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Pre-fall emits are descriptions of the Weyr preparing for Threadfall. They usually occur in the Landing Field, fairly soon before the dragons depart. They are commonly about checking straps and gear, readying firestone, preparation of the groundcrew, preparation of healers, mounting up, and ending with the Weyrleader's signal to go.
March 4, 2000:
A hot gust of wind blows through, offering no relief from the heat. The empty blue sky begins to take on a silvery-gray hue, and a dark line is just barely visible on the horizon.
Riders, residents, staff, and candidates rush about the field, each going about their separate duties. Dragons are spread out over the entire area with their lifemates nearby, checking gear.
Sack upon sack of firestone is brought out and placed in piles. Most riders are now gathered next to their dragons, examining straps and other equipment. Goldriders industriously inspect the flamethrowers and verify that all have enough fuel.
A crunching sound is heard as the dragons start chewing firestone. Soon the dry air is filled with the pungent smell and the constant munching noise.
As the ominous line moves closer above, the preparations intensify. Healers confer with the dragonhealers and ready their supplies. Members of the groundcrew make certain their agenothree tanks are full and the sprayers are working properly. Riders re-check the straps on their lifemates, as well as their own helmets, gloves, and goggles. Every now and then a pair of eyes glances up and an expression of grim determination settles on another face.
Though Rukbat relentlessly sends sweltering waves of heat down upon Southern Weyr, glaring brightly, the sky grows dimmer by the candlemark. The sinister Threads draw ever closer.
All throughout the field, the Wingleaders give the signal for the riders to mount up and prepare to head skyward.
When every rider is mounted and strapped in, ready to go, the Weyrleader raises his arm. The gesture is the undeniable sign to all the wings that now is the time to rise and fight.
Suddenly the deep grayish sky is filled with gold, bronze, brown, blue, and green as all wings are unfurled and the Southern dragons launch themselves into the air. Bugles and trumpets can be heard as the dragons voice their defiance to the deadly enemy.
June 7, 2000:
A young weyrling on re-supply duty rushes in to the field; late, with his brown ambling in at a lazy pace behind him. The boy salutes N'all, looking rather self-conscious, and turns away to load young Tiylth with re-supply sacks.
Two young girls brandishing flame throwers giggle amoung themselves, turning to make eyes at a young bronzerider with a cute butt who waggles his hips at them as he straps up Ghorth.
The healers set up the tables, setting out the needed supplies with a hasty efficiency that suits them well.
Ghorth's rider, K'yae, slaps his bronze on the rump and chuckles, mounting up with just a little more wriggle than really is needed. In he straps, waiting for the signal of his wingleader.
The wings of Southern Weyr gather on the ground, loosely ranged into wings, and formation, but not given the room down here that they will have in the sky. Green, blue, brown and bronze, all wait, fidgeting in anticipation of the fight to come, riders feeding their lifemates firestone, piece after piece.
Weyrlings shout across the field, checking on the individual bags of firestone, and then hefting them onto their backs and toting them across towards whichever wing they've been assigned. Riders carefully secure them to their straps, handing empty bags back to the weyrlings from where they've feed their lifemates.
Consternation is raised as one weyrling dragon, his first threadfall, lets loose an accidental belch of fire -- the anticipation and the overdue wait at fighting the legendary menace too much for this bronze. People duck, and apart from one seared blade of grass nothing is injured or destroyed. The wingleader bellows out a warning, sufficient enough to cause the new rider to blush profusely.
Clouds begin to gather on the eastern horizon, dark and pregnant, though not with rain. The track down towards the Hold from the weyr slowly begins to grow gloomy, shadows cast deeper by the trees.
The landing field is a flurry of activity, with riders assembling in their wing groups. Residents stream down the path between the weyr and the Hold as groundcrews are assembled.
The clouds advance, ominous gray and black, creeping slowly across the sky. The leading edge is soon to appear to rain silvery death down upon the Hold.
Skyfury wing has riders scrambling for firestone, the sounds of dragon tooth pulverizing rock and grating upon jangled nerves. Riders call to each other, as weyrlings run out bags of stone to them.
A greenrider in Skyfury starts quibbling with a bluerider from Nightveil over a bag of firestone. The pair is soon hushed by the Nightveil wingleader.
