Free the flame and sear the grasses!

[lee]

BANG

[/i].

There was a reason--and the thought came only fuzzily to a mind not yet quite awake--there was a reaason Poppa didn't let her drink more than a sip or so of wine.

BANG[/i].

It always made her so sleepy.

BANG[/i].

And for some reason, some reason her sleeping mind couldn't grasp, she felt she shouldn't be sleepy right now. A memory, but just the edges of it, tinged with horror, and something, something about her Poppa...who hadn't really been Poppa lately, spending more and more time as the other him, the one that was still him but not. Something about the wine. Something had been wrong. But she couldn't quite catch it from the fuzzy gray cloud encroaching on each thought, smothering it with drugged sleep and uneasy silence.

BANG[/i].

This time, at last, Eithne was thrown from the little hammock in their wagon, and came awake at once, on the floor, flung into the far wall as the contents of the wagon, usually secure, scattered and smashed. BANG[/i]. ANother bump, and Eithne slammed again into the side, thrown off the feet she had only barely struggled to as the wagon tipped nearly horizontal and the young adolescent began to grasp at last what was going on.

They were on the road. They were on the road, and they were out of control. Which meant Poppa had taken them out during Threadfall.

Thread.

Eithne went cold with terror, washing over her like ice water and just as effective at bringing her at last to wakefulness and action. The wagon righted itself with a smacking crack and the floor begin to sag as wood splintered. She scrambled to the front of the wagon, thrown twice more to the wall by the careening antics of the unbalanced cart, surrounded by belongings strewn this way and that as though by a whirlwind that had not yet left. "Poppa! Poppa, if we unhit--" Eithne flung open the little door, and saw only the road. It wasn't possible for her to get colder, she thought, but her heart did something queer and felt as though it had been seized and squeezed, and she thought perhaps it quailed, tried to shrink away, as she saw only the sweating, heaving flanks of screaming runnerbeasts, eyes rolled back in terror as they plummeted through the road...and no one leading them. "Poppa?" It was a whisper, and she already knew no one would answer.

She had to go back.

She had to--but she'd never make it, not on her feet. With a small, pale hand tight on a wagon bow, Eithne swallowed hard and stepped onto the charging doubletree, leaning around the bouncing, and she didn't need to look behind them because the horrible silver cloud already darkened the path, and her hands spasmed in horror at precisely the wrong moment--the runnerbeasts charged and she slipped, saved from tumbling betwixt them only by a mad scramble back up to the jockey box and driver's seat where her father should have been. The animals screamed in terror and Eithne was too numb to have sympathy for them, but she fougth her way forward, heart in her throat, and she was too scared to stand, so she crawled, the fallingtree tight between her knees and she fumbled with her belt knife to slice the sturdy leather that yoked the beasts. They could get away at least. With a swipe, she got the first one free, and with a scream of terror he left behind his brother and the wagon slowed, but the other beast, left behind, bucked in panic, and his shoulder slammed into the yoke and the girl balanced on it, and Eithne's knife went flying as she screamed and was thrown. With a wild grab, she caught the yoke but only barely, and was forced to kick her legs over it to keep from being dragged under the wagon, but she couldn't swing herself around, couldn't get up

"Stop!" She begged the animal, normally placid, friendly to her touch and one to eat cubes of sweets or tubers out her hand, but he was lost in instinctive override from the natural enemy dropping from the skies, and he only screeched and bucked, and the wagon lurched and went airborne, crashing again to the road with a scattering of splinters.

From her dangling vantage point, fighting to get upright and kick the last of the strained leather strap tethering the runnerbeast to his burden, Eithne found herself looking backwards, upright again at last and reaching for the pins of the yoke, but her hands stalled, terrified into petrification, and a scream tore from her throat before she could even recognize the sound as her own.

Thread was here.
[/blockquote][/size]

[kireon]

There was somethin' about a dragon's sixth sense that Aylina couldn't quite put her finger on.

Particularly when it came to a certain dragoness of hers that had the unhelpful habit of throwing her off left and right with those little comments and distant, dream-like words that were so nonsensical that she couldn't make head or tail out of it- until the situation happened. Then Wenth's behavior would suddenly make fifty kinds of sense and leave her rider scratching her head in confusion. Said dragon didn't help matters much by seeming just as surprised and perplexed as Aylina was about whatever the outcome of said "predicted" situation.

