Logs:The Storm
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| RL Date: 18 October, 2014 |
| Who: Aishani, Alida, Azaylia, Drex, H'kon, Itsy, K'del, K'zin, R'hin, Telavi, V'ros, X'vae |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iesaryth calls for aid. A rescue is launched, though it ends in tragedy. |
| Where: Tillek seas |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: It's a big ass storm. |
| OOC Notes: If you weren't able to attend, feel free to add in pros. |
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| Day 13, Month 1, Turn 36. It's just past dark when Iesaryth reaches out; a rising salt-sea swell. She's not a terribly active queen, not when it's not needed, but the message, this time, is firm: come. Assist. She needs anyone who can come. Not everyone responds to her call, and nor does she expect them to, though this is Snowdrift's bailiwick, and they are certainly out in force. For those of you who do, the weather is lousy. The sun hasn't yet set at Tillek, and further westwards over the ocean, but there's a heavy layer of dark, oppressive clouds, and they're only getting worse. There's a storm, it's changed direction abruptly, and Tillek's fleet - and any other ships in the vicinity - are in danger. Spread the word! There's no way to know exactly where the ships are, or even how many of them are out in this part of the ocean... and the sun's going down: once it's gone, it'll be too late. Time, plainly, is of the essence. Of course, there's not much anyone can do: you can warn the ships, but you can't get them out of the storm's path, not unless they're already well out of the way. At least if they know, though, they can do what they can to prepare. Several of Savannah's riders appear, more so after Leiventh appears over Tillek's skies. With the weather the way it is it's difficult indeed to see what needs to be done. « Spread out. Sweep formation. Spread the word, » Leiventh shares with those nearby, blinking between and reappearing moments later further north, further away from the coast, further towards the edge of the storm. Arekoth and Feilanth arrive together, the brown taking the initiative already to seek out Mielline's Corobith. « All hands on deck! » is intense and sincere, none of the usual humour, a plea for instruction. Both the brown and green are among the more nimble for their colours, ready to be directed, to go where needed. H'kon is scanning the skies, the waters, feeling out the storm as best he can from between his dragon's 'ridges. Hraedhyth is out here; it's not the kind of thing she would miss by choice. Cadejoth's not-- but then, he left for Southern hours ago, and at least he has sent back his support. There's still some light left in the sky, but not a lot-- between clouds and the sunset that is not far off, it's hard to see what's what. Harder to between. Snowdrift arrives amidst the cold and rain, the chaos of searching in the darkening skies. They've somehow gotten V'ros amongst them; he's hanging back behind the main charge. He hugs close to Zmeyth, as they fly high up in the storm-laden sky, straining to see beyond his goggles and the rain falling down from above. « Watch and learn, » Keshauth tells the brown, a much different command from those officially in their wing. Izazeth's mind is a light in the storm. His incandescent ethereal light and warmth radiates, a beacon in the storm's darkness, but it reaches to Arekoth. He doesn't need, just this moment to distract with words, it casts out, seeking the leadership he's still relatively newly embracing; he's here, but already the blue and his rider are winging into the storm. They may be heartstrong, but time is of the essence and perhaps that is a help now as it drives them into the darkness and the rain in search. Some ships are easy to find; easy to warn. Some pairs have it easy: a few words yelled against the wind, explaining which direction and how long until it's expected to hit, and then they're on. It's not all that simple. Snowdrift's quick and efficient, one small green even managing to get close enough to a ship's sails to cut them free when the sailors can't get the rain-sodden ropes down in time. For others, it's not quite so simple-- not even close. Empty seas, as far as the eye can see? Check. More ships than a single person can possibly deal with? Also check. Leiventh's size means he's less prone to being buffetted so much by the winds' fickleness, but it also means he's a poor choice for getting in close to those ships without endangering himself. The bronze stays high, overseeing where he can and directing smaller, more agile dragons in to get close enough to the ships. « There. » A direct call for Feilanth and Izazeth