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Harper's Tale 2 - Thursday, June 06, 2002, 7:30 PM
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Above the Mountains
Swirling air flows buffet you from all sides, a culmination of the threads of many different weather patterns as you soar high above the Alpine Meadows, a rippling, shimmering sea of green beckoning from below. The blackness of volcanic rock cuts off your view of the weyr, though the Star Stones remain as a reference point, forever reaching for the stars.
Clean, cold, crisp air takes your breath away, flavoured with the tang of a myrriad of different aromas.
It is a winter afternoon.
Below, you see a blue dragon.
Gliding around are three firelizards.
Brown Druseth, green Imbriath, blue Urzketh, and brown Sidramuntalath are here.
Obvious exits:
Alpine Meadows     Towards Tillek     Towards the Weyr
You are shocked by the increased winds that whip around you.

A large wing of dragons fly high above, peering down towards the ground and those that would soon gather. They wait...

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Druseth gives a lurking murmur of shadows, which still manages to have a crisp, definitive order. << Maelstrom Wing, are you prepared? >> A side note is given to Urzketh, << Keep a careful watch on your wing. And good luck to you. Now... Be ready. >> Let's get ready to ruuuumbleeeee!

Druseth hangs in the air, above the weyrlings, casting a low croon to Imbriath. Mwahaha. There's dark amusement in his rumble, a certain desire to see what his spawn can be capable of... Diving upwards, the dragon and rider prepare. It's attack time, kids.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Sidramuntalath /is/ the shadows -- pure dark, reddish glints heading here or there, the low rumbling of hardened lava. << My and mine are ready, >> is crisply replied.

Wyn's eyes are intent and focused behind her riding goggles. A rocking in her straps and she cues Vorkoroth with a nod both physical and mental, forming up on Urzketh's left, and slightly astern. Four in the green and good to go.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh sparkles razor-sharp blades of icy blue, radiating out towards the rest of the wing. << We are ready, Druseth. Maelstrom Wing, maintain distance, V-formation... >>

Urzketh trumpets a challenge to the dragons above as he leads the wing forth, Fyria's determined expression a match to the blue's. She nods subtly, more to herself than to anyone as they soar forth. With a hand lifted to shade her eyes, she glances upwards, waiting for the 'thread' to fall with an eager, almost predatory expression.

From between a pair of Sidramuntalath's starstruck, magma-touched ridges, Sii'kyn checks his straps a third time, buckles his helmet down tighter, and snaps down his goggles. Starboard of Urk, they head; in precise precision, exactly placed where they need to be, brown and rider hover. Four lit, ready to rock some dyed world. Wes and Kell... well, they're in the building, and ready to play.

Imbriath roves through the sky easily, her rider neatly tucked between ridges. A bugle of greeting is given to those that range above, wings flaring slowly as she circles easily within the grip of the cold. Hyzen waves towards Lylia, her grin fleeting in show, waiting for the Weyrlingmaster's signal to those that fly above.

Vorkoroth turns on a wingtip and eases back into a precise formation, eyes tinging an alert orange 'neath hooding 'ridges. Having completed her own checks, Wyn glances across to Sii'kyn and forwards to Fyria, before letting her gaze settle into a search pattern.

And the dragons that hang in the sky do not have to wait long. Why would Lylia dare to deprive them the pleasure of raining dyed terror down upon the sweet, tender weyrlings? Casting a single downward jerk of the arm, she gives the signal, Druseth's sunlit wings carrying them effortlessly upwards to join the group.

And the riders above see the signal, a faint cheer given out as they shift and spread. Moments... moments and then the colourful cascade of 'death' begins to rain down!

Bouncing about on the winds like a tumbleweed, a clot of ropes careens past Sidramuntalath.

A ball of rope plummets directly towards Urzketh.

A net-like web of dyed ropes fan out around Vorkoroth.