And so, in the end, Aylina kind of just shrugged her shoulders, a lot, said a few things under her breath, a lot, and let the events play out as they would and trusted her dragon to know by gut instinct what to do in the end.

...a lot.

But that was the nature of being bonded to a tan; Aylina was absolutely positive. One couldn't change her mind that there was something uniquely special, untapped potential in the heart and soul and mind in the daft, placid dragons. Nope. No way, no how; there was something special about them and Aylina was determined to figure it out- and maybe recruit the other tanriders of Dalibor to give 'er a helping hand.

Mith was a sweetheart. Wenth was quite fond of the lighter colored tan with her dark socks and often looked her friend's way whenever they first got up and out in the mornings.

Aylina wasn't quite sure about Unath, more partly because her rider had 'er on a leash tight 'nough to be worthy of the most violent of reds for whatever reason, but the comical display during the hatching- using that purple as a pillow had been quite adorable, after all- led the woman to believe the darker twin was just as sweet, if not a bit of a comedian, as her sister. Wenth seemed just as fond of her as Mith and happily observed the dark tan in whatever she was doing at the time.

Naireth was the strong, noble matron of the group; keeping the peace with her silent, watchful presence. Maybe it was Aylina showing a bit of bias due to who her baby girl had come from, but she had a special place in her heart for the solid, sturdy tan. Wenth too, had a special, shy affection-respect combination for her dam and would often sneak little glances at the serene subqueen and her rider now that they were back Fall rotation.

Sixwith was the one Aylina knew least about, other than the dragon was probably one of the quirkiest among them all- and coming from a tan party gathering, that was sayin' somethin'. Wenth didn't quite understand her either, but tried to pull a page or two from Aylina's book and be "helpful" to the dragoness who believed she wasn't actually alive- but was somehow. Pain, interestingly enough, seemed to be the reset button for that particular tan, and everything seemed to be forgotten the instant something happened that hurt.

Aylina was about ninety-nine percent certain that all the tans combined were the quirkiest bunch in Dalibor- and that wasn't even taking the riders into account.

Right... fifteen wingbeats until impact... yes... fifteen... get it in four and it will be good, yes... it will be... Wenth suddenly broke her train of thought with the announcement, her large eyes trained on the glinting silvery cloud. Blue-green facets shaded towards yellow in the center, caught in a viridian shade as she prepared herself for the stresses of combating her natural enemy.

Again with the vague yet sense making comments. Aylina unshouldered the strap holding her flamethrower to her back and tucked the butt of it firm against her shoulder as she'd been taught. Damn thing had a slight bit of a kick to it when the trigger was pulled and she didn't want the fire going haywire everywhere uncontrolled. Atta girl, Wenth, let's make sure none gets through.

In the span of eight wingbeats, the clump was sighted by Aylina, and another two passed before she could get a good handle on it and squeezed. Wenth's jaws opened and a gout of flame, weak and pale in color compared to the powerful blaze of the fighters and kings above them, spurted out at the same time her small cone of flame exploded from the nozzle.

With a sizzle, the silvery clump of pulsating microwhatchacallits- there was a word and Aylina couldn't remember it at the moment, only that it was fancy soundin' and kinda intimidating- turned to ash upon the wind.

Her sense of satisfaction was short lived, however, as Wenth quite uncharacteristically broke formation with a short bugle of surprise and alarm. Oi! Whatcha doin'?

Her dragon's eyes were intently focused on something on the ground, all but the very outer facets of her eyes now a solid yellow in color and her mind very keenly focused on a tiny dust cloud. Worry and that oddly stubborn determination that always threw her rider off rose up sharp and clear. Callistath saw too, she asked someone to handle it. I am handling it, yes... I am... with my friend.[/i]

Your friend?

Mith... there is trouble, yes... there is... She called out to lighter, smaller tan. Her mind sent the picture of what she'd seen to the three involved; Aylina, Mith and Valha.

A rampaging wagon on the verge of collapse with a panicked runner- with someone holding on for dear life.