both. H'kon ducks low on Arekoth's neck, seeing more through his dragon's eyes than his own. The trajectory is similar to the one Izazeth had taken initially, just a bit off. A space of ocean to check, one ship for certain already in sights. « Go, » to X'vae's blue. Go, and warn them, and guide them as best he can in the dark. Arekoth and H'kon continue on. Soon, Feilanth will veer off as well. (To X'vae): But it's not just one ship: it's two. And yes, they're both in trouble. (To V'ros): Sure, Snowdrift is instructive. But... just watching is boring. There-- there's something in the distance. Maybe they haven't seen it yet? Hraedhyth is built to fly in this weather, as savage and wild as she. Dark sails and bone clubs beat the winds into submission as she barrels outward, toward the deep dark and the phantom shapes they are meant to warn. Azaylia is hunched atop her dragon, broad shoulders squared as she squints in what little light is left. It's only after more flying that she manages to spot one of the ship, lanterns lit and sails still bundled tight. There are no orders given from the gold pair, but a sense of urgency spurns Hraedhyth's drums fast and hard as the two join the ranks rather than lead. When the search and rescue trained pair from Monaco come upon the ships, it's the beginning of a nightmare from which there will be no waking. He went when Arekoth directed, but flapping through the winds that bounce a blue of his size about, he breaks through a patch of heavy rain and his anguish and briefly be felt through the same connection that told him to go. Not one, ship. Two. Two and an impossible choice. He cannot save them all. It must be X'vae who asserts their training first, as he sees only through Izazeth's keener sight and not his own fogged and rain-blind goggles. They dive. Zmeyth is just another dark shape in the sky, staying high above the tumultuous sea below, where they can do more watching than harm. He may be on the smaller size, now, but far too inexperienced to throw his lot in with that of Snowdrift's. And yet.. and yet, just there, something in the distance, still too far away to see so clearly from such a high vantage point. He ignores the words of the wingsecond's dragon in favor of trying the wind's mercilessness, shooting for what that is looming ahead. If they can just get closer, lower, just see, they can warn Snowdrift. Be of some help, to someone. (To X'vae): Success! It's a close call, but you manage it: the sails begin to tumble, the sailors begin to yell... and then the sail whips up into Izazeth's face, tangling there. Whoops. Maybe it's time to call for backup. (To R'hin): The light is fading. It's fading fast, and there are presently no ships within your sights. Maybe there aren't anymore. Some of the smaller dragons are beginning to falter; the winds are getting stronger, and it's not very easy to fly in this mess. It's that second ship, that one that X'vae has not dived towards, that is really in trouble: it's sinking. It's sinking, and people are beginning to try and break free of it before everything collapses. Itsy's one of the lucky ones: she's managed to grab hold of one of the dinghies, even if it is the wrong way up, and is trying to hoist herself up onto it. "Drex," she calls-- yells. "Drex." Rasavyth is here. He can hardly be anywhere else when his queen calls. But let's pretend he's here because he wants to help, since he's pretending so convincingly. Though smaller for a bronzer, and more lithely built, he still has stones on some of the smaller colors. He doesn't try anything fancy be he does help where he can, when he can, though K'zin is, at least, earnestly invested in the efforts they make. Leiventh maintains contact with other 'Reaches dragons nearest him, and as he senses some of the smaller dragons start to falter against the strength of the storm, his icy cold thought is there, immediately: « Go home. » It's order, not suggestion; even the large bronze tires fighting the intense winds that surround them. (To V'ros): Actually, it looks like there might be someone out here already-- a sudden burst of lightning lights the sky, and just for a moment, you can see a hint of golden hide. Hraedhyth? Iesaryth? In this mess, it's hard to know for sure. Either way, it probably wouldn't hurt to let Snowdrift know. Drex is nowhere visible to be seen; he's below decks, trying to haul their drunk of a captain from their sinking ship. What's left of the ship. Given it's breaking apart, it's not long before below decks becomes below the water, and the sailor's thrashing about in the midst of the wreckage, trying to surface. « Arekoth! » A single word, it is directed to his wingsecond but the plea for help is