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Ground emits are for the groundcrew, who are outside during Threadfall to catch any stray Threads that the dragons may miss. They can describe the actions of NPC groundcrewers, or bits of Thread falling through the wings, giving RP opportunities to the PCs.
A single strand of twisting silver, shimmering with vile menace, slips between the attentions of two dragons whose attentions are diverted to heavier patches. The Thread hurtles downward, missed, too, by the queen's wing. It approaches Pern's surface, her greenery, with sinuous hunger.
The thread begins to slow, not perceptibly at first, and perhaps is all the more dangerous as it sneaks down and around in slow spirals through all the wings. A silver tendril twirls in what seems to be a very deliberate path, winding its way through the maze of riders until it drifts with what seems evil intent towards a row of shrubs on the very edge of the field.
The shadow of Feilynth races along the ground, a spout of flame gushing forth from her flamethrower as she chases down a clump of thread. It's not enough though, and the thread heads towards the ground, burrowing in deep as soon as it touches.
Death rains from above, slipping off the trees with a whispered voice, and diving into the rich loam. Before much longer, quicker than the grubs can devour the organism, the thread's cut a wide swathe in the grass, everything in a one meter circle around it dead.
Crews march along in regular formation, covering every square inch of the rich farming land, and checking thoroughly for burrow formation. The shout goes up. One's been found, couple of dragonlengths to the east, but no agenothree left in this groundcrew member's tank to adequately finish the job.
Out of nowhere, a thread falls downwards, almost bearing right into a young holder girl, who screams, and is pushed away by a young man. Others stand close, their flamethrowers searing the dying thread into an oblivion of dark dust, just in time.
An injured blue lands, his rider dismounting quickly to help calm his lifemate as the dragonhealers stand close to help. The injury is not grave, and a slap of numbweed sees the pair off out of the way, awaiting the end of fall.
As the groundcrew spreads out, preparing for the arrival of Thread, there is a sudden breeze as hundreds of dragons burst out of *between*. Heads turn skyward as people stop to watch the powerful protectors of Pern.
The Thread begins to lessen, and the random bits that happen to fall through the wings become scarce. Soon the skies are clear again and the threat is neutralized. Until next time, of course.
A young girl, very new to groundcrewing, runs to meet a falling spore and trips on rock. She goes sprawling to the ground, and the menace continues to spiral towards the unprotected vegetation.
There's a general panic in one section of the groundcrew as a clump of thread makes it through the dragons flying overhead. A girl new to the weyr completely forgets her training and panics, running instead of digging the burrow. A weyrsmith exasperatedly takes her place, and the group works quickly to uncover, and destroy, the menace.
A group of healers survey each dragon and rider pair as they land for the changeover. One by one they are dismissed for rest and recuperation, or have their minor injuries taken care of. A fairly recently graduated green is treated for wing strain, her frantic rider caught between concern and the tongue-lashing she's getting from the dragonhealer.
Two older aunties huddle in a corner, gossiping outrageously as they carefully count bandages. One dourly frowns to the other and comments, "Seems like there is never enough… always someone gets hurt. But do they listen to us?"
A young gardener comes running through, snapping his jacket in place as he goes, pulling on gloves with his teeth, adjusting his Agenothree holder as he slides, breathless, to a full stop in front of his team leader.
As the battle in the air continues, the groundcrew starts its job. Thread is barely, if at all visible along the horizon, though the blasts of red-hot flame can be seen, flickering in the distance like lightning dappling the sky. Towards a cothold, the doors shut against the danger, a burrow has escaped the wings above, all things nearby dying, the grubs working their job slowly, but help is needed.
High in a tree, a whispered hush is all that can be heard, and then, as the leaves give way to the tangle that's been caught in their branches, the clump of thread that's escaped falls to the ground, right near the groundcrew.
One groundcrew member stumbles in a thread burrow, the thread eating its way out from the ground into which it’s fallen. He cries out as he's captured, someone dragging him from the hole, and dumping a flask of water on the already withered toes of his boot. The thread though remains. Eating. Burrowing.