Urzketh roars as he spots the threads raining down towards /his/ wing, Fyria's hand giving the signal to begin flaming thread. Urzketh cranes his head around, jaw open to accept the lump of firestone from Fyria's hand before he turns, chews, and immediately belches out a length of white-hot flame towards the ball of rope. Fyria lets out a "Boooyah!" cheer as the ropes are charred to charcoal dust, left to disperse in teh wind.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh suddenly flares his thoughts to a sun-seeking whitehot flare, echoing Fyria's thoughts to the wing. << It comes! Maintain formation - Entymeth, do not lag too far, nor fly too close - good! >>

Sidramuntalath turns his head with delicious ease, and lets out a burst of flame, just long enough to turn the dyed rope into frizzled ash. Ha. Take that. If he was a runner, those ears would be back, tail would be swishin', and he would be definately about to give a human an ass-kickin'. Ahem. Flame shoots out; he turns his head and opens maw. Ike tosses him a chunk of firestone obligingly, and the red-brown crunches deliberately. Want to attempt to come close to Ram? Good luck.

Vorkoroth and Wyn are moving with a cool efficiency. At least on the physical plane. Mentally, it's pure gibbering combat high as the offending tangle of ropes is incinerated with a headsweep of flame, the blue standing on his tail to avoid running into it. Wyn stifles a most unmilitary "Eep," and settles into feeding more 'stone instead.

Druseth slows and hovers among his peers, the darkness of his hide casting him in the role of a night prowler, stealing into the safety of the Hold when the sun has fallen... A dyed rope is tossed from the woman perched on his back. And that's not a cackle of glee you hear from her. Honest. It's theraputic for the weyrlingmasters, really...

Clumps of multicolored rope, some thin and long twisting together, fall toward the riders in formation.

A twirling rope cartwheels past Vorkoroth.

A snakelike rope slithers past Sidramuntalath, wriggling towards the ground below.

A ball of rope plummets directly towards Urzketh.

Snakelike? Bad. V. bad. Shall he kill that for the wing? Yes, he shall. Sidramuntalath marks one, two, and three, using the faithful rider - hey, he's not as good as an R2, but he works - to mark them and note their destruction. Three surgical strikes, lasers only - small blasts of long, slippery flame - slither to hit marks one and two, and he acquires three, zooming in on the snakelike rope. Missile barrage away! The rope dies a spectacular death, Ike gives a warwhoop, and they settle down to the task. Hey.. this is kinda fun!

Entymeth heeds Urzketh's commands with just a /touch/ of an irritated rumble. She'd be doing /fine/, if S'titch would let her! The green tomboy dives after a clump of threads that has avoided the bulkier Ringwraith, a quick Nelson-ish HA-ha escaping on the mental plane in his direction.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that he swirls tightly concentrated silvers. <<This is almost /fun/!>>

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh twists his own roil of purple streaked indigoes around Vorkoroth's silvers. << It's fun now, but it won't be fun when it's real, right Druseth? Imbri? >> Note the echoing of faint hearts towards Imbriath with her name.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Druseth rumbles mentally, a soft touch of cinnamon mingling with liquor-dark tones. << Yes. It gets much more... not fun, when the ropes are replaced with that which is much more threatening. >> But for now, it's fun. Or seems to be, with the way the weyrlings are going.

Vorkoroth turns and burns, swinging on a wingtip to chase after the clump that threatens to escape him with little regard for Wyn's stomach. The petite bluerider seems up for the task, however, something sounding suspiciously like a triumphant "Aieeee!" (Think the Kia Sportage commercials) escaping her as Vor guns down another 'enemy'. Vor, meanwhile, returns to slotting back into formation, waiting for the next TIE -- er, Thread clump to peek at him.

Relaxing between Druseth's neckridges, Lylia tosses another rope, squinting as she attempts to pick her target. Let's ignore the fact that there's, y'know, /wind/. Waving to F'ox, her fellow brownrider also chucks a rope. Glee.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Imbriath purrs into the mindlink, her voice gentle and teasing almost in touch as she replies. << You are right, Urzketh. Enjoy it while it remains fun for you. >>

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Sidramuntalath twists a strand of livid lava into Urzketh's mindlink. << It /is/ fun, >> is said derisively. << It is business, but it is very.. satisfactorily noted when they go up in flames. >> His own reds bind the roils and swirls; << Life-and-death business, but you can't die a death of tension in Thread, either. >> And there goes a flame - showing in the mental plane as well, showing a bright white-hot flame.

Wiggling like hooked fish-bait, glistening-red ropes tumble towards hapless riders

From high above, riders start dropping brightly colored ropes still wet with paint that fall toward the dragons and their lifemates twisting in the subtle breeze.

Bouncing about on the winds like a tumbleweed, a clot of ropes careens past Urzketh.

A group of ropes gang up on Vorkoroth and try to overwhelm him.