available to any mind in the vicinity. It's always better to ask for someone specific, isn't it? Izazeth can't see. He was managing well enough, trying to mimic the daring maneuver of the Snowdrift green in cutting the sails from one of the two vessels he happened upon, but the sail he cut flew up into his face and now he is blind and doing his damnedest not to let his wings get fouled by the trailing ropes and rigging. He tries to shift direction to let the winds of the storm help the sail off again, but doesn't it just seem like the wind is coming from everywhere at once? Along with that flashes clear images, the second ship; the one he couldn't save. « It's sinking! » It's notification; maybe someone else can help. "Drex!" It's a pity Itsy's voice can't really be heard above the sound of the waves and the wind, and the roll of thunder. She's casting around wildly, clinging on to her dinghy with wet hands. There's a dragon up there; if she's noticed, she's not properly noticed, because Drex is missing, and-- she dives. Drex! H'kon and Arekoth are farther off and focused on another ship, a ship without nearby neighbours, a ship that doesn't need to be warned, a ship that knows full well what is going on, and is doing what it can. Which isn't that much, just like the help the brown and his rider can offer. H'kon's final shout is, like so much of what was called before, swallowed up by the winds when they wheel around. « Coming! » Adrenaline fuels the wingbeats for now. « Get free! » called to Izazeth as the brown dives. Golden hide suddenly illuminated by the lightning just in front of them startles both dragon and rider from their mission. Zmeyth jerks upwards, and stops his forward-surging course. « One of ours. Our queens. Here. » He's adamant in relaying the message, in raspy undertones, to the Snowdrift dragons with a pressing urgency. How can one of their queens be out in this squall? His smoky baritone fades away as he tries to find out which it is, seeking either salty seas or fire-y drums. With the light all but gone, it's difficult to tell up from down; the sea is disorientating when you're surrounded by wreckage. Drex manages to thrash is way briefly above water, just the smallest gasp of air grabbed before a wave rolls over and sends him underneath again. Hraedhyth lets her whereabouts be known, « I am here. » And not there, not near the lightning that illuminates a hide brighter than her own. Her attention shifts back down to the panicked sailor in the crow's nest, his and his shipmate's panic giving the golden pair pause. It could be her size, or it could be that she's a queen, but it's obvious that some are terrified at the sight. No matter, fear is preferable to death, and Hraedhyth descends upon the ship so that Azaylia can strain her throat to try and warn them. But then ships are sinking, and the light is failing them. They do what they can, save who they can. Ilicaeth and Alida's answer to the dilemma of getting to close (and thusly sending the wrong air into already faltering ship's sails)? The burly blue offered an ear-splitting roar from afar to attract the sailors' attentions upward to their lightning-struck mast and the fire burning there, while little golden Pyrite was sent down to said sailors - shrieking and chittering in red-eyed alarm - to grab their attention further...the flit then flicking her form up to the sails to 'point.' At this point, the blue and his rider utilize their strengths when and wherever needed, Ilicaeth still able to turn on a dime and move quickly enough, Alida bellowing communications in her best drill instructor tones between other riders and the Tillekian sailors below. In the flickering lightning, Drex's gasp for air then his being overcome by another wave have the rain-soaked pair fixing their eyes on that spot, and howling out with minds and voices, « One went under, there! » "THERE!" Alida roars, her finger pointing down as Ilicaeth circles the spot, his own eyes flaming red. One of the directions the blue jerks-- or is jerked-- though they're rather one in the same for the moment pulls the sail free of his head, though a bit of rigging has found its way over his neck, leaving the sopping thing hanging as a bib and the ropes quickly sliding (in a way that surely burns despite the cold of the winter storm) down to where the riding straps are seated. X'vae pulls his knife, but then there's that moment. The moment when an idea (no one said it was a good one) is born. The two minds work as one, the blue immediately righting his course for the sinking ship and its survivors. He'll make a pass with the dangling sail-cloth, dangerously close to the high swells. Let those that dare grab hold. It's Quesath