The morning dawns inauspiciously clear for what is about to come, painting the sky in pinks, reds and oranges. At the level the dragons fly the air is unseasonably frigid, still caught in that before-dawn surge of cold. All around, sifting like soft ash is a black dust that coats everything in a light, evil lover's touch. Below, cupped in the cradle of the dawn's hand, Valley Hold still slumbers for the most part, with only beastherders and watchwhers awake. Far below, still stumbling in pre-dawn, the groundcrew assembles under the leadership of Marten, an older, steady gentleman.

Sifting high on the razor-thin crosswinds, comes the first streamers of silvery Thread, already clumping and hissing and boiling with alien, vegetative malice. Multiple capsules crack open at different intervals but by the time they've reached the upper echelons of dragonriding pairs their contents are falling freely on their own.

From Valiuth's neck, It is W'rin sitting at the helm of Igen the first fall since he has been re-established as weyrleader, and with Whirlwind Meeting the first of the thread Igen's leading fighting pair is in the only place they feel comfortable in their own skin. Risk of dying meets obessive need to destroy the those silver harbingers of death, the compulsion wins out. Every muscle and brain cell focused on the task at hand. « Rise, Igen! » The washing over of ocean water as the steady ship of Igen's bronze leader invades, the harpooners poised and tense, the battle for life begins as tenacles raise from the sea. « Rise and reign death upon our ancient enemy! »

Since her first disastrous fall, Veresch has slowly learnt her lesson about groundcrew: follow the leader's prompts, run rather than walk, and don't ever expect Thread or ash or anyone else to be sensible in the heat of it. Making sure that her straps are on tight, she checks over the last bits of flamethrower still necessary, and nods her readiness to her group leader. For the moment she's shivering in the cold of the hold's still-dark grounds. As the shift of movement high above is pointed out, she lifts her head to see the dragon wings start to move, and tries to blink away the crackdust still falling on them.

Karkath's mind as that same stillness reaches like a blanket across his wingmates. The words spoken are accompanied by a challenging roar, earning a pat from E'bert as the pair finally begin to meet the ancient enemy.

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

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

A writhing knot of Thread falls near Shalnth, fanning out as if to ensnare him.

A large chunk of Thread drops alongside Zinakoth.

A delicate spiderweb of Thread slips past Kehemath, writhing in hungry eagerness to reach the ground below.

A buzzing swarm of Threads zip in front of Karkath.

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

Karkath flames the thread as it slips past him. Multi-faceted eyes whirling rapidly as he and E'bert battle Thread.

From Kehemath's neck, With no Weyrlings to tend to, Mosaic wing is still doing resupply duties and helping ground crews as needed, as they would if there were Weyrlings. Kehemath fans her wings and then rises into the sky with the rest, weighted down with many bags of firestone, her own flame burning and ready. So when that spiderweb slips past her she is nimble to turn on a wing and chase it down with a roar.

From Shalnth's neck, At Valiuth's command, Shalnth bellows his war cry as he and R'xim enter battle with the silver menace. Flames project out in front of them and incinerate clumps they encounter. Soon they develop a rhythm and more ash falls to the ground as they maneuver under and around the raining Thread.

From Valiuth's neck, The front of the front, of course thread is descending onto Valiuth, he's ready though his neck snaking upward to burn the living heck out of it, surprisingly like the beast in his mind who he fights. W'rin turns his head back to check his wing.

From Liareth's neck, Also on Mosaic, Liareth and Kyara join in the lower flight alongside Sienna - and are fairly quickly surprised by a thin, silvery strand sneaking through the wings above fairly quickly. It's easily dispatched by a long gout from Liareth, and Kyara cranes her neck to glance above. Heads up; this Fall must be a strange one for that to have happened already!

Veresch cranes her neck as Marten, warned by his little brown, looks back over the ranks. "It's here!" he thunders. "Move out, 'crew, starting pattern!" Obediently she shifts with those around her; her five are in the air around her, little warning sentinels, and she moves off with her partner as she slowly starts readying the tank for the business end. So early in the fall they should have little to do, what with the wings still fresh and ready.

From Zinakoth's neck, Zinakoth is there, not far behind Valiuth, and very soon peeling away to belt out a wide swath of flame to char the large chunk of writhing silver that hurtles past. It's ash soon enough, and the lanky bronze is soon back in place, G'tan signaling an 'all is well' to W'rin seeing the the Weyrleader turn back to check on the wing fanning out behind.

