Threadfall at Tillek, Part 2
[At this point all parties are back in the bowl at High Reaches Weyr.]
Arinth descends from the sky above to land.
Arinth has arrived.
Ch'dais climbs down from Arinth's neck.
Ch'dais has arrived.
"I'm fine," Lexine says shortly, trying to roll her shoulder and pausing with a wince and a hiss. "Where's E'sere?" she asks then, tense until someone points out the arrival of her son to the Weyrwoman. When one healer looks doubtful as she realizes the Weyrleader's dragon is gone, Lexine casts a cold look on the woman. "Stop the bleeding, Nerissa," she says, voice hard. "He deserves his own choice."
There are in a flash other healers flanking Neiran, eyes going wide at the sight of the unconscious Weyrleader sprawled and draining red out onto the floor of the bowl. There's soon enough a dragonhealer, too, with expert eyes spared not for the man but for the Weyrwoman's queen, to search out any trace of score or ichor that might lie beneath those streaks of G'thon's blood. For her part, Nerissa suppresses her protest and does as she's told, Lexine's words inspiring her healers' oaths. Intent to do no harm, she kneels and simply puts her hands to the shredded man, finding with deft fingers the arteries and big veins in the thighs and groin, clamping them down with her own weight. "Clamps, ties, cloth and suture," she softly remarks as if from across a great chasm of professional indifference. "Now."
The outsiders, those members of Caucus here to volunteer in spite of backgrounds as holders, all huddle together silent and frightened as the dragons' mourning song rises up around them. Valandys is among their number, but seperate- she stands at the edge of the small group, stiff, pale, with restless gaze probing the ranks of those who've managed to return. Murmurs flow through the people around them, those who haven't approached the Weyrwoman's gold. The Weyrleader? He's hurt. Badly. Where's his dragon? Where's Hirth? He didn't come back. How can that be, how can G'thon be here? Who else is dead? How many? The whispers grow, and people begin to slip away to carry the news through the Weyr.
Arinth spirals to the bowl floor with the surviving dragons of second wing. He backwings fiercely just over the stone, sending up a great cloud of char-dust about his sails before the ponderous bronze crunches down. The shock of that landing is lost amid the pain, the carnage, the bustle of healers and attendants feverishly at work, the lightning passage of whispers about the Weyrleader; so too is the weary dismount of Ch'dais himself, who stands beside his partner and peels the cap from his sweaty tangle of braids. He wears an expression that can only be described as grim.
Vasyath spreads her wings for the dragonhealer, slight scoring spotting the edges of her spars. "Excuse me," Lexine murmurs to one of the dragonhealers, carefully climbing up to her queen's back, arm still hanging. "People of High Reaches Weyr!" she calls out across the bowl, voice ringing through the fading keens as Vasyath applies her own will to her brood.
Oshisyth settles down onto her haunches as the keening settles to silence, favoring her front right foot. Issa hails a passing healer, the stun of the whispers reaching her ears wearing off as the immediate need of her dragon sinks in. Salve is spread on the ragged score and bandages tightened to make sure that everything stays intact. At the Weyrwoman's voice, Issa instinctively raises her eyes, placing a hand on her dragon's shoulder for support, physically and emotionally.
The cry of the dragons illicits a shiver down Sinopa's spine. For a moment the junior rubbernecks with a few others at the sight of the severely injured weyrleader. However, there are others that are injured and in need of some attendance. One of those with healer training grabs at Sinopa's shoulders, beginning to pull her away from the crowd and towards the new arrivals with their injuries. Strangely compliant, Sinopa starts towards them until Lexine begins to address the group, at which point both she and the healer pressing her into other duties stop to look.
But a moment after Nerissa's orders have been made, she shall find the requisite sterilized items at her disposal, put there almost preemptively by Neiran's hands. Oil is offered the woman to coat her digits protectively against the thin layer of deadening numbweed he applies but a moment later, picking through the wound lightly to ensure no parcel of scorched cloth remains in the score. Lexine's sudden address doesn't stop him from doing what he's doing, for he can easily listen and aid in tending to the emergency which is much more pressing at the moment.
