The airspace above is comparatively crowded, whether by wings or singletons; likewise, the packed earth and rock that grounds the Bowl sees virtually constant activity, particularly just to the east where the living caverns lie. Along the northern curve yawns the hatching grounds, and the lingering reek of blood on the western breeze is a tell-tale pointer to the feeding pens.

It is a summer evening. The season's heat burns skies clear of cloud.

Renna grasps the straps lightly, holds herself balanced against the dragon's hide for one loving moment, before dropping like a small pebble, down from her lifemate Deireth's neck.

Th'deus strides in, Xanth winging in from the Junior Queen's area. The man is in high energy, hair pulled severely back and flight helmet tucked under his arm. His old flight jacket is in evidence, the storm greys of the first gifted set that Th'deus' entire weyrling class received; Thadd's is in good repair, but wouldn't suit at a Gather. The Weyrleader glances up as Xanth drops to the ground, strapped and rigged and ready, and he'll spend a few moments to slide hands over the straps, check the seams and fasteners for the firestone. Silent, the massive man finishes his inspection quickly, before he pulls himself up. His regard passes over the wingleaders, Weyrsecond and Xanth touches minds with the dragons of those men and women. Ready?

W'ren finishes his inspection of the weyrling wing, "Mount Up!" He yells to the weyrlings, spinning on his heels toward those junior weyrlings waiting in the wings with refill firestone sacks. "Sacks!" The command to start loading them onto the weyrling riders' strap hooks. The junior weyrlings rush in, reaching up to each of the mounted seniors in turn to hand three, four, six, however many sacks they can load. W'ren turns away, strides up to Th'deus and salutes. "Senior Weyrling Wing ready, sir!"

Taini counts the flamethrowers, and as W'ren reports to Thadd, she turns and does the same. "Ground crew ready, sir." She says, quickly.

Astride Inigoth, B'roughs watches the young weyrleader and simply nods to the man when his eyes hit sentinel wing. He's kept his own knots on it's not /his/ wing and so he's playing the blue rider to the best of his ability. Other than that he waits, no point in wearing himself out now with fidgeting.

Astride Fanneth, G'dal grumbles. "Finally." He says, and Fanneth stretches his wings a little, bumping into the brown beside him. The rider is used to the loudmouth's ways, so he just ignores it, thankfully. Gun shifts in his seat, and checks his straps.

A shark in an a sea of small fish, that is how N'tan's pinched expression reads as the big man stands watching the wings gain order amongst themselves, arms crossed petulantly on his broad chest. While he has no love for his wing, there's a certain amount of comfort to be found amongst the faces you train with day in and day out. Nidhgoth remains coiled just behind, his preparations amounting to an inner cycle of psychicing them both out, until they are both silently pumped.

Renna has been flying thread for Telgar, so while she may be on the plus side of middle aged, *cough* she looks relaxed as everyone bustles about. A quiet eyebrow arches and with a pat against Dei's muzzle, she mounts her dragon.

Ita makes sure everything is in place, and watches carefully as the dragons prepare. "Be safe." She echoes the queen's words, softly, probably not overheard by many.

Astride Xanth, Th'deus leans down from Xanth to nods to Taini, "Aye. Thanks. Here's hoping they're bored." His teeth flash a quick grin; the adrenaline pumps and the man, ever a fighter, is anxious to be gone, to be there. A look around and he'll pump his arm, the signal to rise. Xanth transmits widely, with that taste of decay implicit of his mind-voice, the destination: Sky Above the Fort Hold Complex. The image is slanted with sun-set's rays across the buildings, a touch that a dragon accustomed to timing, might add.

Above the Center Bowl

Grey volcanic cliffs and endless vault of sky, freshened by the crisp mountain winds: Fort Weyr's Bowl is vast indeed, and floating within it grants you a panoramic view of daunting size and power. The bowl extends over three thousand feet to the northeast and the southwest, with Tooth Crag piercing the sky at the northeastern rim and the rubble of an ancient collapse marking the southwestern, the glittering lake sheltering in its curve. Below, the groundbound activities of the Weyr seem to pulse with the seemingly endless passage of its inhabitants; about and above you, multicolored flashes skirt by as dragons by the score traverse the Bowl.