From Shalnth's neck, As part of Whirlwind, R'xim and Shalnth are at the highest level with the Weyrleader. Always watching their wingmates' backs, the pair do their best to demolish any silver spores that drift dangerously close to soft hide. More fire, more ash. Following suit, a signal is given to W'rin to indicate that they are fine.

Hogback is there to intercept! Two dragons angling for the same thread mass decide which among them will destroy it, but in mere seconds of confusion a blue discharging his flame nearly catches the brown on the end of his tail. A couple filaments of thread spared from the poorly approached assault, still fall below towards the middle echelons of the flight, then lower, ready for the queens' wing and their support to mop up.

The 'fall turns eerily, uneasily predictable, one of the straightest seen in the last months of the pass. Heavy, almost suffocatingly so, the silver menace falls, dropping sheet-straight and at times predictable, as if on auto-pilot. The winds are with the riders and their dragons; an upwards lift current hoists them up with reduced effort as the ground below warms in sunlight and even the air becomes warm. Slowly, as the fall goes on, fingers of unease and foreboding start sliding up the spines of those with ancient knowledge, and yet it continues as it has been, atypically behaved.

From Iolarth's neck, Iolarth, behind and off to Kczyslawborth's right in the customary wingsecond position, is quick to roll away and dive after that repulsively elegant tangle of Thread that whisks past. Seared through, it dissolves away to ask, leaving Iolarth to bellow triumphantly as he returns to position.

Putting deed to word, Finn has turned out with the ground crews. He'd crewed once before, a Fall over Igen itself, but it's still nervewracking, this crucible. Belly tight and tense, the waiting is the worst. Waiting. Watching as the dragons who'd ferried them to the hold spring into the air, Finn hustles to his crew leader Marten, jaw tight, eyes intent on the skies and the formations of dragons as the wheel to flame. Seeing familiar riders and dragons take to the skies does nothing to ease the knot in his belly. He takes up a position near Veresch, answering Marten's call to get into position.

From Rhiscorath's neck, Mayte is ready with her flamethrower, sweeping along with Mirage to clean up any loose Thread. A nod to a Hogback-head, and Rhiscorath sweeps gracefully, gently through the air, her usual odd manner of flying controlled to stay with her Wing. Mayte does a test burst, and then stares intently at incoming Thread. Come get some.

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

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

A knotted tangle of Thread sinks, almost lifelessly, past Kczyslawborth.

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

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

A small knotlike bundle of Thread blossoms, reaching out like a fisher's cast net, hoping to ensnare Zinakoth in its hungry grasp.

From Karkath's neck, Eerie silence touches each of Karkath's wingmates. He's said what he had to say for this 'Fall. E'bert shifts in his straps as he obediently feeds his brown more Firestone before turning back to watch the skies. Shifting his weight as the large brown slips and slides his way through the falling strands. E'bert completely focused on the task at hand.

From Valiuth's neck, « I don't trust it! » These are words from the Weyrleader, about the sudden predictability of the thraed. Waiting. Waiting. Something is wrong. « Tighten up! » It means more may get through, but with the irregularity and then the sudden amount W'rin isn't taken any chances, smaller coverage areas for everyone. « Flight down, Whirlwind! » Leaving the other's to deal with there own wings. Meanwhile, fire bursts forth from Valiuth.

Veresch nods to the faces around her, brightening a little as she sees Finn. She gives a complicated hand gesture, a 'what up?' of her eyebrows. Still, the tension precludes the possibility of running over there for a greeting, and the flamethrower too heavy to shrug her shoulders in defeath. As yet there's little to reach… ah, spoke to soon! In the movements after the newest order from W'rin, some clumps to penetrate down to the queens and past, hissing onto the ground not too far from Finn.

From Shalnth's neck, Silver falls in front of Shalnth and flames burn it into chunks of ash. R'xim hears the Weyrleader's command to cover a smaller area, so he follows orders as the battle rages on. The red and orange swirls of Shalnth's eyes indicate that he's focused and determined to eliminate the falling threat.

Kehemath tips on a wingtip and then soars upwards as the wings shift, aiming for a brown already out of flame. While Sienna tosses over the new sack of firestone, the green watches intently, and then spirals down once more when the delivery is complete.