Tromping about and looking rather uncomfortable under the bulk of the backpack, a former Candidate can be heard grumbling about how she'd have been better off to go home to her records keeping. She adjusts the weight of her pack once more, irritable.
"Mine's broken!" declares a fitful greenrider who's stuck on the ground with a rather swollen belly and a little boy trailing along to carry her backpack. A more experienced fellow comes along with a sigh about the usefulness of riders in the sky and the burden of them on the ground to give the nozzle a deft turn and then hand it back to her, repaired.
The smell of agenothree and burning blackrock in the air is more of a nuisance and an irritant than an impairment as flamethrower-laden men and women dash to and fro to singe the remnants of Thread that have survived their fall to the ground. Orders shouted back and forth seem to conduct the movements of the gathered masses.
Muttered curses can be heard from a tall, lumpy man carrying a flamethrower. Why is he cursing? Oh, that's easy. A tiny bit of Thread nicked his shoulder. Healers speed over to him to - well - heal the man so he can get back to work.
Only a few brave souls venture out while Fall is directly overhead. And even these stay well close to the protective eaves of the Hold.
As the leading edge passes well out to sea, the dragons of Southern Weyr can be seen overhead. Flame erupts in gouts, protecting the land to the east and south. When it is safe, residents begin pouring out for groundcrewing.
Groundcrews break off into groups, as residents test flamethrowers, casting nervous eyes to the skies to the southeast. Dragonflame can be seen amidst the silvery rain of thread.
The ground crews stream outwards to cleared areas, moving cautiously through the jungle. You never know if a burrow could be growing just around the bend.
An errant Thread manages to get past the upper wings and the queen's wing, floating down to Pern with a sinister silence. A young huntress rushes in that direction, turning on her sprayer. Just before the spore hits the ground, it is smothered in agenothree and becomes nothing more than a bubbling, gooey mass.
A small group of residents scan the silvery skies for any escaping Thread. Nothing falls within their field of vision, though they remain watchful and alert.
Candidates scamper after an assistant steward, heading for several flamethrowers lined up on the ground. Each person takes one, then turns to wait expectantly, awaiting directions.
A youthful looking kitchen helper watches anxiously as activity around him mounts. His fingers twitch, then clutch at the sides of his pants as he watches an assistant headwoman pass out the canisters.
Two blonde haired men stand side by side, crimson flames shooting out of their flamethrowers to crisp some Thread that had fallen from the skies. They barely have time to glance at each other before they're called on to assist an older woman behind them.
The canister on an older man's back is hefted upward to reposition it after he finishes flaming a clump of Thread that *dared* to burrow on /his/ land. He snorts, then rolls his shoulders, eyeing the ashes in a condescending manner.
Shouts can be heard as a groundcrew team stumbles across the signs of an entrance burrow. Agenothree is carefully fired into the hole, the group stumbling back away, counting under their breaths. After a moment, a brown firelizard is dispatched into the hole, emerging with a pleased chirrup after a moment.
Deadly silvery filament heads toward the ground, merely a handsbreadth above it when its spotted. A howl of dismay comes from a nearby groundcrew, who rush over, agenothree ready to destroy the intruder, before it gets a hold in the vegetation.
Sweatsoaked and exhausted, a groundcrew fights their way through the brush, determination pushing them as they examine the surrounding area for burrows missed by the wings above. Firelizards swoop in tight circles overhead, tense cries echoing through the area.
Calls ring out from the brush as one groundcrew apparently finds something. There's a flurry of movement as those on the ground converge, staring intently at the site in question. A sigh of relief echoes through the clearing as the burrow is declared threadfree.
A newly dispatched crew charges out, a large brown taking flight again behind them. They fan out wide, careful step after careful step, searching the surrounding vegetation for signs of Thread.