Bouncing about on the winds like a tumbleweed, a clot of ropes careens past Sidramuntalath.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that he agrees in precise blues. <<We will fight the real thing soon enough, but it is entertaining to go after these imitation targets. And good practice.>>

Vorkoroth skips ::between::!
:::BETWEEN!:::
You hang, senseless, in the dark nothingness of ::between::... absolute darkness surrounds you, and the profound cold stings you... you wait, and count...
Black...
Blacker...
Blackest...

Above the Mountains
Swirling air flows buffet you from all sides, a culmination of the threads of many different weather patterns as you soar high above the Alpine Meadows, a rippling, shimmering sea of green beckoning from below. The blackness of volcanic rock cuts off your view of the weyr, though the Star Stones remain as a reference point, forever reaching for the stars.
Clean, cold, crisp air takes your breath away, flavoured with the tang of a myrriad of different aromas.
It is a winter afternoon.
Below, you see a blue dragon.
Gliding around are three firelizards.
Brown Druseth, green Imbriath, blue Urzketh, and brown Sidramuntalath are here.
Obvious exits:
Alpine Meadows     Towards Tillek     Towards the Weyr

Vorkoroth reverts to three-space from the wormhole of ::between::.

Urzketh roars as a clump of ropes /dare/ to pass him, another lump of firestone gleamed from Fyria's hands before he swerves, turns, and dives after the ball. An instant later, he swoops back up, triumphantly bugling as a trail of charcoal dust is left behind him. Fyria shouts something, pointing at yet another clump falling from the sky, and mentally urges Urzketh onwards.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh sends a reverberating wave of approval towards the wing, an echo of night's inky blackness edging the sudden sanguine red. << Well done! Keep in formation, but fan out half a dragonlength - the ropes fall fast, yet clump. >>

What the -- ahem. Hold on, astrom--er, Ike, because that is a very interesting clump indeed. He corkscrews downwards, first flaming the tumbleweed of ropes, then blasting several of the ropes that were ganging up on Vorkoroth. Atleast, those on /his/ side. Whups! That's heading for Urk's tail... Blasting, the brown notes a rope hurtling towards him, and follows suit of his fellow wingsecond, at Ike's bloodcurdling yelp. Then, re-immerging from :: between ::, the brown obligingly slips back, noting the clumping as well.

Sidramuntalath skips ::between::!
Sidramuntalath appears from the black hole that is ::between::, a sudden celestial presence in the sky.

Imbriath lowers herself down towards the weyrling's wing, rider watching intently as the young dragons dive and flame. Patting her green's neck, a nod of approval is given as they practice skipping. Green banks into a slot at the last of the formation, her own flames added lightly to the rest, when she feels like spouting one forth.

Wiggling like hooked fish-bait, glistening-red ropes tumble towards hapless riders

Vorkoroth's second stomach still holds sufficient reserves to burn down a few more ropey challengers, but! What's that up ahead. Ah, they're trying to overwhelm him with numbers! But no paint shall mar /this/ midnight hide, and Vorkoroth vanishes, blinking out a moment later to flame the ropes that are now safely below him, spiralling down under the direction of an exhilerated looking Wyn. "Excellent!" she carols, off-key as usual.

Urzketh banks sharply to the right, barely avoiding a sickly-red looking snare of ropes, though he does skip ::between:: to avoid flying into an oncoming net before him.

Urzketh skips ::between::!
Urzketh gives no warning as he shoots from the dark oblivion of ::between:: with crystalline precision, eclipsing the ground below with his shadow.

"Mwah! DiediediedieDIE!!" screeches S'titch as Entymeth hunts down the threads that escaped Urzketh. A gout of flame, and the green banks upwards and away, leaving S'titch's mind to wander. "OoooOOOoooh..." he burbles. "The ashes look like lace!"

Snow is drenched in dye as she is hit by one of the ropes.

Snow lets out a startled screech! My lovely green hide!

A rolling knot of rope hurls past Sidramuntalath.

A snakelike rope slithers past Vorkoroth, wriggling towards the ground below.

A ball of rope plummets directly towards Urzketh.

"Grrrr. Arrrrg. Hissss." N'zgul lets out his dark, oh-so-threatening battle cry, leaning down closer to Ringwraith's darkened neck, and reaching to feed more firestone. Ringwraith attempts a matching hiss, not quite of the same caliber, before letting out a massive flame that nearly startles himself. Poof!