From Iolarth's neck, Coming in from the right, yet another clump finds it's way near Arroyo's wingsecond pair, seeming to actually go after them. No thank you! Jinking right, the sky-washed blue burns the pulsating strand to crackdust with ease, and Iolarth wings back into formation directly.

From Zinakoth's neck, There's a tiny bit of Thread honing in on Zinakoth and G'tan…wait. No, this one is growing as it gets closer, and not just because it's getting closer. The stuff fans out, weblike, and Zinakoth bellows at such trickery, braking speed and spraying flame right to left to sear the whole of it before shifting position with the rest of the wing.

Under the watchful eye of a morning sun, the 'fall stretches and stretches, and still no sign from the drop pattern that it's even nearing the middle of the strangely long fall. The greens start tiring slowly now that the updraft is gone. Down below on the ground, the crews are kept hopping — the Thread is coming down in sufficient quantities to ensure that even those strands missed at a higher altitude is enough to keep everyone on their toes. For the moment everything is still fine, still typical, and then goes hideously wrong. Just on the verge of swapping out, a tiny teacup green, still young, is caught so hard in a cross-current that she's slammed down through the air like a hammer, easily falling over a hundred feet in a second. With her rider clinging to her neck she winks out and away barely before slapping golden Rhiscorath in the back, but it's a close thing. It's too late, however; the winds shift in an instant, turning on the riders with mean, hungry glee, and starts slapping the Thread into their faces, down their necks, splashing it about like carnage.

Matched with a veteran team Threvobek has been doing his damndest to keep up. Thinking he had youth on his side, he wasn't expecting men with enough turns to be his grandfathers to keep up with the fall's pace. The heavy boots so useful in field work are extra mass his legs must bear over a lot of ground. Determined to keep up even though this isn't his first ground crew rodeo, Threvobek's troupe leaps over a rock formation to get at a knot writhing on the stone. "Open wide!" Rev twists the nozzle to unleash hell.

Tumbling end over end like a dandelion, a delicate wisp of Thread dances on the wind, bouncing past Karkath as it drifts lazily downward.

An angry, hissing knot of Thread falls into Kczyslawborth's path, writhing in eerie gyrations as it seeks the lush earth below.

A snakelike filament of Thread hisses its way past Shalnth, slithering across the sky towards the ground below.

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

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

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

Karkath is certainly busy as he slips left, right, and back again. Flaming as needed, and demanding more 'stone when the flames run low. E'bert has become adept at reading his star spattered brown, and they take no damage so far. If past 'Falls have taught E'bert anything, it's that things can go south at any moment. So it's no surprise that he's hypervigilant.

Locked in the silver prison of Kczyslawborth's cruel, bladed neck, Kczyslawborth, bred to burn the brutal scourge, his spectral mass far-flinging his ghost-ship 'sails as he soars, a phantom menace leading his fleet into battle against the ancient enemy. Burrowing across the minds of Arroyo, his messages unravel as they roll along an endless expanse of tunnels, pitted limestone walls forming tight quarters as authority presses in from all sides. « Close ranks, aim for the Thread most direct in front of you. We protect our own first. » Because damnit, Zeyta has a bone to pick and case to prove: that she's a capable leader. No casualties among her wing riders today.

From Rhiscorath's neck, Mayte receives a medium score on the hip!

Rhiscorath receives a slight score on the wingtip!

From Kaelidyth's honey-dripped neckridges, Linny receives a medium score on the scalp!

From Valiuth's neck, Valiuth shoots flame left, and then turns right roaring as it a clump falls just out of reach below him. So involved in the flight together, the sound eminates from the weyrleader as well. They cannot get them all, but every miss is defeat for the pair. « I can't hear you, Whirlwind! Let the people in front of you know where you are, and what's behind them! » The bronze statue doesn't take long to regroup another clump of thread meets its doom before him.

From Kehemath's neck, Sienna receives a medium score on the forearm!

From Zinakoth's neck, G'tan receives a slight score on the lower back!

From Shalnth's neck, R'xim receives a deep score on the forearm!

Nodding a greeting at Veresch, Finn's head comes up as the wings shift, drawing in. Thread falls, falls, falls and no dragon flames it. "There!" Finn calls, pointing as he pounds towards the coiling. Beating feet in ragged order with his crew, Finn takes a position on Threvobek's left, choking up on the 'thrower, Finn follows along with his crew and at Rev's cry, lets loose with flames, teeth bared, brow furrowed.