Along the western curve of the Rim lie the weyrling barracks and feeding grounds; along the northern are the hatching grounds and the weyrleaders' complex; along the eastern are the lower caverns and the infirmary. The lake lies to the southwest, and beyond it the beach.

Ribbons flutter around a small stage upon which rests a table covered by a cloth.

Astride Hadamarth, Thera is surrounded by firestone sacks and settles in double checking straps then gives the mental command.

In a moment N'tan has mounted and strapped in, while Nidhgoth unleashes the darkness of his wings. An expression of readiness is transmitted in posture as they await orders. And then they are aloft.

Astride Gnaedath, W'ren tightens the straps carefully, checks his helmet and reaches down to grab the sacks the junior weyrlings hand him, twisting in his seat to make sure the senior weyrlings with him and behind are doing the same. "Make sure they are tight, S'al! Thera? You and Hadamarth take my right wingman slot! Taini? You run the flamer exchanges. Io and Imo ? Make sure those flamers report to the gold wing for exchange! Keep those refills going out to the goldies!" W'ren take a final look, tightens his gloves on his hands and lifts it into the air, pumps it downward.

Fanneth takes off, his bugle loud.

Below, "We're ready, W'ren," Taini calls, watching the dragons take off.

The slash of putrid rotting vegetation slices through the ranks, Xanth's call: << Between. We fight! >> Ghost-silent, he is swallowed by the chill nothingness.

:::BETWEEN!:::

Sky Above the Fort Hold Complex

High above Fort Hold's fireheights, you're afforded a view of not only the complex below, but also of the surrounding countryside from Fort Weyr to--in the east--the rolling hills and fields of the Hold and, just the tiniest of specks, Fort Sea Hold.

The favored places to land for dragons are the fireheights (thanks to its being a great place to sun) and the landing area; the Harper and Fort Hold courtyards are crowded and cramped, so please don't stay long; you may also gain in height to the rest of the region and Fort Weyr.

It is a summer evening. The season's heat burns skies clear of cloud.

Inigoth comes out of between with Sentinel wing hovering near the tail of the left flank, ahead of the greens. Inigoth is big for a blue, but this wing seems to ahve closer to the normal proportions of bronzes and browns than he's used to, waiting the order to engage and site of the enemy.

>> [thread] Gnaedath sifts into the awareness of the link. <<Mine says to call us when you need the first round of refills. We wait.>> <<

As Fanneth and G'dal blink out from between, Fanneth trumpets loudly, and moves to get into position. He flies forward just enough to maintain his place in Sentinel wing. He watches for the silent enemy's approach.

Hadamarth comes in from between and takes the formation next to Gnaedath. Wings moving fractionally as he adjusts, glides and adjusts again with the occasional beat to keep them aloft.

They have a place, and now is the time; N'tan is already confidently patting his lifemate's neck when they arrive from ::between: in the exact spot in the formation they left. Confidence is the key, and neither lack in this quarter. The leading edge is eyed with what amounts to a vicious glee that stokes fire in the brownrider's murky eyes.

The silvery sheen of thread on the distant dark horizon really could be considered gorgeous, from an artist's point of view. The deep hues of the sunset velvet-dark highlight Pern's ancient enemy as it falls, pulled by gravity of the planet it would plunder, if not for dragons' flame and grubs' appetite. Down it comes as the wings assemble themselves again. Dragons roar fury, instinct drawing ferocity from the depths of their genetic heritage. Fairs upon fairs of firelizards, having nibbled on the fragments of the stone here and there, also wink in, small glittering lights of bursts of flame here and there, against the darkening sky. And then it comes, too fast, too quickly, with a breeze that stirs the clumps into Wingleaders' horror -- swirling and unpredictable death slides down, voracious, to feast on the Hold below.

