enough that she's forced to concede it. "Lean on me," she entreats, taking the weight of the man and escorting him over to a more experienced Healer.

Azrith comes back from between, the thread cracked to dust from the cold. Zaria's hand is to her chest as she winces and looks over to B'taar, motioning that she is going to have to go down and he should take over, asking her blue to also relay the message to make sure it gets through. His red eyes are whirling dangerously, but the hisses of pain from his rider keep him from rebelling when she orders them to the ground. Once they manage to find a place to land, Zaria manages to free herself from her straps and slip down from Azrith's indigo neck, leaning against his forelimb as she clutches her hand over the score on her chest. Azrith croons worriedly, his tone edged with pain as the ichor pools in the score around his tail.

R'ku's head lolls a bit, his chin hitting his chest as he seems to be sort of on the brink of losing consciousness. He kind of makes a snorting noise as he woozily rouses at Diem's voice. He squints up at the goldrider, blinking several times to get her into focus, "Y-yeah. That sounds about right." He'd probably agree to just about anything at this point - he's pale under his coppery skintone and beads of sweat shine on his forehead. He grits is teeth, though, and nods his head, reaching an arm out to Diem and grasping it, "One … two … three … " He counts along with her and, with a grunt, a groan and a hiss of pain, R'ku manages to stagger to his feet. He thankfully does not bowl Diem over or faint - bonus points all around! "I'll try not to vomit on your feet," he wheezes in a half-joking tone to the goldrider as he leans on her, half-hopping, half-limping as he's helped off to the Infirmary. Kabelkath, for his part, is being seen to for his minor tail score, but he still whuffles in some concern as he watches his rider being helped away.

"We'll see about that," Liavhah says to Vosji, in the non-confrontational confrontation of Healers worldwide. They're a separate breed, trauma specialists, trading pragmatisms and support and chivvying and scolds in the same breeze-off neutrality. She crisply switches gears, moving to the next dragonrider that visually seems incapable of approaching the clustered Healer ranks; this one is shadowed by Lukoith, and Liavhah roams unafraid under the deep brown shadow toward Divale. "There are easier ways to have reason for new boots, wingsecond," the Healer journeyman says as she crouches in her own heels, neat as a pin, unconsented and uncaring as she reaches for that injured ankle. Is she asking for a kick in the face? If Divale dares.

Magdaline is no healer, definitely not. But one doesn't spend as many turns in a Weyr as she has without learning some basic first aid. When any pair of hands will help, the assistant headwoman is there. Those minor wounds that just need some flushing out and some numbweed slapped on them? Magdaline and some junior apprentices have this! Well, along with that journeyman supervising over them all just in case.

Szokanith is half concerned for her rider and half upset at having to stop flaming early. « Of all the places for the Thread to hit you! » her mindvoice is awash in flitters of cold water and rushes of bubbles. E'gus waves off his green's concerns as he manages to stiffly slide down her side to the ground. "I'm … fine." he grates out, teeth gritted. He's also walking like he has a stick up his backside. He starts to try to waddle off to the Infirmary, though Szokanith, concerned, snakes her head in front of him, « Should you not be seen here? » E'gus uffs a breath out and tries to push past his green, "No, Szok! I'll go to the Infirmary." He's not eager to have some random Journeyman cut off his pants to slap numbweed on his backside for all to see.

G'tan and Zinakoth don't raise a fuss, the bronze acknowledging Zsaviranth's check-in with a briefly gust of desert wind before withdrawing and letting the dragonhealers tend to him. For his part, G'tan goes very quiet; handling pain across the mind link has always been a harder thing for him than for most, and while he's gotten better at handling it over the Turns, it's still difficult. The score across his chest is easily tended, at least, though he knows Erissa is going to throw a fit about it. Once his own injury is handled, Zinakoth will do his best to bolster others coming in with injuries, particularly the young ones. When his mindscape isn't clouded with pain, it's a nice, peaceful force in the midst of the pain of others, and he'll gladly do all he can, as will G'tan.

Lukoith's teeth flash and snap again, though to no intended target; it's merely an outwards display of his discomfort and anger, mixed in with a undercurrent of concern for the state of his rider. Back and forth, the two silently tug and pull, but the brown will spy Liavhah's stealthy approach. She gets a deep chested, rolling growl that continues with each laboured breath the brown takes. It's the same sort of not-pleased-in-the-slightest greeting that will be turned on the Dragonhealers who are no doubt inbound now to treat him. Divale has closed her eyes in an effort to ward off the worst of the dizzying tilt the world has taken. They will snap open in a heartbeat, however, as Liahvah's reaches for her ankle. Does she kick? Almost. The knee-jerk reaction is aborted just as it starts and made instead into an attempt to evade. Divale lurches sideways, scowling at the Journeyman Healer. "The state of my footwear is the least of my concerns!" she states cooly, though makes no further attempt to dodge Liavhah. Still, she is regarded under icy stare. "I won't leave until he's seen to." Divale warns, as if in challenge too. "… how bad is it?" Her ankle and calf, that is and oh-so grudgingly asked after a lengthy pause.

There comes that inevitable point when greens must cycle out, their stamina being the least of all the colors no matter how valuable their maneuverability. This has always been a sore spot for Liareth, but this time she doesn't grumble when Kyara has her reach out to Aili and Firineth to relieve them. They have weyrlings to check in on, and neither of them intend to rest until they're absolutely certain all will be well with all the injured. Only then will they both seek respite, rinsing the battle from their respective hides. Kyara is supposed to meet a friend for drinks later. Sesa's mother. They're both going to need the booze.