Beneath Vasyath's shape, the bleeding is stopped. Like Nerian, Nerissa is too busy to attend to the words of the Weyrwoman issued from above, and so in the queen's shadow the little drama of healing plays out. Numbweed is forgone in the assumptiuon that the Weyrleader's own state spares him pain; redwort and water wash the way for clamps and ties, fingers and scalpels used right there on the ground to reach the vessels which threaten still to leak the man's life out from within. Finally it comes to stitching closed opened veins and parted flesh, a tedious process, and still the notion of moving G'thon is secondary - when two novices appear with a stretcher, Nerissa merely flicks a nod at them and murmurs, "In a moment." There's too much for one set of hands; Neiran is handed a needle.
Lexine takes a deep breath before she continues. "High Reaches Weyr has met Thread over Tillek Hold," she announces. "And we have returned. Losses today have been grave, thanks to inexperience. The Weyrleader lives! Many still live." She pauses, a moment of silence for those who no longer do. "Go on for the living. Casualty and injury counts are still coming in. For now, keep hope. No Thread will invade the land we protect today." Weary, she starts to slip back down, releasing the crowd and finally searching out a healer for herself.
R'vain heads towards the northern section of the bowl.
R'vain has left.
This is a macabre drama, the healers working feverishly on the ground to save the Weyrleader while the Weyrwoman calls for the attention of everyone else far above, perched on her queen. It's terrifying and prompts Valandys, peaked with shock, to observe in a whisper, "Worthy of the stage." It would seem an irreverent remark if the young woman didn't follow it immediately with a choked sob, a hand lifting to muffle the sound and her eyes, turned away from the grim spectacle and managing a chance sighting of tawny bronze, hidden behind the sheen of tears.
Ch'dais observes the Weyrwoman in grave silence as she speaks, arms crossed over his chest in the cracked leather of his riding jacket. He raises no objection to her consolation of survival, but the tall man can't help but flick a skeptical glance to the knot of activity around High Reaches' stricken-- and dragonless-- Weyrleader. His lips curl down under his beard. When he looks for the Igen maid, Valandys, among those who have worked his expression is drawn with foreboding, almost a quiet apology for what's to come. "This will not end well," he tells himself, softly.
Neiran doesn't seek to overrule Nerissa when his motion to apply numbweed is warded off. For the Journeyman, it was deemed a worthy measure for the slight properties of coagulation as well as benumbing. But with deft fingers tending to open vessels upon a stupefied body, it might not be needed at all; the jar is exchanged for the needle he is handed. Unaware of the blood already on the knees of his cassock owing to the fact he's knelt right into a crimson pool, he threads his needle deftly, and begins to sew together severed vessels. There's a lot of work to be done before the gash itself can be sutured closed. "How much blood do you think he's lost?" He queries his partner in a distracted murmur, head bent close in observation of his handiwork.
Issa's eyes follow Lexine as she steps down. But then the greenrider slides to the ground, her back restin against her dragon's hide. She watches the healer go about his doings, and admires Oshisyth's now bundled injury with a murmur of thanks. She sits for a moment, her eyes unfocused and dim, arms crossed over her raised knees.
Lexine makes her way wearily towards a healer engaged with less serious injuries, unafraid of claiming the benefits of being senior Weyrwoman. She's quite, though, gesturing for her own assistant. There are serious decisions to be made.
With healers working diligently, the major cases are being well tended to, and even the minor cases are now getting treatment. Slipping away from the healers, who surely don't need an extra inexperienced hand or two, Sinopa slinks on over to several riders of her acquaintance to talk with them during this aftermath of the Threadfall.
"Haven't been measuring it," Nerissa promptly replies, a trace of tart compliment to a trace of gentle humor. It would be ill-fit for the situation at hand, for the agile lacing of threads through the Weyrleader's bloodied flesh, but the master uses it to convey peaceful hope, content to be needed, to be urgent in her work. She shifts around the man's body, taking a moment to observe his skin - before, just pale, now nearly white - and remark, "The real question is how much he has left." Breaths, slow and far between, do so slightly raise and lower G'thon's chest, and the blood beneath the healers' hands does pulse with an erratic heartbeat, so the Weyrwoman's words are proven. And eventually, those vessels are closed and meat and skin are next to be sewn; at that point, Nerissa welcomes the jar with a tip of her head toward it and an upward flick of her eyes to Neiran. Briefly, there's a faint smile there.