From Urzketh's neck, Fyria is a bit pale, having narrowly avoided a nice, dye-laden clump of ropes but nonetheless, she dutifully feeds Urzketh yet another lump of firestone as he cranes his head back towards her. She points, he looks, and with a roar that echoes against the spires, shoots a searing fountain of flame towards the ropes that /dare/ come toward him. Ropes turn black, char, and dissipate into nothingness as he returns to formation, head craning again for more stone.

"Yoooooooooooda!" is the war-whoop of V'der, although he has no idea why. "Yoooooooooda!" And there goes Darth, slithering out flames that were targeting that oh-so-sexy tail of Ram's. Yes. Take.. that. Ha!

Relaxing between Druseth's neckridges, Lylia still remembers scrubbing the dye-dripped hide of her own weyrlinghood. Hyzen's braver than she, and the brownrider remains up in the heights of the sky, chucking down another rope along with the rest of the cheerful volunteers. A few drips of dye catch along her fingers, and she smears them against her thigh. Ick.

Wyn's success at ordering a skip prompts a feral grin as she urges Vorkoroth after the falling clump, intent on it and heedless of anything going on above. The browns and bronzes are the upper level, after all. Let speedy little blue pairs like /them/ dive-bomb and show them how it's done. Target aquired. Almost there... almost there... But, rather than failing, Vorkoroth trusts his instincts and the thread explodes in a shower of cinders and ash.

Clumps of multicolored rope, some thin and long twisting together, fall toward the riders in formation.

*SPLORCH!*
Wyn is splattered with dye as one of the ropes hits her.

Vorkoroth senses Druseth looking at him.

A rolling knot of rope hurls past Sidramuntalath.

Bouncing about on the winds like a tumbleweed, a clot of ropes careens past Urzketh.

A rolling knot of rope hurls past Vorkoroth.

Urzketh roars as he sears yet another net-like weaving of ropes that fall from the sky, the dusted ash flowing over both he adn Fyria like a midnight mist. Settling back into formation, she suddenly perks at a message from Urzketh, though only for a second before she's hanging on for dear life as the blue banks hard left to avoid another knot of rope. "FlameFlameFlame!" And thus, Urzketh does so, with a vengeance. So long, dyed ropes!

Imbriath receives a huge dye score on the wingtip!

Imbriath skips ::between::!
Imbriath abruptly appears from that no-where, bugling loudly as the freezing winds of ::between:: follow her.

"Shardit!!!" bites out Wyn as, pulling up from her dive, her leathers are graced with a bright splash of paint. Vorkoroth is cued, and skips ::between::, Wyn recalling the whole point of the excercise is to practice for the real thing, even as she quietly seethes. Vorkoroth's immediate concern is muffled under a quick refocusing on duty and a hurried rumble to Wyn. It's not /my/ fault!

Vorkoroth skips ::between::!
:::BETWEEN!:::
You hang, senseless, in the dark nothingness of ::between::... absolute darkness surrounds you, and the profound cold stings you... you wait, and count...
Black...
Blacker...
Blackest...

Above the Mountains
Swirling air flows buffet you from all sides, a culmination of the threads of many different weather patterns as you soar high above the Alpine Meadows, a rippling, shimmering sea of green beckoning from below. The blackness of volcanic rock cuts off your view of the weyr, though the Star Stones remain as a reference point, forever reaching for the stars.
Clean, cold, crisp air takes your breath away, flavoured with the tang of a myrriad of different aromas.
It is a winter afternoon.
Below, you see a blue dragon.
Gliding around are three firelizards.
Brown Druseth, brown Sidramuntalath, blue Urzketh, and green Imbriath are here.
Obvious exits:
Alpine Meadows        Towards Tillek     Towards the Weyr
Vorkoroth reverts to three-space from the wormhole of ::between::.