Already the youngest green in Sirocco is hell-bent on engaging the enemy. Mrrth has become the tempest, electric-grey wings flashing, fury of thunder in her low-voiced challenge. T'jano, bent over and strapped securely in, thumps the green on the neck with a piece of firestone, but that is only taken grudgingly; Mrrth can take on the lot of it, all alone, with the sixteen pieces she's already consumed and /now/!

>> I sense that Gnaedath wonders, waiting. <<Mine asks the state of thread. Heavy, slow?>> <<

Bo> A certain silence has descended on the bowl, the absence of the Weyr's fighting dragons and the knowledge that there will be injuries, there will be pain and possibly, there will be death. Quiet and anxiety, the waiting must be the worst.

>> I bespoke Gnaedath with: I sense that Xanth touches, absently, but with a certain bemused warmth really: << Heavy, erratic. Th'deus says it will be ugly. The light will fail, and humans will ask dragons to do that, which is not wise. >> <<

Bo> Amid that silence, restless and waiting, Taini paces, checking, re-checking everything until an older man comes up to her and pats her on the shoulder, "It's alright lass." He says, with a soft tone. "Hardest to wait."

There Thread is! There it is! Fanneth bellows again, and turns his head to receive the firestone. He hadn't chewed yet, in anticipation of holding his flame. However, now that the enemy has been spotted, he chews dutifully and rares, ready to go.

Bo> Overhead, Astride Gnaedath, W'ren calls into the wind, raising his hand in a circle, signal for another round about the bowl. he peers over his shoulder at Thera, his wingsecond, signaling her to tighten the formation inward. The weyrlings fly impeccably, albeit their age, all except B'ong, who's having trouble with his helmet strap.

>> [thread] Xanth has become a Presence, now, muculent mind-touch stretching to include every dragon, flashes of sulfur-yellow against a fog of black. << Now, we rise! *Between* to the Enemy, and flame as needed. >> <<

Deireth hovers with the other Sirrocco greens, taking the firestone from Renna who is all grandmotherly calm. The chewing is audible and the green whuffle excitement before correcting her location with the beat of her wings. Lithe, lean and green, she tests her flame and whuffles appropriately.

Bo> Overhead, Hadamarth corrects appropriate, surrounded by firestone sacks and buckled in thricely. She's all business, if slightly wide-eyed and nervous.

Bo> Overhead, Hadamarth Thera corrects appropriate, surrounded by firestone sacks and buckled in thricely. She's all business, if slightly wide-eyed and nervous.

Perhaps as it is the wing of Weyrsecond and Weyrleader, Sirroco is called upon to lead the charge; the wing flips forward to span the distance, to increase the safe space between Thread and the greenery below, and the dragons becomes the point of the arrow of Fort's 400-some fighting dragons. An awesome sight, there are indeed a few lads who snuck out of the tight restriction of their parents, who stand in the Hold's higher towers, watching in awe at the ancient battle that will take place in the sky. The other wings, to be sure, come forward as well and formation is held -- mostly. Here and there are errors, Just now, they won't cost. Soon, they will. The first burst of flame sends the first ash swirling into the air. Riders, pumped on excitement, cheer their lifemates on. Dragons whirl, neat and clean, careful. It is the beginning, yet.

There is no waste of breath or flame; the well stocked Nidhgoth waits until the exact moment of need to burst out with the deadly fire that chars the tangled opponent to a dust that falls in a harmless rain onto the wing beneath. Not much if any will be passing by the eager brown, and N'tan's arrogant throaty tribal-yell warns the ones below to prepare for boredom!

Inigoth moves with the wing, almost before the rest of the wing, but B'roughs holds him strictly in check. They're not leading the wing today. Something he's got to remember to practice a little more in wing drills! As the wing meets thread, Inigoth and B'roughs are cautious, as they get a feel for the rhythem of the unfamiliar wing. They're not the staying power today. They can afford to be more daring, but that's going to take a few passes to actually make use of.