of Snowdrift who alters her path after Zmeyth's announcement; « I'll go. Stay back! » Sure, she's smaller than the brown, but she's more experienced. She's also reaching for the queen-- for salt-sea tides, in fact-- and checking in. Hraedhyth is also out here, somewhere, but for now-- « Stay back, Zmeyth. There's-- » A spark. A lightning strike that has lit the mast; no wonder Iesaryth is here. Itsy to the rescue. Granted, she's a pretty tiny little thing, and Drex is far larger, but she manages, in her dive, to grab for him, admittedly by the back of the shirt, and try and hoist him upwards. "The sail," she manages to get out, not able to point at X'vae's dangling cloth, but certainly aware of it. "Grab on." It may be their only chance before, you know, certain doom. Which would be bad. Leiventh's much further west, trying to provide some relief from the wind for Saindyth as the small green nears one of the ships that isn't moving, trying to see what the hold up is. There's a quick, shouted conversation, and moments later one of the sailors perched precariously high on the rigging manages to cut a rope free; their sails finally drop and it's with a sharp jerk that the ship finally gets moving. "Crazy broad..." Alida smirks out roughly only to herself and Ilicaeth when Itsy nabs that sinking sailor, the bluepair angling upward again to do what they can. Drex hasn't much breath for all that much behind a coughing, spluttering: "Itsy," a word of relief, his arm seeking a stronger grip on the smaller woman as he gasps for breath. He's not really cognizant of his surroundings, but he's used to obeying orders from her, it seems, since he reaches blindly for the sail with one hand, the other keeping a firm grip on her. Arekoth is small and nimble, for a brown, but with that leg of his, with that wreckage, he and H'kon stay farther out. It's the frantic waving of two people, clinging to wreckage in the waves, that draws them in, closer to the main hulk of the ship. H'kon has been busying himself in freeing up a length of rope from one of the loops on Arekoth's scraps - part of the regular scramble kit - and this is what he throws to the two below when the brown veers in closer. It takes three throws to land that rope anywhere near the wavers, without a weight at its end. Too much time, too close. Arekoth drives for the sky, wings aching. H'kon stares back, eyes wide, hoping. Frustration fills the brown's words: « We will stay out of your way. » Stay they do, hovering, still high above the swelling seas and ships. Winds may whip at the brown, and he may tire, but it's not like he's going to tell Snowdrift and risk missing any of the action. They're limited to watching the ensuing chaos for now. For two sailors from The Pirate Queen, Arekoth's rescue is a godsend. They grab on; it's no doubt fucking terrifying, but it's better than dying - drowning - in the waves. Unfortunately... well, that mast really does want to come down, doesn't it? One of them doesn't stand a chance: direct hit. The other... well, at least he's still holding on? (To V'ros): Lightning, again. It lights the sky; it's about the only light there is left. It illuminates everything: the flaming mast (even in this weather!), Iesaryth's hide, Quesath. And then-- An ocean's roar, loud enough to be heard all the way to the Weyr; then silence, except for the cry of surprise from green Quesath, Snowdrift wingrider. « Lightning! » she yelps. And, « Iesaryth? She was right there, and then the lightning, and-- » Black, blacker, blackest. No doubt she'll pop out again soon. (To High Reaches dragons) Lightning: ever the enemy to those airborne in it. Ilicaeth flicks himself adriotly between when some of it cracks too close by, the blue stuttering back into the maelstrom above a pair of 'lengths further on, undamaged by electricity, though he and his rider's nerves are a touch frazzled by the closer call. It's the last part of Quesath's words they catch, both sets of eyes - faceted red and narrowed green - looking around to see what the hell the green's talking about so fervently. They missed that poor, second sailor getting clubbed to death by the falling mast. For a full moment Izazeth and X'vae consider making another pass for an attempt at more, but even if he got no one, the risk is too great with the swells as they are. Burdened as he is, he got one shot at that. Sailcloth is heavy, and heavier when rain batters enough against it to soak it through, but at least it's sturdy. Still, he's not the largest blue and the wind and the weight are defeating him. He reaches to the nearest mind, « Help me! » It's a fervent plea to Ilicaeth to come, to somehow help him bear the load back to shore, or perhaps just to