From Karkath's neck, E'bert receives a deep score on the lower back!

Rhiscorath is usually so silent but she roars as a green is out of place and suddenly on top of her. Mayte's surprised shout might be heard as she desperately tries to avoid getting hit as well and losing grip on her flamethrower handle. Rhiscorath has to wheel away a little, and that leads her straight into some stray Thread. Both shout in pain and blink ::between:: - when they emerge, Mayte is sweating and slapping at her hip, while Rhiscorath is snaking her head back to look at the slight score she received to her wing-tip. "FUCKING OW," might be heard.

Kehemath turns into the wind swiftly, belching fire as she goes, but it's too late. The thread is /there/, and though Kehemath manages to flame the tendrils that would have touched her, Sienna catches some across her forearm. Screaming in instinctive panic as the writhing silver threads eat through her leathers and down to her skin, Kehemath takes them between for but an instant, returning in place and flaming again, while Sienna fumbles for her first aid kit.

A scream of pain from E'bert is cut off as Karkath skips ::Between:: when they return, Karkath bugles in rage. Though for this pair the fight is probably done, not that E'bert's going to quit. His back is killing him, and the smart thing would be to return to the Weyr. The stubborn thing is to stay and fight, « E'bert says we can continue, » Karkath sends to Kczyslawborth. The brown has wrapped his rider in the still, silence that is his mindscape as he dives for more Thread.

The three youngsters sync up eerily well under the direction of their group leader. With the two guys charging off, Veresch is but a step behind, and the fire that rakes out of her flamethrower is controlled, insistent, getting the last of the clumps there before they can burrow. "Watch out!" she yells, seeing the Thread from above descend on them as they likely can't, and tries to step back in time to get it. Even though her face is dirty from ash, there's an unholy kind of glee to the way the girl works the contraption, bright-bright eyes blinking constantly to stay clear.

From Zinakoth's neck, And there's another weblike mass of Thread heading for Zinakoth - and a gust catches it, whipping it out of sight. Unfortunately, not out of range; G'tan feels the burn of it across his lower back just as ::between:: momentarily engulfs them. He's slapping crackdust from the back of his Thread-gnawed jacket, cursing up a storm for the burn but not about to quit. Once reassured that his rider is fine, Zinakoth sends the feel of the flood of a desert cloudburst quickly across the minds of those around. « We must do better to protect the queens! » And that's that - a single declaration, his mind once more returning to keeping this particularly difficult Fall at bay.

From Kaelidyth's honey-dripped neckridges, Linny and Kaelidyth have been here the whole time. Really really. Just doing what they do, able to blend in with the other dragons, cursing up a storm as they try to keep up with the ever-changing wind. However, the pair stands out as suddenly Linny's screaming, before a quick pop between, and when she emerges, she's got a hand held against her head…cursing even more and louder. There's that moment where the gold pair hovers, trying to decide what to do, but with a heavy fall like this, the weyrwoman moving her hand from her head to look at, back and forth to see how badly it's bleeding. Apparently it's not bad enough, since Kaelidyth's wings beat hard to get them back into the swing of things, searing more Thread from the skies.

It never gets old watching your bane reduced to cinders, Threvobek grins cruelly and steps over the residue now part of the ecosystem. Makes good fertilizer. His group of three is near the same site as Finn and the members barely make an exchange but Rev glimpses a brother in arms and his heroic high is reinforced by comraderie. "There's a stand of brush up higher last I knew," taking a giant breath, "thread can have the shardin' rock."

The wings rally, clump together, start fighting back. For a moment the tide is turned, and dominance of the sky once more established under tight leadership. For a moment, all seems to be winding down. Then, as hard as fighting microshear makes it on the dragons, the fall turns against them once more. In a truly bizarre way, the winds sough and blast at the silvery threads, pulling them down in a downdraft of such perilous speed that it's on Oasis before the wings can react to stop it. With so many chromatics in the wing, the shearing forces pull them apart, winkling at their protection, seeking to snarl through and drop on the great golden beasts only scant dragonlengths below them. Igen's breeding bounty now lies at risk — how quickly will the riders move to protect that? Will the golds disappear and leave the 'crew and fields defenseless?

From Shalnth's neck, The event is a blur, almost happening in slow motion as Shalnth is unable to twist and defend R'xim from an oncoming clump of Thread. There isn't enough time to react when it happens, silver slicing through leather on R'xim's forearm and burning flesh so bad he can't think. A pained bellow from the bronzerider is projected and Shalnth bugles to Valiuth before slipping ::between:: and returning in cleared air space amongst Whirlwind.