All of a sudden, there are no more Threads raining down from above. Not even upon the myriad of dragons in the sky. Shouts of triumph are heard as more people realize that the only thing falling are bits of black dust.
Above, the sky is gloomy with clouds, filled with the threat of rain. Unseen but known -- Thread is soon to fall and likely won't be halted by the storm threatening the Hold and its lands. Dragons form their ranks in the sky -- row upon row upon row of greens, blues, browns, and bronzes ready for the Thread that soon begins to fall from spring-time sky. The blasts of their flames light the sky like the twinkling of stars, and the sounds of wings and voices drifts distantly, seeming close, yet so far at the same time.
The ranks of dragons and Thread slowly close in on Southern Hold, though the deadly, silvery rain is halted on high by the blast of fire issued with each dragon's breath. Thread occasionally escapes the bounds of dragonrider control however, and some slips through even the queen's diligent wing to fall unhindered to the waiting, welcoming ground, and it quickly burrows beneath.
One of the young queen dragons dips low in an effort to flame a clump of thread. The silvery strands are halted by fire and turned to char just before they reach the ground, their ash sprinkling the dirt and foliage below.
Unnoticed by the busy dragons above, a thread clump sneakily winds through the ranks, avoiding dragon and flame alike before it threatens the ground with its touch. As it lands, it consumes all around it, though plants soon heal due to grub infestation and thread disappears below the ground.
Above, the wings stir as they switch out old riders for new, and weyrlings bring new bags of firestone. In the resulting distraction, a few of the thread escape from fire and flame to drift toward the ground with the rain.
Sprinkles of rain soon patter down with the thread, and though most thread doesn't reach the ground, the rain certainly does, sinking into dry ground and laying atop it before slowly sinking in to turn dust into mud and create a morass of mess. Lightning strikes through the clouds but doesn't arc down, content to linger in the sky for now.
The rain becomes more insistent, pattering down against roof and ground with the sound of soft drumming. Some thread escapes the fires of dragons and down it comes, barely flamed by one of the queen's in time. Her flamethrower's fire scorches a tree where she flies close enough to catch it and thread. The rain slowly extinguishes what could be a disastrous fire.
Finally the rain stops as soon as it started, but here on the ground it's left quite a muddy mess. However, the resulting puddles have assisted in drowning any thread that lands and one such strand dies a slow death within the standing water it landed upon.
Thread thins out and stops altogether, and after a time the riders break off from one another. As sweep teams fly to all corners of the range the Thread fell, one heads toward Southern Hold, coming to inspect any damage.
The groundcrew leader issues orders for the crew to spread out and watch the skies. The next moment, the dragons burst out of *between*, well prepared for the spores that come falling soon after.
All seems to be going successfully until a weathered old sailor stumbles upon a recent burrow that slipped by without notice. He calls out a warning, activating his agenothree sprayer at the same time, and beckons any unoccupied crewers to assist.
At the very edge of 'fall, a stray, half-charred strand of Thread wafts along with the breeze. It is accompanied by a cloud of ash, neatly disguising it. Only a sharp-eyed watcher will be able to spot this one.
The coastal wind begins to pick up, making the descent of any silver filaments even more unpredictable. Various groundcrewers wipe soot and sweat from their faces, and they continue to vigilantly observe the heavens.
The last deathly Threads trickle down like rain to the verdant greenery. Very few avoid the hungry tongues of fire from the flamethrowers, and the rest are quickly drowned in agenothree. The groundcrew leader signals to do one last check for burrows.
A ground crew conga line is spreading out across the field, shouts audible in the night, dotted by the occasional *blast* of flame as the uninitiated test their flamethrowers, a few grimacing in anticipation at the burst of flame.
Weyr youngsters, several lanky lads and girls, begin setting up tables and such, assisting the healers and dragonhealers in preparation for the worst. Someone supervising then calls out instructions as he deals with a large folding table, and two of his assistants dash back towards the infirmary, returning with arms full.
A group of the ex-candidates from Jeuneth's clutch glance about nervously, clustering together with their flamethrowers held almost in dislike.