look and see if it's a load worth keeping; are there lives to be saved by his effort which will surely require a trip to the dragonhealer's when all is said and done? H'kon is pulling hard on that rope, pulling that man in. Arekoth fights to keep their flight level, to bring them farther from the wreckage, forced to focus even after Quesath's call. « We have to go, » H'kon's words through his dragon, to Izazeth. Feilanth and Charya have gone already. « The Weyr is calmer. » A final instruction, as H'kon manages to grasp the shirt of their (saved?) sailor, grunting with the final pull. Arekoth waits only until they are certain of their destination. And then, they are gone. Cough three times, they say. Cough three times, and-- « Iesaryth? » Quesath's entreaty is tremulous. « Iesaryth? » But Iesaryth isn't there. And in the meantime, that ship is on fire. « Zmeyth. You'll have to help. If you can-- » If they can get anyone off. Even though now, suddenly, the keening has begun. (To High Reaches dragons) Still airborne above the bowl, a survivor of a wrecked ship on his neck, wrapped in his rider's arms, Arekoth adds his voice to those mourning, his skies dark. (To High Reaches dragons from Arekoth) While rain falls and lightning cracks the sky, Zmeyth impatiently hangs by, awaiting some kind of response from one of the Snowdrift dragons. A call to fly, a call to cease. Anything. V'ros hasn't taken his eyes off the skies since Iesaryth's departure between, scanning for any signs of gold, occasionally wiping desperately at his goggles. Quesath's tremulous call for the queen solidifies what they already know, but the keening has to wait. « I'll try, » the brown says in as close to a grunt as a dragon can get, fighting the wind and pelting rain as he wings downwards, trying to get to the burning ship. « Do you see anyone? » He's sweeping lower, nearly heedless of the swelling waves save for his rider's anxious hold on the brown's actions. There, that could be.. he thinks he sees someone holding onto the side of the aflame ship, and there is where he angles. Dragons go between all the time, and Leiventh hasn't a mind for such things right now. It's Quesath's alarm -- and the lack of Iesaryth at the appropriate time -- that makes the bronze notice. « Iesaryth. » A beat later, the hook-nosed bronze, too, disappears, in search of his daughter. One, two, three coughs later, and they reappear, but the queen still hasn't. He disappears, a second time, and it's only when he returns that his low, bassy voice finally joins in the voices raised in that eerie, keening note. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh) To High Reaches dragons, Ilicaeth projects « Ilicaeth is horrified and bereft... and yet, he must wait to give voice to his own grief, for now. The burly blue is in the midst of trying to drag two humoan from the sea. His efforts can be felt through his presence. » « Iesaryth? » Cadejoth's still at southern; has been still at southern, but he's alerted, now. « Can anyone find her? » But those keens; the dragons know, deep down, when someone is no longer there. « Hraedhyth. Come home. Everyone, home. » (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth) For one moment, the ocean's roar-- Iesaryth's ocean, overpowers her drums. They stutter, they stop. For one moment, Hraedhyth is silent. She does not between in search of her sister, struck limp in the air as those winds take advantage of her loss. She's slammed by the squalls that seek revenge for earlier, yanked out of her despair by her mate's cry. « Cadejoth. » A roar that can be felt, « She is gone. » It quickly turns to a savage keen, raw and painful as she echoes the bronze's order, « HOME. » (To V'ros): Got him! Okay, sure, grabbing people with talons and forelimbs isn't ideal, but... it's better than burning fiery death, isn't it? Turns of sailing, turns of learning to cling to precarious perches throughout stormy conditions might well make this par for the course for the sailors, but that doesn't mean it isn't hairy indeed. Drex's grip on the sailcloth is only outmatched by his tight grip around Itsy's waist as they're pulled this-way and that. He's yelling something; it sounds like Hold on, Capt'n, but it's barely formed in the windy, unbearable conditions. Itsy is holding on. She's holding on to Drex, to the sail, to everything. This is the second time they've been rescued out of the water, and frankly, it's getting old... but it's much better than the alternative. Worse, however, is this: she's lost her hat. Her hat. Home. Solith is there, amid the stone and the darkly clouded skies, but it is not the same; her keens rise, and the youngest weyrlings', joined instinctively as though that