Kehemath responds, surging upwards to cut a swath of flame above the queens and below Oasis, freedom of movement shared, broadcast with her thoughts to those she flies near. The warning of impending flame, the direction of where she's going and what she's doing.

From Iolarth's neck, Iolarth dives with breathtaking speed after the clump that tries to escape, not allowing it to and quickly moving back into place jsut as E'bert returns, scored. « How bad? » the blue questions the angered Karkath, a raptor's scream upon whipping winds demanding honesty from his brown wingmate.

From Valiuth's neck, It is sudden and without warning, the sudden shattering of Oasis, and the golds in peril, the ship in Valiuth's mind bursts into a million pieces, as deadly and piercing as thread. « Bronze's and browns of Whirlwind! Mirage! » The order is followed without waiting for the rest to follow. The top is no longer needed, it is the bottom that needs protection, and so the highest flight is called from its station to protect the lowest.

From Kehemath's neck, Sienna forces Kehemath to the ground, the green too tired to continue to fight against the winds. Another dragon, an older blue, takes to the skies to replace them in resupply while Sienna's arm is tended to by the medics. Waiting until Kehemath has rested and they can rejoin.

Dodging away at Veresch's cry, Finn totally leaves Threvobek's high five hanging and, insteand, grabs the stablehand and hauls him along and away, clearing the way for Veresch to flame what falls. He pivots and burns down anything the eerily bright-eyed Veresch doesn't manage. Roars from dragons in pain and the crack of those disappering and reappearing thunder in the skies. Not that there's any WAY to keep abreast of the chaotic flow above. He nods to Veresch and Threvobek. They've come rather far afield of the bulk of their crew and, looking off, the smith can see Marten headed towards the clump of brush Threvobek had mentioned. Eyes sharp for errant falls in the uncertain wind, "Nice work, 'Resch. Rev, lead on."

From Liareth's neck, Kyara and Liareth swoop back in from a resupply to a couple of Whirlwind riders just Sienna takes a scoring and Kehemath winks out. Panic stops her heart for the barest second, an assurance from Liareth and the sight of the other green pair blinking directly back in getting her breathing again. Liareth will have a bit more left in her for a while, but she will soon have to go to ground as well, joining Kehemath to rest while a brown pair spells them and gives them time to get back into the fray for resupplies.

From Shalnth's neck, It is with stubborn determination that R'xim continues the fight despite his forearm burning in pain. Shalnth descends with haste to the lower half and fights the wind the entire time. Protecting Mirage is now their main focus and their wingmates are still watched over as well. In his mind, R'xim is still able to throw firestone but the effort is becoming more and more laborious with his wound.

From Valiuth's neck, Hogback has taken the lead of thread as Whirlwind falls to take Oasis' spot, W'rin simply orders the remnants of the wing to land. Regroup, few dragons could stay up after the devestation just wreaked on their wing. « Regroup, Whirlwind. » It is a relative calm order in the midst of are normally stormy skies. « Watch the drafts. Watch each other. »

Karkath continues to fly even as he passes the question on to E'bert. A few moments pass before he relays, « Mine says it feels deep, but he can manage. I will continue, » and there he goes charring a filament to crackdust. As long as E'bert's being stubborn, there's not much Karkath can do. Perhaps one of the Wingleader types will order them back?

From Valiuth's neck, W'rin has no time for patience for this business. « Get the fuck down Karakth! » Is the boy trying to get his wingmates killed? There will be repercutions later, one can be assured. Right now, things are to messed up to deal with it.

From Zinakoth's neck, Zinakoth moves immediately at Valiuth's command, the lanky bronze's descent quick to the level that allows them to protect the precious queens below. G'tan inwardly winces with every shift…but outwardly, he's steady. He and Zinakoth are solid, and intend to be for the rest of this battle.