There are really only two areas of life that Waroth's single-minded intensity serves him well: mating flights, and thread fights. The skeletal-etched brown is in his place amongst the other Stormrider wing members the scent of firestone heavy about the bunch despite the wind that carries the smell away from them. They are in wait, full firestone sacks secured to fighting straps, ready for the battle about to ensue in the skies over the Hold.

Fanneth pushes forward and finds a piece of thread just in front of him. Flame! He flames, and the thread chars. Another bellow for his success as he turns around to get another batch of firestone.

Bo> A sense of excitement ripples through the few remaining dragons -- older or infirm -- who remain. Thread has been met. The dragons flame! Thread is seared! Even so, the morbid preparations of healing ointments, numbweed, red-wort and bandages continues near the infirmary.

Mrrth flames, hot fires fierce, perhaps wasteful as she twists to hit as much of the Thread as possible. Agile, whirlpooling in the air sends T'jano nearly into her far wing, as her tail slashes far too close to her neighbor, so that she maintains balance. Her entire focus is on that Thread, as seems to be her rider's. If he notices the advent of the bruises he'll show later, he does not react now. T'jano scans, thumps Mrrth's shoulder as he spies another clump. Physics does not allow the manuver that Mrrth attempts, so she loses altitude, beats frantically to meet, greet with flame, that enemy.

Bo> Ita waits quietly, picking up when the thread is charred. "Oh." She says. "They've started." She continues with the bunch near the infirmary, and washes her hands in redwort almost automatically.

Bo> Overhead, The wing continues to circle, waiting for word to go between to Threadfall. P'tooey leans over the side of her green, Spith, and coughs, momentarily zigzagging from her position at the furthermost tip of the standard vee. W'ren doesn't notice, instead giving the signal to ready to between. Watch out below!

Mesmerized by the squirming curtain of thread before them, Nidhgoth and N'tan lose track of time, adrenaline pumping bulging veins on muscles pulled taut with tension. Tangle after tangle are expertly dispersed into history, only to be replaced by yet another, and still more.

Deireth angles upwards between a group of browns, flaming narrowly. The lads apparently missed a clump. Her flame is neat and then folding wings she angles her body downwards again. These are the green aerodynamic fancies and her talent leans to belching flame straight up or straight down, even if it causes some of the 'boys' to stay on their tails. Renna simply holds on, grey cap of hair showing which way they are actually going. If it's up, then she's going down.

Xanth has met every Threadfall that Fort has seen, and several others with other weyrs. Like B'roughs, his rider wants the practice, but unlike Inigoth, Xanth does not assume the lead. He flies to the rear of the wing, on the same side as Mrrth, and the bronze's job seems to be, in addition to flaming his own territory, to try to mop up what the exuberant green misses, to catch flame that threatens her in her overzealous madness to get as much as possible. Th'deus seems to be letting Xanth do Xanth's job; he listens in, and watches the others, but the fading light is a major detriment to the one-eyed bronzerider.

Bo> Taini isn't watching out below. She's busy checking the one flamer she's worried about. So, P'thooey's lovely gift lands right on top of the goldrider's head. "Hey! Watch out up there!" She calls, good-naturedly.

Bo> Overhead, A sudden updraft, blows the center of the weyrling wing a little off center. F'all nearly tumbles in the adjustment, catching himself just barely when Braketh wings inward. At W'ren's left wingsecond position, C'ow checks his line behind, turning Mooth precisely without even looking. At least in flying, this pair is Thera/Hadamarth's near equal. Maybe.

>> I have stopped envisioning Sky Above the Fort Hold Complex. <<

Bo> Overhead, Hadamarth holds his position with the minute adjustment of one humongous brown (bigger now then the bronzes) and excellent muscle control. Thera sits and waits, to focused on being professional to hiss at heifer and bolt. Good thing her brown is so nice.

Time wears on. Firestone sacks become low, and signals sent to the Weyrlings to replace what is gone. There are, mercifully, no major injuries just yet; pride and competition and cameraderie keep even wingtip-seared dragons flying. The thread is met, with little going through for the goldriders below. It is going well. Murphy would say... Too well.