could be any comfort. (To High Reaches dragons from Solith) « We go! » is Izazeth's emphatic instruction to Ilicaeth in answer of Arekoth's to him. It's as the keen starts to take hold that the nothingness and bone-chilling cold consumes the blues, the sailcloth, and those that cling to it. The arrive heartbeats later, above the calmer skies of home, to the full force of that mourning. Izazeth's voice joins the rest, mourns the queen he barely knew and yet shared some manner of kinship with, for weren't they both once of Monaco and now of 'Reaches? He mourns her even as he does what he must to work smoothly with Ilicaeth to safely land with their sail-passengers in tow. Even as Zmeyth is plucking the hapless sailor from the burning wreckage of the ship, his keening call is joining the others for loss of their queen. He wings upwards into the dark sky, seeking out solid directives from Snowdrift, but Cadejoth's command is good enough. Where his sire orders, he follows, and within minutes they've flown up, winked between, and find themselves over the familiar Reachian sky, their rescue clinging like the brown is his salvation. The skies of home - not far above the Bowl floor, than Faranth for the sailors they've rescued! - mean a cessation of the maelstrom, which gives Ilicaeth a moment to steady himself, breath...and let loose a loud and mournful keen for Iesaryth and Aishani's passing. Alida - grim-faced and curled a little in on herself between her lifemate's 'ridges - presses two hands to her greyed-out dragon's neck as he soon backwings to land nearby Izazeth. (To V'ros): It's only when you get back home, and manage to let down your rescuee, that you hear him mumble something. He's a bit out of it (can you blame him for being terrified?) but before the healers lead him away, you're sure you hear him say, "Arced up from the ship it did. Swear I saw it. Hit her straight on and then she was gone!" It's certainly not the most gallant thing to do, to abandon one's action in the midst of things and maybe if that ship he was attempting to assist lives through the storm there will be something to complain about for the way Rasavyth abandons them. His keen rips from his throat the way his loss rips the weaving of his mind. His queen, the one he never caught, but the one he chose; it's naked to the world, to the Weyr, for half a second before the interlocking wall that is barely tangible save for its shimmers buries any emotion safely away from any that would later seek it. (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth) Leiventh does not return, not immediately. As the High Reaches dragons return one by one to their Weyr, the bronze flies the edges of the storm for as long as he has the energy, until finally he returns, exhausted, alone, seeking solitude. Azaylia and Hraedhyth are one of the last to return, the queen desperate to ensure the rest of her tribe makes it home safely. Those they managed to gather, be it by hanging ropes or thrown onto the gold's back, are ushered to join the other survivors and healers. One is near death and might be fully there by morning. The Weyrwoman doesn't chase them as she once might, ensuring their safety and comfort. Instead, she sits atop Hraedhyth, tawny hide already graying as she keens on every exhale. While their strength holds, Alida and Ilicaeth will return to those Tillekian seas to further aid whatever sailors might need it, both unwilling to face any more dirge-like 'music' back at their home, the woman - in particular - needing to work out her own grief until neither of the pair can do more but finally slink back to their own weyr, and curl up for an exhausted slumber right beside each other. Inside the caverns, Giorda - effectively in charge of the whole Weyr given the absence of weyrwomen and weyrleader - has made ready: the hearths are roaring, there are blankets and dry clothes, and klah is all-but on tap. Faces are solemn; everyone's confused. What happened? But there's work to be done-- no idle hands here. The healers are out in force, and so are the dragonhealers; it's one of those rare times when it's good to be a dragonhealer without a dragon, though none of them seem to escape being shaken. To say it's a landing is a bit of a falsehood; after the freezing waters, and the even more freezing cold of between, Drex all but collapses to the bowl floor, shivering. Itsy may have lost her hat, but Drex still clings to her, at least. To High Reaches dragons, Lythronath keens with the rest, a vicious mourning. No survivors cling to him; he has no other duty. He seeks out the last remaining gold in his Weyr, mentally at least, should he prove unable to be near, but the name he speaks to her is, « Iesaryth. » Itsy