"Aww, shell it." One blonde cheerfully swore into the wind as her dragon's spiral downward jolted her stomach. What in Faranth's name was someone doin' out during Threadfall an' were they outta their minds? Wenth, ask Valha if she thinks she can spare two or three of 'er little flamethrowers to protect the person on the wagon. That'll buy us 'nough time, hopefully, t'get a plan t'gether on how this rescue's gonna work.

She complied, but not before reaching her mind out, inquisitive as always, and gently brushing against the frightened one of their soon to be new addition. We are here, yes... we are... hold on...[/i] Wenth reassured the girl as best she could before her mind withdrew, casting about to Mith again with a series of images that'd appeared in Aylina's head of a pair or trio of firelizards landing on the girl's shoulders to keep potential Thread strands away from her. MyPretty would like to know if Mith's could send two or three friends down to protect her, yes... she does wonder that... and would like to know how to go about helping... yes, how do to that... do we go for everyone...? Or just the wagon and girl...?

Y'already said hi, didn' ya?

Yes... I thought it would make her feel better... yes, I did....[/i]

Grimly, Aylina smiled, gloved hands rubbing briefly against the hide in front of her. That's my girl.[/size]

[lee]

There were no words to her thoughts. Eithne tried to form them, tried to get a handle on the inarticulate roar of horror that had stolen her breath in a scream but panic kept intruding, stampeding, trampling any coherence of her mind into dust as the gray cloud loomed overhead and the nightmare of their planet rained down. Somehow—and this thought came, like a whisper in the miasma—somehow she'd forgotten about dragons. Dimly, she saw their shapes, the whispers and flashes of bright orange, red, and yellow. She felt curiously detached from herself, as though her hands clung without her control and she only watched from somewhere beside herself, unable to feel them or tell them what to do. Everything seemed muted, slow, but something sliced through the panic, brightened it like a candle brought into a dark room and words that weren't hers came, calm and serene and determined, and brought comfort in a
way even seeing the great beasts of Pern's finest couldn't.

Eithne stared dumbly ahead, unable, for a precious too many seconds, to process what had happened, what she had heard, and the runnerbeast screamed, and the sound brought her back. A dragon! A dragon had spoken to her. Wildly, Eithne turned, trying to see what—who!—the voice had heralded from, aware of herself again and not only herself but, My Poppa! She 'shouted', best she could in the direction of the pale, large figure that had separated itself from the others. She didn't know if the dragon could hear, but it seemed imperative that she try, and she forced the wave of hysteria down again to collect her thoughts like an arrow, hurled in Wenth's direction. My Poppa—they threw him. ‘They’ were the runners, He's back there somewhere—please! The thoughts, clear and articulate, collapsed into a tangle as Eithne's mind whirled away too quickly for her to control it. That she didn't know—not for sure—if he had been thrown or not. He had abandoned her before. But no—not Poppa. The other man who shared his skin. Oh, Eithne knew her Poppa was only one person in truth but when the paranoia poisoned him, when the delusions were at their worst—as they had been, as they had been she should have known!—Eithne had taken to pretending he was someone else. It made it easier.

The wagon hit a rock and was thrown sideways, so it skidded on only one wheel and teetered dangerously, but Eithne's eyes shut and she threw her weight and the runner obeyed and the wagon righted again, splinters flying off with another terrible crack, lost in the rumbles of the storm above. The small, involuntary movement shattered what remained of her paralysis, and Eithne didn't dare stop moving for fear she would find herself frozen again. She lunged forward, and the runner was slick with sweat beneath her fingers, pulsing hot with effort and burning her frozen fingers, nd Eithne, beltknife lost, fumbled with her hands to loosen the straps, tugging, too afraid to look ahead but...There! Eithne pulled the last of them and smacked the runner hard though he needed know encouragement to sprint free of his burden, and Eithne had a second of sorrow, missing him with an ache like a childhood friend, and hoped he would not run himself to death in his terror.

The wagon slowed but did not stop, barreling forward and down with the momentum afforded it by gravity and the headstart, and the brief taste of survivalist courage brought by the calm tan voice that had come to the girl, in her fourteenth turn by a scant sevenday, drained, and she could only close her eyes, knowing she should jump before the wagon crashed, but unable to command terrified legs to do so.