With the Weyrwoman's speech made, a ripple passes through those assembled again- murmurs and whispers springing up her wake. People begin to move again as well, some drifting off, others springing back into action to lend a hand to the medical staff. Valandys does neither. The shaken girl moves on a straight path to Ch'dais, all but running to reach Arinth's side. Her gaze, cleared of tears with a number of blinks, takes them both in in search of injury and her expression flickers oddly, pulled by too many emotions. It results in a greeting that seems stiff, and forced: "There's klah in the living cavern for those needing warmth. Stronger drink as well."
An audible rumble from Oshisyth shakes Issa from her reverie, reminding her that her hide does need a scrub. They trail off with a couple of other wingmates, greens and blues, in silence toward the lake.
"Indeed." Neiran watches the senior Healer take the prone Weyrleader's vital signs, hands stilled for but a moment. In this moment of stillness, Nerissa's smile is seen, and some similar sentiment returned with a pressing of his lips together. But there's yet work to be done - he gestures for water to rinse off his blood and oil-slickened hands, reapplying redwort after the deft rinse. The jar is reclaimed from where it was put, numbweed dabbled across the edges and depth of the wound. He's threading his needle again, looking well contented and complacent in this dance of preparation, and healing action. "Shall you or I complete the surface suturing?" He questions, already armed to do so.
Ch'dais remains beneath the shadow of his mount, blackened back to blackened haunch, and both man and beast turn an eye to Valandys' approach-- it's a queer tableau, at once familiar and alien, painted in grey-green, coal-black, pyrite bronze. Chill wind stirs the wilderness of the bronzerider's hair, and for a time he stands quietly, seems not to realize that the Igenite has spoken. Then, with a certain puzzlement, he returns, "Hirth didn't survive." He shifts his gaze back to the Weyrleader. "I looked in the clouds and didn't see him." Ch'dais opens his mouth to say more, but nothing comes. What could, at this moment? It occurs to him to add absently, "I'm fine. Arinth too."
"Please," Nerissa murmurs, inclining her head to Neiran. It causes her hair to fall into her eyes, necessitating her awareness of her own hands' condition, and with the final stitching in the journeyman's capable hands she sits back on her haunches to take up a towel, redwort and water to wash. "When you're finished, have him brought to the infirmary. We'll have to keep him on watch to see if - " A pause. The master flicks a glance upward at the form of Vasyath, whose mild scores are tended currently by that curious dragonhealer who went spying for them. Then Nerissa looks back at G'thon with a sigh and revises her remark. "When he comes conscious. He'll need an update first thing." She gets to her feet, knees popping as she unbends them, and steps out of the way so the pair with the stretcher may await Neiran's instruction.
Valandys removes a hand from the pocket of her jacket, her fingers flying through a gesture whose meaning she doesn't give. Then that same hand reaches out to settle on Ch'dais' elbow, ignoring the speckling of grit and ash that stains her skin by doing so. "There is work to be done," she tells him quietly, able now to ignore her own shock and grief by tending to someone else's. "Arinth must be cleaned, and your gear tended to. There is food and drink for you, or sleep for you both if you prefer it. Come, Ch'dais. Leave him to the healers for now." Her gaze follows the words, picking out the figure of the man she's speaking of, half-hidden behind a wall of backs, and from the sympathy in her eyes it's plain she doesn't fully understand what awaits G'thon when he awakens.
Lexine's arm is quick work for the practiced healer, pressed delicately back into place and placed in a sling to keep it there before she turns and makes her way determinedly back to G'thon, lips pressed tightly together. "Healer," she murmurs to Nerissa as she approaches, voice soft, but firm as she starts to kneel by the Weyrleader's form, reaching out to brush a hand over his brow. "Tell me what I need to know, please."
"Of course. Thank you." Neiran's head inclines in professional obeisance to Nerissa, and continues on its downward course to hang over the partially closed wound he tends to. The Weyrwoman's presence nearby is registered, and threaded needle is delved into flesh unwaveringly nonetheless. The first knot is made, and from then on the neat stitches are made in silence, as neatly as one would patch a torn shirt. A knowledgeable eye could notice he chooses not to knot his thread again, utilizing running stitches. Simple habit from training, to use the more technical skill, or an expression of hope for recovery enough that vanity has been considered in this method, known for leaving lesser scars?