>> [thread] Gnaedath simmers silently, mind burning in unsatisfied desires, char and firestone fuming even into his mindlink. <<Mine asks if sacks are needed, yet.>> <<

>> I bespoke Gnaedath with: Xanth bespoke me with >> Firestone. <<

>> [thread] Fanneth bellows through the links. << I need. >> He may be the first to run out, or maybe just the loudest. <<

Bo> Overhead, Astride Gnaedath, W'ren twists in his seat and gives the signal to envision, then the pumping hand signals between. Firestone is needed!

Astride Inigoth, B'roughs swings a little wide of his wing and inigoth floats easily up to catch a straggling piece of an unusually shaped clump, and falls back into position, falling into the rhythem of the wing. The blue is in his element, and B'roughs just keeps him on task, making sure they both remember where they actually are in the wing.

Odd fellow, that Murphy. He's got a horrible habit of being right. If Thread has some collective consciousness, it would seem to agree. The clumps begin to fall just that little bit faster, wind picking up in eddies and swirls that make it hard to aim Just Right. Three such clumps twist and plummet towards that stormy, twisting green Mrrth just as an overlarge one dives for skeletal Waroth. That Murphy...sure knows his stuff.

Fizath appears out of between at the very tip of the Sentinel wing where the short bursts of this green can be best put to use. They've just replaced another small green who was unable to stay any longer less they fall back or obtain injury due to fatigue. Fizath is almost immediately forced to flame - her short gouts of flame saved until the last second when the majority of the clump can be seared by her sudden quick tongue flick of fire. Rayosia seems constantly in motion, trying to keep the green stoked with firestone and when not throwing stone, she's keeping her eye on the formation to her right and the thread coming in from above.

Exuberance leads to sagging energy. Seaspawn Mrrth does not have the vitality of the larger dragons, but the will simply does not die. She continues, almost desperate in her coming exhaustion, to get /more/ Thread. Wings beat harder, and the green overshoots more often now, whirling, aching, sloppy twice and nearly hit once for it. T'jano seems to lend his own spirit and soul to the chase, the two entirely one in this excess. More firestone, more flame and -- Need more firestone! The rider sits up, to try to locate a sack-wielding Weyring, as Mrrth calls for one, thick accented voice sluicing the syllables of the word with saline spice.

As the weyrling wing blinks in from ::between::, tight formation at first, then splitting up at W'ren's command, sacks begin to fly, one weyrling and then the next answering the call for more firestone. W'ren signals the wing to invert, allowing more weyrlings to deliver. Seeing T'jano call for sacks, he veers off in that direction. "Stay with your wingmen!" he yells to a pair about to split off.

Tongues of red flame lick the silvery menace as Waroth moves in form with his wing, putting all the practice of ground, sky, and rope drills to good use. But these are no ropes that seek simply to buffet a pair with paint so they can be the laughing stock of the rest of the wing for the day. These silver wisps and clumps want more than to mock the riders of Stormrider Wing. There have been narrow misses from the wing, a swerve here to avoid, a dive there, ever returning to formation. There's even been blinks into between with the rush of chill that brings to save a pair a scoring as N'ic and his Waroth have had to do to avoid a clump sails to try to sink its burrowing bite into flesh, leaving a blue from the wing to twist and flame, catching half the tendriled ball. The arrival back into the air from between places Waroth in a position to send a gout of flame bursting to incinerate the rest to crackdust before reclaiming his place in the formation.

The light fades from the sky now, and dragon's bodies are lit by flame, by dragon's bright eyes, by the smaller blazes of lizards and their pin-point gaze. Thread does not glow, and becomes more lethal as the darkness enroaches. Nightmare quality comes real, with the erratic breezes, the shift of cool to dragon-breath-warm, the swirl of fluid dynamics and the wash of thread sliding down paths that riders and dragons do not anticipate. More calls of hurt now, and fewer of triumph. Time and work wears on nerves, on muscles and on endurance.

Bo> Greens begin to return, exhaustion painting their hides grey even in the dim light. Several alight in the bowl, to bring news to those who wait. The fall goes as well, so far. Replacements are needed. The winds are bad, and visibility becoming almost nothing.