July 11, 2000:
Dragonhealers and healers are the epitome of calmness in the sea of the chaos of Threadfall preparation. They go about their business, directing tubs of numbweed and redwort to be stationed at different points in the landing field, double checking supplies of bandages, needles and water.
An over anxious resident carrying a tray of klah mugs dashes across the field at full steam, not watching where he is going. When met with a wall of brown dragon, he falls backwards, tray flying in one direction, hot klah splashing everywhere.
A head cook calmly directs a group of drudges to deal with the broken pottery. He continues on his way, carrying a tray of wineskins, placing them near the healers station.
A mask-like film blots out the full light of the sky, but still no overt menace is in sight
Aitara flashes her arms through the air to get her wingseconds' attention. Once their eyes are on her, she makes the form up gesture while shouting the words and the command ripples down the ranks. Nightveil dragons begin to rise to their feet and shift positions. Tumalath ends up behind the blues on the left flank, one slightly larger green in front of her.
A well trained group of residents head toward the pile of sacks at a light trot. Immediately, they heft sacks in their arms, and toss them to nearby Wingriders, falling easily into the rhythm that they have been taught. Each motion is carefully timed to prevent any possibility of collision or accident.
A green dragon bursts from *between*, carrying a couple of Healer Apprentices, who look nervous and out of place. They scramble their way down and make their way to the healer's station. They desperately try not to look like this is their first threadfall assignment. One is nearly beaned when she walks in between firestone sacks being thrown.
P'trad catches a tossed sack of firestone, and swarms halfway up Phereth's straps to tie it on as another sack is set by the dragon's feet by a useful weyrling. He shouts something vaguely comprehensible downwards, and gets another one thrown to him, which he ties to the dragon's other side, balancing the weight. Then he is on the ground again, a flurry of activity only identifiable by his speed of motion and his rather loud shouts.
The ground crew seems to be ready for the last part of its preparation. Crewers pair up, or are paired up by crew leaders, checking the tanks and nozzles on the agenothree canisters. At last, arms go through the straps, crewers shifting and squirming until they're as comfortable as can be.
A group of Healer apprentices gather behind a master, chattering quietly until a cool gaze sends them quavering about, setting up the tables and tents, all ready for their own threadfall battle.
A tall holder gathers his team of groundcrewers together, nodding his head firmly as they each test their flamethrower, and set off in their commanded direction.
August 31, 2000:
Dragons, of various colors and sizes, begin to lumber or fly in to the landing field, accompanied by their lifemates. They, along with the healers, residents, and candidates, begin to prepare for the onslaught of Pern's ancient enemy.
"How's Talteth today?" asks a wingsecond of one of his wingmates, checking on a dragon injured in a previous Fall. "We're both right as rain," chirps the fresh-faced young bluerider with a jaunty salute.
Seeming to come in the direction of a long line of dragons and riders, a loud yell Is heard. "You did /what/??" Some heads turn in that general direction, most try to ignore it by concentrating on their preparations.
Two wingriders work at preparing, pausing to speak in low tones. They break out in laughter, then hush almost immediately when their Wingleader sends them a wary glance.
A tall, lanky WingSecond speaks to his Wingleader, nodding occasionally, then hastens off to perform whatever task was given to him.
A pair of twins, recently split up into different wings, glance toward each other as they make their preparations. There's a lot one could read in that look. Perhaps worry? Fear? Loneliness?
Weyrlings pass to and fro, distributing firestone sacks, followed by echoes of thanks and a brief silence as sacks are checked and firestone considered before the first pieces are selected for dragon consumption.
Two bags of 'stone fall from the hands of a young rider as she tries to carry too many at once. One bag rolls on top of a nearby bluerider's boot, causing him to look up suddenly. A big smile forms as he notes whom it is. "No problem," he says, not waiting for an apology.
Riders pass carefully selected hunks of firestone to their lifemates and the distinctive sound of dragonish chewing becomes omnipresent for a while. Riders sit back and wait, skittish now for the signal to go aloft.
Amongst the goldriders, quiet chatter passes back and forth as nozzles, straps and tanks are checked on the flamethrowers, and gossip from the previous evening is swapped.
Straps are checked and dragons soothed as the time before launching into the skies draws nearer. On almost every face is written the anticipation of rising to fight thread, though here and there nervousness or even taciturn resignation can be seen, depending on the personality of the rider.