From Kaelidyth's honey-dripped neckridges, Is Linny's brain cooking? Because her head is on fire, now exceedingly more nervous about continuing with her head wound, nevermind how lucky she is that it was't worse. Brings back way too many memories of her hand injury, and to say the woman's on edge is putting it lightly, though the pair is still doing a great job at fighting off the Thread. Somehow or another Kaelidyth's massive bulk is able to move out of the way just in time as winds shift, leaving her untouched while her lifemate's brain boils, that horrible smell of melted hair in the air around her,

Threvobek hauls ass up the ledges as Finn and Co. merge to strongarm their way to the top. It's about 40 meters up and sheer on top, but not in the good 'I can see your chest' type of sheer. True to word the apex is a composite array of tiny flowers and young mesquite— spring worshippers. "Burn it all." Threvobek decides as a dragon's war cry turns shrill. Resigning to duty, the nozzle is fixed in place and the trigger pulled. So long, mother nature.

A single clump stirred by winds in the lower atmosphere separates into a dozen strands bent on absorbing any organic matter they happen to brush. Writhing knots, self-tied, form and unform as it skirts along the edges of Oasis. Green Chaleyth of Oasis leaves her formation position to try to make the reach, but misses, singing only as a glancing blow to the Thread nearing the queens. In the wing section stationed just below, not expecting the large net-like mesh of thread, two dragons are scored over their backs as they cover the massive dragons of too-precious Mirage Wing. They disembark for ::between:: instantly but the damage is done; one manages to make its way back, the other … does not. The hostile air, uncaring and not content to leave well enough alone, swirls and slams upwards again, turning the fall into a nightmare of different levels that play havoc with any idea of a neat attack. Wingleaders and Wingseconds shout over the link, try to restation their wings, looking to W'rin for ultimate leadership. The harsh training helps; they're getting back into position as fast as the winds will allow them.

Karkath acknowledges the order from Valiuth even as the message is relayed to E'bert, then to Zeyta's Kczyslawborth, « We return to the Weyr, » shortly after that, the pair winks out. Touching lightly on Zeyta and N'cal's dragons to let them know that he and E'bert made it back safely.

A ropy clot of Thread tumbles like a dandelion past Rhiscorath, twirling downward towards the ground.

A group of Threads fall past Kczyslawborth, one after another, plodding downward with mindless determination.

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

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

A long white tendril of Thread kites past Zinakoth, fluttering as it sails downward.

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

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

Despite the scoring, Mayte has clamped one hand to her hip, as according to the If-I-swear-enough-it-will-stop-hurting theory, but Rhiscorath continues on, labouring only slightly. She's not hurt.Nope.

From Iolarth's neck, Iolarth supports Valiuth's declaration to Karkath with a sharp glint of daylight breaking through stormclouds across the quiet brown's mind. « You have done well. Go. » His rich baritone brooks no argument as well, then quickly withdraws as N'cal urges him to focus through their last stretch. The blue pair is tiring as well; they will need to rotate out soon themselves…but not before they burn that strange, ring-like bit of Thread from existence. Just there. There will be nothing escaping this Arroyo pair today!

Locked in the silver prison of Kczyslawborth's cruel, bladed neck, « Karkath, » hisses a low burl, baleful orange gaze with slitted pupils rattling the steel bars from the depths of a dark cage. « Ground. Dragonhealer. Now. » The claustrophobic hallways ends, a trapdoor sprung, plummeting the young brown riding pair into total darkness as they fall into the pits of a dank dungeon cell. Gameover, boys. Pragmatic as ever, the next relay to down the riddled, subterranean cave system reconstitutes their formation to compensate for their lost number, no replacement called in yet. « One down, we tighten. We save our reserves for heaviest fall or to substitute in towards the end for those who need reprieve. » Grim determination loads that statement, echoed in the squint of eyes behind goggles, the grit of teeth behind the bandana tied over the wingleader's mouth.

From Valiuth's neck, W'rin doesn't blink as one does not return, it was he ordered. Protect the queens. And they did their duty. And at the moment the weyrleader is trying to keep the remenants of his fighting wings together, as messed up as they are. Some Whirlwind filling in Oasis, a few flying with mirage and the rest backing up the Hogback at the top. Igen wingleaders ordered to regroup and reform their wings with whatever dragons happen to be with them. What Whirlies are with him are ordered once again to tighten. There is no show of defeat on this man's face, just sheer determination. They will. Thread will not fall forever. Not today. It will die today.

With the guys leading the way and scorching anything that might be close, Veresch is content to follow the lead of her two elders — the others in her group, that is, not the people prancing goat-like up to burn out vegetation. As the winds shift the hammer of necessity is splitting them up; she runs over to get another line of descending Thread, and soon is almost covered in the black, hot, choking ash that is all that is left of her group's efforts.