Watch out Fizath! There's a spiraling strand of Thread headed right at you, blown by the breezes and hard to see in the growing smoky dimness. It's very similar to the set of two--binary orbiting parasites whose orbit takes them straight into the path of bronze Gnaedath and his rider, both on a mission to refill his father's sacks.

That clump that was aiming at T'jano and Mrrth? They miss it, and it's gold Yo who zips in, flaming with a certain desperation so that when Mrrth is wing-tipped, she is able to flash *between*. Back out again, cracked Thread dripping off her wing, the green seems even more furious in her charge. How /dare/ Thread. How dare it.

Bo> Ita hurries over to the greens, to make sure they are okay. She stands at the ready, waiting for anything.

Inigoth rises to meet another, clump, 'covering' a little for G'dal to give him the leeway to get his sack of stone without worrying about positions. He grimaces as the weight in his own sack is steadily decreasing. He's going to need a refill soon himself. He looks back to one of the greens in his wing, signaling his own intent.

>> [thread] Inigoth 's smooth ocean tones reach out calmly. <<I and mine will need more stone by the time you get it to us...>> <<

Burnt umbar soot fills the air between Gnaedath and Hadamarth, and blacker still the distance between the pair and Mrrth. As he flies near, a sudden thick of thread threatens him and Ganedath, bugles sharply, blasting the Thread to bits and another just about to wing down near his wingman Hadamarth, winking ::between:: and then back to avoid the nasty strand. His hand rises, pointing at T'jano, giving the signal for Thera to pitch a sack.

Xanth follows up on Yo, but too late. When the green comes back into the fray, she is dismissed. Just that quickly, Xanth's pulling on Sidijith's weight, to banish the green to rest. Th'deus signals to whomever it was that /was/ going to furnish 'stone to T'jano, that he'll take it instead.

Marryn tickles Th'deus! Th'deus pulls a cord and his super-secret inflatable jacket swells up, so that, somewhere inside that bubble, he can look vaguely superior and untickled. Until the bubble pops.

Whether it be accidental or revenge of some sort, a bronze on Nidhgoth's left wing out maneuvers itself, swaying into the flying serpent's airspace. A seamless correction is made by the brown, cutting off the blaring annoyance of his rider as they disappear ::between::. They appear back in line at the exact moment a random clump gets caught in an upwind and spreads out horizontally like a rope strung across a finish line. For finished is what they are when it drapes with jewelry's grace across the back of the dragon's neck. The frantic moment is intensified by am eardrum shattering wail as singed hide burns with a pain that stabs through both rider and lifemate, stirring the man to grab with gloved hand that which sends wave after wave of nausea through him, and hurl it out and away. Not before, however, he himself feels the agony as it cuts through the leg's leathers to forever burn this memory in both their bodies' and minds.

Fizath moves in a fluid motion that has her fold a wing when the flutter created by falling thread is heard not only by dragon but by rider. It might be too close. The part doesn't risk it. They wink *between* to avoid injury. Upon re-entry the air around them ripples cold until a blast from Fizath warms it as she takes aim at the clump having targetted them - a personal vendetta by the extra gout of flame given to the now charred clump of thread. This is about the time that Rayosia looks up, catching the signal from G'dal, encouraging Fizath to speed up to take a quick position to cover Inigoth when his rider's firestone sack goes dry.

Hadamarth angles towards his couchmate while Thera, just a little bit wide-eyed prepares to lob her sack towards T'jano. As Mrrth is banished and she catches her Weyrleaders' signal she instead hefts it towards Th'deus. Even though the 102 pound girl is trained, there is just so much heft those muscles can do, so it's all in determination. That'll make for interesting discussions later on.

As if on cue, Mooth and Spith veer off in the direction of Inigoth, sacks bouncing against them. Winging past Fizath, the wing from underneath, slipping upwind of the pair. P'tooey readies the throw, tongue to one side of her open, mouth, hen pitches it, heft heavy into the air toward the rider. Watch out. It might be...er... slippery.