Three healers rush towards a 'rider that near collapses from his dragon's straps, holding tight to his middle in sheer pain. Aiding him to the ground, his nasty scoring is tended to, numbweed returning a smile of sorts to his face. "It's okay, Nimornth, I'm going to be fine," he insists.
"Onwards! Luine, get it!" One of the more experienced groundcrewers yells out to a resident, who jumps, glancing about, and only then manages to dart towards the falling thread, saving the ground from destruction. She earns a nasty look, and turns away, scowling.
The groundcrew line still emits flames on occasion, as the dragons above miss a few clumps. Another call for water erupts at the same moment that a half-charred thread segment flops onto ground.
Ground crews are hurriedly re-formed up amidst the chaos in the area and sent streaming towards the areas about, to ensure that no thread got through there.
A dragonhealer grimaces towards a blue creeling in pain, clamping tight the wound that runs from his neck to his tailtip. "It's going to be all right, H'min," he promises to the blue's rider, "Just wait and see. He'll be fine."
Parts of the groundcrew, confident that their sweeps were successful, trudge back toward the populated part of the field. Others continue scouring the ground, aided by the dragons above in their efforts to make sure that the grounds are thoroughly and truly safe once more.
A searing mass of thread, thrown one direction by a brief gust of wind, eludes the dragon wings, fluttering its silent threat downwards. It is unfortunate enough to be right under a vigilant groundcrew, where several crewers aim up within a few seconds, letting out scorching bursts of flame, which flickers up the length of the thread and consumes the writhing mass into ash.
One of the newer Candidates, Searched just this morning, scurries along as he tries to make sense of all the orders being shouted at him. With a frustrated sigh, he mumbles, "Shells, I never thought fightin' Thread was so complicated."
Flip-flop-fluttering goes some Thread, falling in delicate beauty and deadliness, evading dragons' breath and the queens' flamethrowers on its tumultuous turning path towards a food source. This food source just happens to be some Candidates, armed with 'throwers and sprayers, ready to help blast the thread to dust and destroy any burrow that might start before them.
A tiny, half-charred Thread comes drifting past the sky full of dragons, headed straight for a particularly leafy bush.
That Old Uncle that always watches and criticizes the groundcrew is back at it again. Waving his cane and yelling he shouts, "Y'know, this just gets better and better, donnit? Ya can't even chew your own firestone. Ya still need those dang machines! I'll show ya machines!" Hobbling on his cane, he makes his way to an empty agenothree thank, and bends over. Amazingly, he manages to heft it, and waves it above his head a moment. "Dangfangled thing!" He makes to throw it, but ends up tripping on the cane he dropped, the agenothree tank on his chest as he squirms in embarrassment, pinned to the ground.
Lead by an imperious little gold, a throng of firelizards maneuver their way through the groundcrew, chittering busily. As a small clump of the silver menace sails downwards, the 'lizards have charred it and gone before the crewers can even bat an eye.
A roaring of dragon's breath, a strong beat of wings, and a blink *between* leaves a hole in a formation, allowing one clump of Thread to fall through the protective wings. The writhing mass keeps floating down, falling into a soft growth of trees. It immediately starts to burrow, but a groundcrew finally arrives upon it, with some muttering about what to do as they see one tree withering just a little.
A silvery mass of Thread, hissing and twisting like a mass of venomous snakes makes its way to the outskirts of the groundcrew group, clearly visible but only within reach of the swiftest of crewmembers. Gently sizzling downward, it threatens to melt into the ground unless a quick crewmember reaches it in time.
A boy, almost too young to be on groundcrew, struggles to stay upright with the heavy tank on his back. A tall brunette smiles at him and takes the boy's hand, helping to steady him. "C'mon," she says. "We'll be a team."