Locked in the silver prison of Kczyslawborth's cruel, bladed neck, Zeyta receives a medium score on the face!

Finn is winded as they crest the rise. Adrenalin and stress make for poor strength management. His mouth tightens as the crew lays into the valiant little flowers. Rather than burn them, he takes a sentinel stance, watching the skies, feeling the winds, casting senses out that he can call the group to attention should it be needed. He's not flaming because that's a patch of the very flower he gave Kaelidyth… no. That's not why. He's looking out for his crew. And, as if summoned by thought, Kaelidyth wings out overhead. Finn's belly tenses and he turns away into a blast of superheated ash. Reeling back, coughing, the trader staggers and drops to a knee. "Assis-" he hacks. It burns. Eyes shut, grating, burning. My eyes. Shards. "Assistance!" He manages to cough out, throwing a hand in the air. His face turned down.

From Zinakoth's neck, Oh good. Thread that actually looks and acts like proper Thread this time! Zinakoth is all over it, charring it to nothing before slipping back into place above the queens with a determined bellow.
Tightening as ordered, he falls in behind Valiuth and to the leading bronze's left, desert wind and flashing flood raging in synchronicity with Valiuth's seas. There will be no defeat today!

(heeee) W'rin takes a score in the junk!

From Valiuth's neck, All the women of Pern weep?

The remarkable see-saw of altitudes drag at the defenders, tiring them out enough that the browns are beginning to tire badly, and several of them have had to bow out. It creates huge patches of empty air to defend, and an increased imperative on those more massive browns and bronzes to cover more space, fill the places their wingmates can't be. It is here that the immense training effort can be seen in the rigorous, practised way in which the wings start to respond; even faced with the crazy 'fall so far injuries are being kept to a minimum. On the ground, some truly nasty burrows are still steaming as the 'crew races around to get them all — surely the tanks are starting to run low.

From Kaelidyth's honey-dripped neckridges, It may not do any good, but it seems as if Linny's channeling all of her anger into flaming the Thread that falls into their path, yelling and cursing even if no one's around to hear it. Especially the Weyrleader. "I'm so DONE with this shit, W'rin!" is her favorite, sometimes yelling it, sometimes murmuring it, but for the most part, that seems to be what's keeping her going. Sure, her head injury isn't as bad as her hand was, but it's a head injury. Maybe she'll be able to get a 'hall pass' from flying Fall, because if she dies, it's going to be ALL W'RIN'S FAULT. In her mind, anyway.

From Valiuth's neck, « Spread out! » There is nothing else to be done. W'rin makes the motion with his hands, inside his stomach may turn, just a little, but there isn't the dragon power to do anything else. « Make sure you watch your sides! Trust the man behind you! » Or woman, it's implied he swears. With most of the chromatics on the ground, and those still in the air pushed to their limits his face is stoney resolve. « Igen! Finish this the battle strong! » He turns his ashened face, streaks of black smeared by sweat, and gives another woop to spurn on what are left of his troops.

Threvobek can feel the sway of volatile chemicals strapped to his back even as his movement has temporarily ceased. Joyless at the destruction of plants that could have been fodder for the livestock, Threvobek pushes the goggles further up the bridge of his nose. Though his breathing has stabilized, the heart in Rev's torso is a stampede of hoofbeats. The living breathing desert plants, survivors already, couldn't face the inferno. Threvobek turns the nozzle in an unactive position, routing to Finn's direction and doubles the request with a bellow: "Help, here!"

From Shalnth's neck, Mind over matter. The pain in R'xim's forearm is becoming more and more difficult to ignore as Shalnth burns any and all silver spores that cross their path. The queens are well protected and they do their best to rage on against the wind and Thread. Spreading out even further as fire engulfs more silver, they do the best with what they have.

Veresch is run ragged, close to her endurance's limit. A turn of working with Kyara has gotten her to where she can last through one, but it's going to be a close thing. Scanning out and gagging at a nasty burrow just a bit in front of her, she does not hear the calls for help. One of the on-ground medics do, though, and rush to assist Threvobek and Finn as another group covers their approach.