Deireth unfurls her wings to yet again climb through the air and beat in response to the call of a missed patch. She too takes the last of the stone from the sack that Renna holds and while chewing sweeps forward and upwards to gain altitude before zipping and weaving in the cross over pattern to catch what drifts between, short and steady bursts of flame. This fall is erratic, but Renna has investment in it. Her grandson is somewhere below and so she urges Dei onwards to her fullest capacity and then calls out "Refill please!"

Out of the fire and into the frying pan... That set might be charred to bits now, Fizath, but there's more on the way. One mangled clump has managed to stay together, stay a rather unholy size despite the atmospheric entrance. Scattered around it are countless smaller spawn--just as deadly for all their smaller size. This armada hurtles through the evening darkness, heading straight for that small clump of Fizath, Fanneth and Inigoth. Watch out!

Astride Inigoth, B'roughs snags the bag and grimaces as it tries to slip out of his hands. He doesn't want to know what that is. He has more important things to worry about at the moment. There's only a short break in stride as he opens the bag. Inigoth surges a little more forward than he probably should for proper alignment with the wings.

Th'deus catches the sack that Thera throws. It's probably the last such event this evening, as the man's nightblindness has about taken control of that particular sense. But the sack is caught after it bumps against Xanth's hide, and the massive man has to stoop to do it. The bronze, lithe and lean, is quickly fed more of the stone, winging higher to give precious moments to the processing. Sirocco continues to surge forward, and up, to try to meet more of the vicious, mindless rain from another planet.

Fizath keeps distance from Fanneth and Inigoth but at the same time covering them as the weyrling pairs move to toss them sacks. In the meantime, the wayward clumps are now coming at them twice in fold. The green spurts a little gout - some how too small for comfort as it stretches short of the clump. Thankfully, Fanneth got the most of it, leaving those smaller pesky parts to flutter around the brown. Some of it heads at Fizath and she again attempts as she veers back the other way, catching some of the single strands with a steady bam-bam-bam firing.

Astride Gnaedath, W'ren curses into the wind as Gnaedath wings past the disappearing Nidhgoth and heaves a sack toward Renna, turning just before a nasty clump spins him past B'r. He winks ::between:: just before a collision, only to appear on the other side of the dragon, blowing flame and char into the air in anticipation. Raising his hand in the air, he signals to Thera and yells, "Sirocco!"

And lest you breathe a sigh of relief, Th'deus, Murphy's not forgotten you and your whipcord bronze. Six small bullets of Thread whiz through the chilled air, aiming for your Xanth with unknowing precision. These fellas fall /fast/. A quicker set than the rest has been, and they're on their way straight for you.

Astride Fanneth, G'dal calls to the new greenrider, whom he's not had the opportunity to talk to outside of wing drills. "Thankee." He returns to the task at hand, Fanneth flaming quickly, in the larger clumps. "Now Fan, don't miss..." A clump of the silver stuff nearby, and the brown hears his words, and arches his neck to the right /just/ enough to flame it. Whoosh. Bellow. Another one gone.

Astride Hadamarth, Thera and Thera get the signal from W'ren and with quiet adjustment to the brown's flight, arrows towards the rest of the Sirroco wing, tossing sacks where she sees the signals from that wing. It is all happening very quick and she is surprised that she is not as nervous as she thought she would be.

Hadamarth and Thera get the signal from W'ren and with quiet adjustment to the brown's flight, arrows towards the rest of the Sirroco wing, tossing sacks where she sees the signals from that wing. It is all happening very quick and she is surprised that she is not as nervous as she thought she would be.

From well below, the weyrling pair B'rr and green Flaketh fall out of formation and wink ::between:: on their way to the infirmary, but not without giving W'ren a cold, stubborn look.

Fizath dips back toward the end of the wing formation, but not before the rider on the green's back can issue a wave to G'dal and .. something like a smile underneath the soot covered face. Well. There's really no time to think about if it was a smile or not, because thread continues to fall in no particular order and must all be flamed. To that extent, as Fizath regains her 'best positioning' in Sentinel, they abruptly *wink* between as they get hit by an errant strand. Nothing serious, as they are bag with avengence the next moment - the rider seen to check over herself and lurch forward to consider the state of her dragon from what she can see. Just a light hit, not even enough to phase the green as she twists to take more firestone.