From the far side of a green, her lifemate tosses the fighting straps up and over the dragon's back. It barely misses smacking a passing Wingleader. Oops. "Sorry," she offers as she stoops to peer out from underneath that emerald belly.
"D'ye think Cloudchase will continue to bear up?" a rather dubious sounding brownrider asks his wingmate covertly. His companion shrugs her shoulders, "Don't see why they shouldn't" she answers rather brusquely and goes back to checking straps.
A young rider, only recently graduated into the fighting wings, looks about, pale-faced with nerves and excitement. When he thinks no one is looking, he ducks under his dragon's wing and hurls up the contents of his stomach, wiping his mouth self-consciously.
Blue, brown, green, gold and bronze wings, glimmer in the sun's rays, a panoply of colors across the landing field, a brightly colored patchwork as dragons prepare to take to the skies in pursuit of Pern's ancient menace.
The wingleaders and seconds pass through the ranks, giving last minute instructions and a good pep talk to their riders. A nod here, a head shake there and the leaders return to their lifemates to prepare for the final signal.
Groups of riders and dragons huddle around, waiting for the signal to make formation and take to the skies. Snippets of conversation, tinged with excitement rise here and there, trading tips, rumors, gossip, anything to pass the time and harness the inevitable rush of adrenaline before Fall.
September 26, 2000:
It is a warm spring day and a mild breeze bearing from the east is in the air. Puffs of clouds streak across the sunny, brilliant sky, doing their best at times to obscure the face of the sun while casting interesting shadow-shapes across the land. Far to the east and south, the clouds bear the tinge of gray, and are slightly thicker.
The dragons of various wings begin to gather on the flat spaces of Southern Weyr. Blue, Green, Brown, and Bronze dragons stipple the ground from Landing Field to the Lakeside Meadow. A clump of golden queens hold pride of place as they begin to gather and prepare.
Sacks filled with the bulky commodity of firestone are piled everywhere in large clumps for each wing's preparation. Older weyrlings run back and forth, assisting riders by bearing bags to those furthest and meeting them halfway.
The creak of leather sounds through the fields, echoed from dragon to dragon as riders check and check again at the equipment that might be all that saves them from death. One rider's curses resound as he finds a flaw in a harness strap, necessitating a trip to fetch a second pair.
The sound of rocks tumbling against one another along with a crumbling and crunching begin to fill the air with their song as riders feed their dragons the stone that causes flame. Rock after rock finds its way from rider hands or firestone bag to dragon mouth, where it quickly disappears.
A blue dragon tosses his head up as he masticates the firestone mass in his mouth, and suddenly he squeals as he spits rock and ichor to the side after biting his tongue. His rider soothes him with gentle pats, and a murmur of encouraging words follows.
A young man races out to meet the riders with a sack of firestone almost too large to see over. He stumbles as he nearly trips over a terrified canine, which races, yowling, for cover. The rider nearest the boy turns and holds out a hand to help steady his balance, while taking the sack of stone to feed his dragon with.
It takes time to chew enough firestone necessary to firmly stoke the fire within each dragon, and as time passes, so does conversation. The murmur of words spoken from rider to dragon or rider to rider fill the air along with every other noise to create a true morass of loud sound that drowns out individual noise.
Wingleader A'tis of Monsoon can be seen walking around amongst his wing, his words likely meant to inspire courage or give last minute instructions to each rider. Gradually the dragons of Monsoon form up into fighting ranks by his direction so they may be ready to fly when the Weyrleader gives the signal.
The susurration of hides against the ground as each dragon moves into those positions required of their wing sibilantly whispers across the fields. Even as they prepare to move into battle rankings, the very last sweep team comes in. The roar of dragon wings suddenly sounds from the air above Southern Weyr as they appear from Between.
A few dragons clear space on the field for the sweep team to land. Once they do, the lead dragon's rider, Theriana hops down from her dragon and pushes up her goggles. She approaches the leader of the Fall and gives the final sweep report, "Sir, there's a cool breeze and storm clouds gathering in the east from Southern Hold. There's no rain yet, but the clouds are threatening! Other than that the weather's clear, and Southern and all other nearby cots and holds are bundled up tight for the Fall!" She salutes at the end of her itemized report.