Locked in the silver prison of Kczyslawborth's cruel, bladed neck, Nooooooo, not the FACE, not THE face. (Or some other vague body part Zeyta's player later decides was scored.) Regardless of the where the what certainly upsets the vain brownrider, as a clump entangles her. Before it burrows and ravages all her beauty, Kczyslawborth unleashes a fearsome growl, destination envisioned as the pair blinks ::between:: and the emerges a calculated measure ahead for the rest of the wing to catch up, Thread-free. For all the drama and lack of social graces, they remain remarkably silent in their personal outrage, continuing steady, strong as resilient leaders. Team morale is totally in N'cal and Iolarth's ballpark, though, yo.

From Liareth's neck, Having regained enough stamina and then some to become airborne again, Kyara and Liareth blink back to the Weyr briefly for replacement tanks for the ground crew, quickly returning and swooping low over the advancing, flamethrower-wielding humans. Liareth lands smoothly, Kyara hitting the ground on swift feet and hauling tanks from her lifemate's straps. Two to an arm, she swings up to those signaling for replacements, glancing about for familiar faces. There's Veresch - good…and is that Finn, waving for help? Hurrying over, she beats the medic by a step. "Finn! What happened?" Even before there's an explanation, she's waving the medic off. "I've got him; tend to the others." She'll be taking this one back to the Weyr post haste, she's certain.

From Valiuth's neck, W'rin receives a slight score on the scalp!

Idiosyncratically, it's a returning blue with a bag of firestone that first sees the clear sky at the upper edges of the fighting elevation, and hammered aquamarine skies beyond. The news travels through the wings like fire, and the defenders eke out the last bits of effort against the Thread still in the air. A last frenzied gust whips at it, tangling it into huge, quickly-flamed knots as if repentant now for earlier vagaries, and the trailing edge follows quickly, allowing everyone to catch a breath and think of well-earned baths and sleep… or will W'rin demand exercises even after this, for those that didn't get injured?

From Valiuth's neck, The spread distance is taking it's toll, but it is better than letting it hit the ground. Sacrifice is what the are called to, so even as Valiuth sears another thread, W'rin sees what is going to happen. Life slows down, at leat in his mind and he STARES as the thread collides with his scalp. There isn't a sound, from beast or man, as they blink silently ::Between::, and return. Growling now, and the smell of burnt hair, as they circle back to the ground. And he had so little to start with. The fall is over, time to count the dead and injured. Tomorrow they regroup. Today they bathe. Some of them. For the weyrleader, there is work to be done, and perhaps he should run by the healers.

Locked in the silver prison of Kczyslawborth's cruel, bladed neck, Zeyta totally has a cream to make W'rin's hair grow back. Just saying. Ancient Oldtimer secret.

The voice is familiar. Associations recent. Lake shore. "Ash." Face still bowed, an arm thrown protectively across, the smith doubles over coughing. The raised hand braces him against the ground. He fumbles for the canteen at his hip and splashes water on his face, hissing, wincing, squeezing eyes shut again. He staggers upright and reaches out for the dimly glimpsed form of, "Kyara?"

From Iolarth's neck, Finally, the time comes; Iolarth reaches out to Kczyslawborth with a brief gust of cold wind. « We are rotating out. To your victory, Kczyslawborth. » Yes, the sky-washed blue will even cheer the exceptionally unnerving brown on - as he will the rest of their wing as they spiral down to settle, regaining strength as the remainder of Igen's wings defeat the rest of the Fall.

From Shalnth's neck, Shalnth descends to the ground with haste, allowing R'xim to dismount with as much ease as possible. When the bronzer thuds to his feet, a few glances are thrown around for Linny until a medic is on him to examine his wound. In a pained daze, R'xim is escorted to the Infirmary for further examination.

Threvobek eyes the medic to see if he's capable or just a wannabe who can extract slivers. But then Kyara's on the scene and patting Finn's back, redoubles to take his place feeling like a sack of firestone himself: filthy and cumbersome. His descent down the hill is minus grace and just maybe the agenothree will self ignite from rough handling. He rejoins with his original crew as they pump scads of synthesized product into a ground crevice. Little flames like demon footprints bubble up from pores in the dirt. As the fall degenerates, Rev starts to cough.

The groundcrew has the last cleanup duties, and attend to them as the wings start spiralling down. Covered in thick ash, Veresch eventually stumbles back towards to pickup point, dirty and smelling disgusting and with eyes and teeth glittering brilliantly. Someone needs to be tossed in the lake at the very least. "Rev!" she shouts as she sees him, and has to cough herself, but manages to reach and slap him on the back before accepting a hand up a dragon.