Hit! The Weyrleader's bronze hits *between* with split-second precision, and comes out again almost exactly where he was, hawkish muzzle tilting down to see where /that/ particular clump of thread went -- or at least, the friends of that which cracked off in between. And, engaging in a rare vendetta against the unsentient enemy, Xanth twists and dives, Th'deus simply dipping his head in a blind roller-coaster ride, until Xanth's flame illuminates the black heavens and flashes ash-dust back for his rider to breathe. There'll be a call for numbweed for Xanth, this night.

Masked head is twisted around in a slight lull that the section of sky Stormrider Wing is occupying, Waroth's maw opening to take in the stone handed up by N'ic from their fast emptying sacks. Crunches are lost to the sounds of belched flame as another curtain of tangled wisps descends into their vicinity, the brown jerking around to think of his other stomach and draw forth the cleansing flames which char the menace into harmless dust. There's a dart of a green from the wing to try to catch a descending clump which brings the brown pair the need to vanish in a heartbeat to avoid collision mid-sky, appearing lower and beginning the ascent back to the formation. Good thing browns have more stamina for flight than many, or this up blink down blink up would have taken him out of the fight long ago.

Deireth reaches out both arms to get the sack of firestone lobbed from W'ren and takes it full in the chest. But she's a tough old broad and after a moment of trying to find her wind, manages to tear open the sacking and lob a stone towards Dei's turning maw. That's all that is managed as the green suddenly has to bank sharply to avoid a patch dead ahead and the sack slips from her lap to fall to the thread bare land of Fort Hold below. Renna tosses her arm into the air and wheezes out "More," but the green is unable to correct fully and the one stone matches her rider's wheeze with a trickle of flame. Thread catches the lime green dragon in the wind and then they are gone ::Between::

Browns may have more stamina, but Fanneth is old. His stamina is not exactly what it used to be, and the night is getting long. The old man is tiring too, but he's determined. He will keep going until he is unable to go on anymore. So, he chews and flames, chews and flames. A large clump, a near miss, and G'dal inhales deeply. Fanneth winks in *between* and winks back out again, a little ahead of a clump. Uh-oh, he missed one.

Atop Deireth, Renna reaches out both arms to get the sack of firestone lobbed from W'ren and takes it full in the chest. But she's a tough old broad and after a moment of trying to find her wind, manages to tear open the sacking and lob a stone towards Dei's turning maw. That's all that is managed as the green suddenly has to bank sharply to avoid a patch dead ahead and the sack slips from her lap to fall to the thread bare land of Fort Hold below. Renna tosses her arm into the air and wheezes out "More," but the green is unable to correct fully and the one stone matches her rider's wheeze with a trickle of flame. Thread catches the lime green dragon in the wind and then they are gone ::Between::

Inigoth continues to press more towards the head of the formation and snaps up at a clump aof thread at slightly the wrong angle, an angle made more awkward by the remnants of another nearby patch. Inigoth flames, but doesn't correct quite enough for the bits and pieces, which catch B'roughs's right shoulder squarely enough that that arm isn't responding properly. Inigoth takes them between, and they do not return to the fight, nor to Fort Weyr. Instinct takes them back to Ista weyr and Ista's infirmaries... though they do think to send word back that are alive.

>> [thread] Birgith sends a soothing soft light toward the injured dragons, her scents like the freshness of the forest and anything that might remind the dragons of home. <<

Astride Gnaedath, W'ren notices the weyrling wing is running low on sacks and signals for pairs to start returning as soon as they are out of sacks. Just as he's about to call out to Thera, he sees a huge clump nearing her. ""Duck, Thera!" He wings Gnaedath higher to flame it black, just before it reaches her and dribbles down with white ash. And then the two are gone.

:::BETWEEN!:::