"Are you a dragon or a dog?" Liavhah can be overheard muttering to herself, certainly loud enough for Lukoith to overhear. This daughter of Fort is familiar enough with dragons to know herself in no danger of deliberate harm, and also position herself close enough to the dragon's bondmate to mitigate less purposeful potential violence. "I'm not asking you to leave, I'm just asking you to… I'm going to have to cut this off." It's not immediately obvious if she's talking about the boot or the pants or both, but the glossy-haired Healer kneels unselfconsciously in the dust of Igen's northern bowl to be better suited in examining Divale's wounds. Should that boot not end up in her face or yanked away, the remains of it are being stripped off, and numbweed slathered over every raw and cauterized surface unveiled.

As time goes on, the leading edge goes on as well. Eventually it will peter out, well past the actual Weyr Proper. The much battered wings will ::between:: back, tend to those wounds not urgent enough to have pulled them out of the fight and finally, all those casualties will get tallied up.

Zaria finally manages to snag a healer with a pot of numbweed, who thankfully slathers the score that runs across the top of her right breast to her breastbone. Once the numbing begins to take hold, she nods thankfully in the healer's direction and motions for her to tend to Azrith. Thankfully her injury didn't affect her motor functions though and she starts to cast her eyes about, spying her injured Arroyo riders. So many of them.

Can dragons sneer? Lukoith would, if he could and maybe that's the display he attempts. Liavhah called his bluff and when she proves not to be thrown off by his more 'aggressive' behaviours, the brown snorts in disgust. She's no fun! But those dragon healers edging in? He'll focus on them, instead! Even he, however, succumbs to the pain of his wounds and much of his protesting will be reverted to vocalizations and the occasional angered twitch of talon and rustle of wings. He'll comply… so long as no one does anything rash. "Not surprised," Divale mutters darkly to the assessment, lifting gloved hand to wipe at some of the sweat beading at the side of her head. She ignores how much that hand shakes, curling it into a fist as it's lowered back to her side. "Not the first time. Do what you must, then… Just don't sugar coat it." In words. Divale wants the honest truth! Having been a former Healer of sorts herself, she's vaguely aware of what the damage could be. Thankfully, she's not being foolish and limping off to attempt nursing it herself… not that she could go anywhere fast enough. Numbweed provides relief, though whether its that sudden jolt or the renewed flare of pain that has Divale suddenly reaching to brace again; Liahvah won't mind if the brownrider attempts to use her shoulder, right?

Poor Lukoith. Liavhah didn't intend on offending his fragile… draconity. Really, she'll leave the dragonhealers with it, because it seems like too big of an issue for her to deal with. Legitimately and literally, as she is very small and the brown seems larger than life. There's a brief whistle of wind between teeth as she exposes the wound fully. "It evidently believed grabbing your ankle was the way to get you. A few moments longer and the foot would have been lost, or at minimum severed at the heel." Isn't she just a bag of fun? The Healer woman numbs, cleans, and wraps the wound with brutal efficiency, disregarding any usage of her shoulder. Or, thanks to her lack of height, even the top of her head as a crutch. She's going to have to re-curl her hair after this mess of a situation anyhow. So much wind. And ichor and blood and sweat and fear and… triage isn't a good cologne. "You'll need to keep off this and keep your leg elevated for no less than twelve hours, and speak to a skin specialist once the initial scabbing comes in." Matter of fact, as she finishes the last knot of bandaging and finally glances up at the brownrider, flyaways framing her heart-shaped face.

"You should see my other leg," Divale intones as dry and cold as the desert outside the Weyr, yet not without some form of dark humour — and a dash of suggestiveness. Despite that, her mouth curves in the ghost of a sickly smirk that's marred by her discomfort. "Thread has already claimed part of one foot. Clearly, it intended I have a matching set?" She'll roll with the material Liavhah offers, sour mood now replaced with her general neutrality as her strength begins to wane. It's just the Healer's luck too that her head will be next on the list of crutch-use, when the wrapping begins. Muttering a few foul curses under her breath, Divale will grimace as she gathers what little resolve she has left not to look entirely weakened. "I can cope with twelve hours." It's better than days or months or far worse than she's already experienced. Eventually, she'll release Liavhah from the makeshift role of support and tentatively bear some weight. Nope, no good. "… suppose I'll need assistance to the Infirmay." Divale mutters sullenly but not without a glance to Lukoith, who is now being cared for and tended to. Her jaw tenses, mouth set in a grim and tight line; no doubt she'd rather be seeing to him as well but not this time. With great reluctance and a guarded expression, she'll glance back to the Journeyman Healer. Lead on?

"We'll make shift with what we've got to work with." That from the slip of the young Healer, rising to her feet once she's gained a measure of confidence in the security of the bandage cladding Divale's ankle. She moves close to the brownrider without question or query, lending her supple strength for the painful walk across the bowl to the infirmary's crowded interior. Maybe after this trek is finished, Liavhah will indeed get a glimpse of Divale's other leg, but more likely not, as she's doubtless to be pressganged into work with the more trivial injuries crowding the weyr's inner caverns, the human proceeds of the heartlessness of an erratic Threadfall.

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