Nerissa fixes Lexine with an appropriately sympathetic look, though the Weyrwoman's focus is plainly upon the man on the ground. "We'll be moving him to the infirmary soon," she gently provides, instead of suggesting directly that she might want to step away from the injured Weyrleader and give the healers room to work. Also as an alternative, Nerissa steps around to bend and offer Lexine a hand, should she like help getting back up, and explains the situation with professional brevity. "He will survive. His heart has held up, and he hasn't lost enough blood to harm his faculties." A pause, in which the healer's expression becomes even more sympathetically somber. "His loss may... affect him. We cannot predict the extent. All we can do is wait for him to come around, and with this much trauma we can't be sure when that will happen." Silently: or if.
Ch'dais startles a shade at Valandys' touch, a motion along the bulk of his arm, but it seems to help. His gaze flicks to that dusky hand, and then he closes his eyes tightly for a quiet moment. Fingertips pin the bridge of his nose. What was it... "He should be bathed." A pause, and then he collects himself to restate, "Arinth should be bathed." The Igenite gets a steadier look, his eyes meeting hers now, and his puzzlement blends into silent thanks. "Let's see about the baths." And then he's in halting motion, allows himself to be escorted, the stolid, filthy bronze trudging along behind.
Lexine nods quietly to Nerissa, taking the offered hand and rising out of the way, taking a long look around the bowl. "Come, Vasyath," she murmurs to the gold, resting her hand on the queen's shoulder as she starts towards the dragonhealers, offering her own aid to their work to distract herself.
To the north, then. Valandys curls her hand more securely in the crook of Ch'dais' arm and makes slow progress towards the northern bowl, the baths there set aside for creatures of Arinth's size. As she goes, she keeps up a steady murmur-- patter designed to distract or comfort or simply fill a quiet that would otherwise be filled with the whimpers of injured comrades. "I will send for food and drink. Fresh clothes, fresh oil... it is just a little way, Ch'dais, come. It will all be alright."
Valandys heads towards the northern section of the bowl.
Valandys has left.
Ch'dais heads towards the northern section of the bowl.
Ch'dais has left.
Arinth heads towards the northern section of the bowl.
Arinth has left.
Neiran finishes his parody of knitting a tunic of flesh in short order, rising from G'thon's side after a final once-over with hands and eyes to assure nothing's been missed. He nods to the novices awaiting with the stretcher, stepping aside from the man for this moment, to wash his hands and turn over his needle for re-sterilization, and discard suturing materials unused. Even with his hands clean, still his elbows and clothing bear smears of numbweed and redwort, and blood besides. He trails after the procession to the infirmary, expressionless, to continue being of use.
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Reaches' Wings Decimated Sun Jan 22 Benden
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The fighting forces of High Reaches Weyr have met Threadfall at Tillek Hold, the first battle in the Weyr's own coverage area and the first to demand the full power of its wings. Thread was held at bay and the Hold's land spared, as well as the ships of the fishercraft protected.
But such protection was given at great cost. Like the other Weyrs, High Reaches suffered heavy losses in their first 'fall. Four fighting pairs were lost, including a wingleader, and though the Weyrleader survives in critical condition, his bronze Hirth is counted among the fatalities. A dozen other dragons have been injured badly enough to retire them to watchriding and sweeps, while a far greater number must recover from their wounds before returning to fighting duty.
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(Description: Hirth)
Scrollwork around this middling bronze's prominent headknobs betrays the likelihood of slightly improper care, or exceptionally speedy growth, at some point in the beast's youth. Otherwise, he is as slick as the surface of a placid pond, glossy and true to his patinaed-copper hue throughout. His wings are exceptional of length, with pale sails that gleam in translucence when stretched against the sky and thick, strong spars. Age has not decreased the apparent power of his muscular wingshoulders or sturdy haunches, nor sunken the breadth of his barrel chest, but his eyes swirl slightly slower than a hatchling's might and his talons are thick and heavily lined from the growth and regrowth of many turns.
Hirth is 42 turns, 6 months old and 64 feet, 5 inches long. He is 32 feet tall at the shoulder and has a wingspan of 96 feet.