So far away from Igen Weyr, the might of the sandstorm is but a dark stain upon the horizon as they venture into the incredible heat to bake their way through sweeps. Finally, the contingent of Whirlwind's sweepriders have come to a moment of rest to find solace in the sparse shade of scraggly trees that only allow thin fingers of shadows to crawl across the red dirt and scrub brush that dots the area outside the hold. Near the rush of a stream, Il'ian pauses while Sargaeroth lurks farther up, the essence of his attention focused outward, perhaps keeping an eye on the clouded storm that churns on the horizon. Squatting, the bronzerider tugs off his goggles and sheds out of his leather jacket before cupping his hands into the clear liquid to splash on dirt-smeared features. The goggles and jacket, dumped unceremoniously beside the bend of his left leg. Rubbing his face clear, he lets a grunt escape before going in for more water. It provides blessed relief.

D'kan is not all that far behind Il'ian, taking only a little more time to carefully store his gear out of harm's way before both he and Kazavoth approach that stream. The brown's interest in the distant storm is fleeting. Luckily, the rigors of today's sweeps have kept the chatty dragon's attention span carefully honed, but now they're on the ground, the chatter begins. « I do not understand why we have been tasked with something so dull, » Kaz begins, his mindvoice not at all limited to the dragons. D'kan, too worn by the heat and their sweep shift to care, ignores him while kneeling beside the water, also trying to cool down while washing away some of the desert's grit. « Oh, watch for movement, Kazavoth, » he continues, snide thorns of crimson scorn edging his voice. « Movement. Hah! »

A hint of felfire leaks from a forbidden and bleak landscape in radioactive green and a putrid purple-black that reeks of suffering. It is the sharpest of winds that blow the words across Sargaeroth's landscape, tumbling rocks of sharpened volcanic glass against the base of blackest of temples that rise from the forbidden landscape with ill-intent. Rivulets of electric green waters spill from waste-filled waterfalls of death and decay. « Because somehow they feel that this is doing something when all it is doing is creating a laughingstock of Igen. » Il'ian, too, is ignoring the dragon chatter in favor of the water. The silky blond hair, spiked by water and sweat, does fall forward to hang like a limp curtain of dark blond where his head stays bent. "Hot out." He's a boy — man, for he can't really be called a boy any longer — of sparse words. Those two words suffuse a feeling of frustration, not for the heat, but for the situation.

D'kan makes a small sound of agreement, finally ceasing with the water splashing long enough to take a couple sips of the water. He peers over at his lifemate, then over toward Sargaeroth. "Makes me want to just keep hitting south 'til we hit the ocean," the rider says quietly. He's not exactly a man of many words, but in comparison to Il'ian? Sure. Kazavoth drinks in scents, colors and sounds coming from his wingmate, though he only returns the salty, chilled tang of the northern seas, spiked with tart citrus. « If they must laugh, let them laugh. I dislike being wasted like this. So many better things we could be doing! » the brown exclaims, while a hinted image of one of Whirlwind's greens is traced along the mindlink. Just as a suggestion.

Glowing, electric green dribbles across a sharp and forbidding plane where the blue of the skies have long since been choked to the ash and soot of a dying world. Shadows of the moon coalesce within this valley of broken, jagged rocks where only the ruined earth clings to existence. « I begin to believe we've been lied to. That leadership foists us off onto these fool's run to keep the weyr weak. People are small and easily found. How can they have not been found by now? » In comparison to his lifemate's more verbose leanings towards Kazavoth, Il'ian merely utters a snort as he lets the water trickle behind his head, down the nape of his neck. "I'd be game." With his head angled towards the ground, he half-cants it upwards to cast a quick, wicked smile towards the brownrider. "Shit's pointless." Presumably, this, considering the bronzerider is making a gesture that includes all of everything. Sweeps, hunt, etc.

« When known, » Kazavoth responds, sounding like off-hand agreement. Again, the green, forbidding planes of Sargaeroth's mindscape are drunk in, absorbed, consumed, though little is returned aside from a lingering miasma of green, funky haze that swirls along the edges, eddies dipping and rolling. « True lies require something of cunning. » The brown's tail flicks into the water, dipping low to muddy the flow. « Dances of words. This is impotent desperation. » His wry voice trails toward quiet as he ends, though further thoughts dance along in their wake, more mental sigh than further commentary. « Movements, » he muses darkly a moment later. « I think I feel a 'movement' coming on now. We should return to the air. It feels cooler and smells sweeter. » D'kan seems to be in line with that idea, because he's already reluctantly shrugging into his gear again.

« Apathy, then. » Sargaeroth's mental voice is a susseration of sound, of wind weeping through crevices of rock and winding through the burbling radioactive waste that trickles from the black temple at the pinnacle of this wasteland that hangs suspended in the space of a world broken. A strange world that is, but not of, the existence of this understanding. « We are sent on fools errands for apathy. » The funky green haze where the mindlink touches is consumed at the edges of zones, held back by the spine of his mindscape, the rock jutting outward like spoked wheels of teeth. « Let us fly, then. » Il'ian is loathe to move from the stream, the hesitation seen in the way he leans to dip his hand once more into the tepid stream waters before dump another handful of water over his head. But when he does decide to move, to follow after D'kan, it's with a sudden flurry of motion. Goggles and leather flight jacket grabbed up in one hand, the veins standing out where heat makes them want to escape the elasticity of skin. Using the inside of his biceps, he wipes the salty sweat from his brow mere seconds before shrugging into the garment as reluctantly as D'kan. Goggles are next, the dirt and grime that surrounds his features and the small, blond stubble that runs along the edges of jaw and cheek creating a raccoon like effect where the skin around his eyes is almost bright in comparison. A sigh is heaved; head tilts upwards. At least there'll be a breeze, right? Rukbat's a ball of fire in the sky, punishing all who dare to traverse the harsh and unforgiving desert. Already, sweat beads and collects in the hollows and pockets of a body. Drips down the sides of Il'ian's temples.

The Whirlwind pair launch into the air and quickly climb in a coordinated, tight spiral, as much to give the nearby land a look as to gain enough altitude to reach the cooler air and wind streams. They do not in fact turn south toward the tempting ocean, but north, aiming for the point where a known desert oasis is a reality, and not just one of many mirages. As the day wears on, the wear wingmates eventually blink into the shocking cold of ::Between::, freezing sweat and held breath before they return to their home of sand and bandits.