After Theriana is dismissed, she and her team head off to begin preparing for the later part of Fall as relief team with the others of her wing, who have been designated for the second half of Fall.
Once the excitement from the sweep team's approach dies down and dragons once more gain their positions, a feeling of tense anticipation seems to fill the air. Now the last sweep has been done. Dragon fire has been stoked and Threadfall is imminent, all it requires now is the leader's command to fly.
October 14, 2000:
The field is soon packed with dragons, riders, healers, weyr staff, and even fairs of firelizards fluttering about on various errands. The dragons and riders gather with their wingmates, reporting dutifully to their wingleader.
A bluerider in Firedance leans close to his lifemate to make sure that his straps are on properly. He grimaces and unbuckles the straps, readjusting them, and buckles them again. After a second inspection, the rider smiles satisfactorily and goes to check his other gear.
Snatches of murmured conversation drift over from a small knot of Starflame riders, W'hin's voice suddenly heard above the rest. "It doesn't matter, that's just the way it's done." The discussion comes to an abrupt halt as the weyrlings, carrying bags of firestone, come around to that section of the field, and the green and blueriders are quickly immersed in attending to more pressing duties.
The rough, grating scrape of dragonteeth against 'stone fills the air as the wingriders begin to feed their dragons, growing to a near cacophony as the hundreds of massed dragons slowly pulverize the pungent rock.
Healer masters, followed by their journeymen and apprentices, ready themselves for any injuries to come. They are armed with instruments, ointments, fresh water, clean cloths, and a seemingly endless supply of numbweed. Thus, they wait patiently.
The majority of riders have finished feeding firestone to their lifemates and doing last minute checks. Seeing this, the Weyrleader gives the signal to mount up.
A flurry of activity fills the landing field as riders mount their dragons, the shimmering colors dotting the field with patches of green, blue, brown, and bronze, the faint clink of metal echoing as each buckles into his or her straps.
Gathered together, the queens' wing continues its preparations as well, 'throwers given a final check and straps a final inspection before they too mount up, and all the dragons await the command to rise.
The last of the riders are mounted and strapped in, the groundcrew is equipped, and the other weyrfolk are prepared to help defend their beloved home from their ancient foe. All eyes look to Skyfury, and from there comes the signal to ascend. Almost as one, the dragons launch themselves into the air, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors.
November 28, 2000:
One of the drudges has set out glows about the entrance to the weyrhall, while another is doing the same across the landing field, for the dragonhealers. Everywhere, the weyr is bustling in preparation for the upcoming evening Threadfall.
Residents begin assorting themselves into work groups, some running errands, some hastily filling firestone sacks to be used later in the fall.
One of the older aunties in the weyr begins to direct the littles to carry kettles of water out from the hall, setting them up carefully on a table for healers. There is an overall tension in the air, as people go about their preparations. The auntie is scolding the children as she moves, making sure they do not spill the precious water.
The dragons begin arriving in the landing field, first singly, and then in pairs. Finally the whole of Monsoon wing settles together with precision timing. The shouts of riders greeting each other can be heard above the controlled chaos.
The field is soon packed with dragons, riders, healers, weyr staff, and even fairs of firelizards fluttering about on various errands, all reaching for the 'fall that comes. The dragons and riders gather with their wingmates, reporting dutifully to their wingleader. Choruses of voices insist that there will be no injuries, no loss.
In the middle of the landing field, two ex-candidates nearly knock each other silly, in a collision. Noma dashes from a green dragon's side, in a hurry to complete the task she's been assigned, and runs headlong into the sack-carrying Ruthann. The dust clears, and both pick themselves up, bruised but unhurt - and dash off hardly exchanging a word.
K'run yells out towards his wingmates, tone slightly insipid: "No injuries, I tell you. None. Hear me, Cloudchase? K'yae, ensure that there are none. Else--" Whatever else it is gets lost beneath a crunch from K'run's lifemate.
Riders are calling for firestone, in the midst of checking straps and organizing. There is a lot of nervous joking from the crowd, as well as bets being placed. Apparently, there's a rumor that the Weyrleader is indeed back and will lead the Fall. Wingleaders start barking to riders to attend to their tasks, and the betting goes on in whispers.
The air, filled with the sounds of dragons rumbling, crunching the chunks of firestone to rubble, becomes near to deafening. And yet, above the grinding, shouts can be heard, well-wishes from weyrfolk to the riders, ex-candidates calling to one another, riders shouting to wingmates.