coughs up water as she collapses onto the ground, a shivering, miserable puddle of hatless awfulness. "... drex..." she manages, more a sigh than anything else. Healers meet the brownriding pair and their rescuee as they touch down in the weyrbowl, but V'ros hasn't even removed his helmet or goggles when they're leading him away, amidst his mumbling about ships and, possibly, what happened to Iesaryth. His hands draw his riding gear off, shakily, and let it drop to the ground. He leans heavily against Zmeyth, his eyes closed. It would be educational, they said. Surely, they didn't have the likes of this in mind, and it's left both dragon and weyrling.. raw. Zmeyth rebuffs any contact, unlike himself, and his rider, well, he's not bothering to hide the tears that roll down his pale cheeks - and anyway, who can tell, given he's completely soaked from head to toe. He doesn't argue when one of the delightful lower cavern women offers him a blanket. H'kon has already yielded up his own charge to ready hands, steady hands. His own movements are tense to the point of being jerky, an effort to keep off the exhausted shivering that threatens him. Eyebrows are set low. X'vae is given one look, and once his wingrider's safety is assured, Alpine's wingsecond looks only to his dragon. It takes a great deal to climb to Arekoth's neck again. The brown himself is slow in taking flight, but his ledge is low, and it's a short trip. Neither are seen in common areas for what remains of the night. "Are you-?" X'vae shouts at his blue; he can still only hear the storm and the keening ringing in his ears as he clambers down from the straps. Some silent answer has him nodding and then hurrying toward the sail and the people there, though his footsteps are unsure from stiff muscles being made to work. There must be blankets, mustn't there? It's not his job to bring them, not even his job to check on Drex and Itsy, but he goes to them anyway, reaching for the blankets being brought to the lot of them by a set of hands (whose, it doesn't matter). Itsy half-stirs as X'vae approaches, barely able to reach up to take the offered blankets. Her eyes, usually so luminous (not that X'vae could know that) are washed out; salt-water has turned them red and raw, though her expression is more firm and sharp than miserable, despite how half-drowned she is. "Thanks," she says, raw-voiced, scratchy-throated. "Drex?" Drex, for his part, doesn't seem aware enough to acknowledge X'vae or the blankets, eyes squeezed shut. It's only when Itsy speaks that a single eye peers up, frown tugging at his features. "What h-happened to your h-hat?" is about all he gets out between chatting teeth before his eyes slide shut and he falls unconscious. It's all X'vae can do, to hand them those blankets before his own knees are giving out, but thankfully he's half bent from doing the handing so he ends up on his knees near them. "I can-" No, no, he really can't. He swallows hard. "Someone--" He looks, and there is someone-- many someones, in fact, engaged in a wide variety of tasks all around them. He recognizes unconscious when he sees it though, and that has him finding the strength to shout, "I need a healer here!" And surely one will come. Won't they? He's loud enough, anyway. Itsy's eyes widen, just slightly, fingers grasping hold of the blanket, while the other arm remains holding tight to Drex, whose collapse has him half on her lip. It'll do. The healers do come, and they're all taken away; exhaustion, hypothermia, and who knows what else, but at least something can be done. There's enough going on in the weyrbowl for one weyrling to slip inside undetected. It's that same kind lower cavern woman that helps wrap V'ros in the blanket and, with an arm around his shoulders, guides him into the safety and warmth of the caverns. He lets her.. miraculously, leaving Zmeyth to launch himself back up into the air and to his ledge, where he'll repose in brooding silence. To those who look for strength in the remaining goldrider, they might find it in her straight back and tight jaw as she looks straight ahead. No one needs to see what lays behind her foggy goggles. After several long moments, the Weyrwoman finally dismounts, intending to help those who need it. Hraedhyth stays where she is, sending out a call to those who need her, need to feel that she is there, either mentally or physically. By the end of the night she's curled up with several draconic bodies, with Azaylia tucked between her chest and a possessive forelimb. High Reaches' senior queen keeps up her protective vigil for as long as she can, until exhaustion plummets her into a fitful sleep. |
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