Some stumbling idiot has managed to loose a flame on a tree, rather than a clump of Thread, and a small fire starts on the outskirts of the groundcrew assembly. Buckets of water are rushed to the scene as the flame begins to spread, creating danger for the valiantly fighting groundcrews, but managing to be useful as an unlucky Thread stand falls into the blaze.
A group of Candidates, fortunately or unfortunately, suddenly find themselves underneath a fluttering Thread patch. With no dragon in the sky, they are the only threat the Thread has to face before it can hit the ground and start eating away at the lush plant life.
As Threadfall has tapered off, the duties of the groundcrew have become fewer and fewer. Sparse clouds of charred dust descend upon the watchful crew, but no more live Thread. Orders are still given to search for burrows, but shortly it is clear that no more remain.
Flashes of red-gold can be seen on the horizon, the wings of Southern fighting valiantly to protect the land below to which they are bequeathed. Grey, Blue, Brown and Bronze blur together, though not enough to shun the grey wall that sheets between them. As the groundcrews move forward, their part no less valiant, shouts flow up and down the lines as one burrow after another is found. The wings do their job, but when the Thread falls thick, it will get through.
Tricky, this thread, a steaming pile of the poison spores escape capture by the flaming dragons above to tumble as unobtrusively as they can towards the lush green that lies below.
A fairly small, airy piece of Thread manages to survive through the ranks of the dragons and riders above, caught by a soft gust of wind that trails it towards one of the younger groundcrew members.
Just at the edge of sight, a writhing clump of thread drops among the foliage, immediately burrowing beneath a fruit tree.
As the wingleaders pick up the patterns of the air currents, the mistakes begin to thin out. The time for close attention is at hand. Two metallic twists of Thread slip away from capture to rain havoc below.
A branch falls from a tree, directly in front of < I > barely missing injuring them, as Thread finally eats through the wood and soft pulp beneath. Divested of its living substance from which to feed, it begins to burrow into the grass, leaving nothing but death in its wake.
The wings are flying marvelously from above. All seems to be proceeding flawlessly until the wind picks up. A string of silver toned Thread cascade in a malicious waterfall towards the ground.
Strong gusts of wind herald the approach of a dragon, flying low, champagne gold, the colour of the Weyrwoman's Tiarnath, as the two double back, having taken care of one problematical tangle missed by the Wings above. A signal is sent to the Groundcrew leader by the rider almost swamped by the large gold, as they head back, a signal that directs to another Thread hollow, seen easily above, and lending a dangerous path for the Groundcrew.
Two clumps of the deadly strings drop from above. Just as they are about to fall below wing level, a sparkling young green nimbly dips down, her flaming breath crackling as she chars one clump. The second falls, heading directly for < Crew member >.
Pock marks sear the ground, leaving naught but soil as a trace of its existence. But Thread it is, several tangles having slipped the wings here, left to mark their death-path unless the Groundcrews flame them beyond this world. Holes enlarge with every minute, a trap for any of the unwary who doesn't watch their step.
A hissing sound shoots from a pile of nearby bushes. They rattle and quiver as the thread attacks their very core.
The soft hiss of something marking its passage in the air is the only warning the Groundcrews get of the Threadfall that blows on an odd tangent, sent this way by some freakish thermal to threaten the safety of the crews. It barely misses < I >, passing over their head like a comet streaking the sky, and falling to devour the ground at their backs.
Another gale-like gust from above sends a shower of Thread pouring down to the ground. A blanket of firelizards do what they can to help; indeed, they char a fair portion of the missed spores. Several clumps still make their way onwards, dropping right above < crew member >, < crew member >, and < crew member >.
The tail end of the fall sheets over the wings above. All seems quiet and under control until the hissing becomes audible. Snapping and crackling, Thread burns through the tangled roots of a tree.
The Fall of Thread suddenly tapers off, the fighting wings and queens catching the last, drifting filaments that twist their way downwards, ceasing the activity that bustled in the skies before. A lone strand of Thread falls downward, past the wings and slipping through the ranks of the queens, reaching in its lone position for the waiting groundcrew below.