Druseth swerves in a large circle, another rope having spiralled down from his rider's grasp. A glance over the crimson-splashed neckridges cause Lylia to snicker. Oye. "You okay, Hy?" Lyl calls, not that the greenrider would be able to hear her. But still. Amid the snickering, she keeps a cautious eye on the weyrling progress.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh sends a sudden flare of red towards both Vorkoroth and Imbriath. << Are you and your riders fit to fly? Vorkoroth *snicker*, I'm afraid Wyn looks as if she 'dyed'... >> Yes, Urzketh gives a slight, witty pun during practice Threadfall. Go figure.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Druseth gives a warm wave of approval, light touches of silver and scarlet probing through his normal dark, hesitating tones. A blossoming of spring is alight in his tenor praise. << You all fly and fight very well. You will be strong in Threadfall. Quite an asset. >>

Imbriath isn't at all shocked that she got splattered. In fact... she might have rigged it. Without consent of Hyzen, of course, considering the rider's abrupt array of noises. "IMBRI!" being one of them. Green flicks into between, appearing moments later with a laughing little grumble. It was *all* Druseth and Lylia's fault. They're the ones helping with the ropes, see!

Urzketh croons an amused rumble towards Imbriath as she winks out from ::between::, only to disappear himself into the sweet nothingness, barely avoiding a sneaky little rope that twines down from above.
Urzketh skips ::between::!

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that he offers a mental raspberry, a sudden blare of silver bubbles. <<That pun deserves a scoring of it's own.>> he quips. <<But yes, Wyn is fine. She assures me that she shan't neglect to look /up/ next time.>> Laughing at his rider? Yep.

Urzketh gives no warning as he shoots from the dark oblivion of ::between:: with crystalline precision, eclipsing the ground below with his shadow.

The riders above seem to have run out of ropes finally, a few trickling down to be neatly wiped up by the weyrling wing.

"Oh /do/ shut up Vor," grumbles Wyn, reaching behind her back to pat at the dye marks. "You might have warned me." Vorkoroth merely offers a bland rumble and flames a final few ropes, before barrel-rolling just for the halibut, and then returning to a loose formation stance.

From between a pair of Sidramuntalath's starstruck, magma-touched ridges, Sii'kyn snickers -- and yelps, as Ram barrel-rolls after one remaining clump, flashy wings swooping him into one snappy gesture.. just to annoy Vorkoroth, obviously. "Stop doing fancy stuff!" Ike snaps out, as he finally settles in to a right-side-up-ness. "Is that.. uh.. it?" Blink. Hn.

Urzketh upwings back into formation, his maw stretching wide a moment as Fyria finally relaxes in her straps. One hand reaches to pat the blue's neck, sending errant bits of ashdust flying off as they hover above the mountains, a look of intense, intense pride upon her face. They did it!

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh swirls a silver-laden wash of indigo approval towards the wing. << Well /done/ Maelstrom! WE seared well, and have the ash (and dye, in some cases) to show for it! >>

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that he offers a cool ripple of ocean blue. He's not feeling proud of himself, nope. Nuh-uh. Cool, calm, suave, that's him. Ignore the bright burbling around the edges where a mental conversation with Wyn is also going on. <<Naturally we did well,>> he comments. <<After all, we have been bred and trained for this purpose.>>

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Druseth gives another pleased trill, lit with gentle, radiant colors. Effulgent colors. << Very good, very good. Perhaps the formations need a little tightening for efficiency, but a very strong practice. You fight well and bravely. >> 'Course, who'd be scared of little dyed ropes?

Vorkoroth eyes Ram's copying of his barrel roll, and offers a draconic smirk, of sorts. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, no? That, and a firm "Vor...!" from Wyn reins in any further hotdogging tendancies. A loud rumble of affirmation echoes upwards to Druseth, before he returns neatly to his location port and starboard of Urzketh.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Urzketh adds a gentle tease of amethyst sparkle. Little dyed ropes thrown by Lylia. 'nuff said.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Druseth mwahahas. Evil ropes. From the pits of heeeeeeell. Handbasket optional.

<Local> Vorkoroth senses that Sidramuntalath snickers. Red. Redredred. Fire and flame and lava and silver and gold lining and -- clouds and warped metal! Everything is a jumble of dark colors, happiness exhulting over. << We did it. And my side of the wing did wonderful. Darth.. exceptional performance! >> Yep. AHem.

Imbriath :battles through the whipping winds, intent on reaching the weyr.

Urzketh rumbles loudly, Fyria's hand raising to indicate for the wing to return back to the weyr proper even as the blue spins on a wingtip, leading them all home. And to the lake. For a bath. Some needing it more than others.

Urzketh :battles through the whipping winds, intent on reaching the weyr.
Sidramuntalath :battles through the whipping winds, intent on reaching the weyr.