One of the Harper apprentices begins to organize the littles in song. Their voices are fierce and proud, as if they could somehow protect the dragonpairs going off into battle.
A young pair of lovers exchange a parting kiss, pulled apart by Aitara, who spares both little more than a withering look: "There's work to be done, shardit. Save the candling until -after- the 'fall."
The scurrying residents continue to fetch and carry, but as the clouds roll in closer, several hunch down as they work, feeling the oppressiveness. Fitting to the dark masses overhead, the grinding of dragontooth against stone continues, reverberating against the hot, still air.
"I'm sooo going to die! Look at my hair!" A young greenrider, pretty in her tasteful emerald leathers, pokes at the workable braid in her hair, sighing. "I can't believe they're making me wear it like this, even for 'fall."
Riders pass carefully selected hunks of firestone to their lifemates and the distinctive sound of dragonish chewing becomes omnipresent for a while. Riders sit back and wait, skittish now for the signal to go aloft.
Groups of riders and dragons huddle around, waiting for the signal to make formation and take to the skies. A few younger riders go pale as an experimental burst of flame is set off from one young brown, each turning away to face their own lifemate, and their own thoughts.
A young, still fairly new to the wings rider pulls hesitantly at her straps, patting her blue lifemate with a calculating smile. "We'll be fine. I'm sure we will. Just don't let yourself get hurt, huh?"
The signal is sent out to mount up, and dragons of all hues dutifully crouch, allowing their riders a better hold to mount them. Groundcrew members are helped up by some of the riders, who move on ahead to get the crews to their places on time.
K'hlan climbs atop blue Amneth with a calculating glance sent towards his Wingleader, and then Auralia, his wingsecond. Shaking his head, he returns to his busy strapping in, words whispered towards his lifemate. The blue warbles, pacing in expectation for the 'fall ahead.
Nods pass between Wingleaders and their 'seconds, as the wings prepare themselves with final instructions, formations readily formed to allow efficiency as the signal to rise into the air is made.
All around, the wings rise up towards the skies with ranks of blue, green, brown, bronze and gold radiating into a pattern of colour almost pretty when seen from below.
February 26, 2001:
Murmurs of conversation can be heard as riders and residents move about the field, preparing for the impending onslaught. Nervous laughter is heard from some of the younger riders, and from several of the more inexperienced Candidates.
Above the hustle and bustle of pre-fall preliminaries, the sky is a bright blue expanse, dotted with the occasional cloud. Only one thing mars this picture of a perfect summer's afternoon - the sinister silver smudge looming on the horizon.
Dragons are examined by their riders, looking for any minor strains or pulls from the day before that might hinder performance later in fall, and checking straps by tugging the bindings and buckles. The wings then start forming up, each going to its assigned area and lining up as wingleaders start doing their inspection of each wing.
Two rider sweethearts meet briefly before they separate back into their wings. A quick kiss and a whisper of good luck are given as the greenrider and the bluerider clamber up the sides of their mounts, hoping the other will return un-scored.
Candidates hasten through the field, going about their various chores and duties. Some carry sacks of firestone to riders, some assist the healers and dragonhealers, and others ready the agenothree sprayers and flamethrowers for the groundcrew.
"Heads up!" calls a brownrider as he tosses a bag of firestone to one of his wingmates. The other rider catches the bag deftly and opens it, pulling out a few pieces of the pungent rock for her lifemate.
Crunch crunch crunch. The noise of a weyr preparing for battle. Rocks being masticated and crushed in dragon jaws and then swallowed seems to provide a constant rumble around Southern, broken only by the occasional bugle and roar from a bitten tongue. Soon after, a dragonhealer is at its side, nursing the poor dragon so they can fly Fall.
Orders ripple down the chain of command as quickly as it takes Thread to burrow. From Weyrleader to Wingleaders and their Wingseconds, to the wingriders, the words 'Mount up' echo through the Landing Field. Riders nod and take hold of their straps, hauling themselves up onto their lifemates.
Healers and helpers alike rush about as riders mount up, preparing the healing tools that will be needed for the returning warriors. Everyone is busy; even the littles have been put to work, holding various containers off to the side.
The dragons in the fighting wings are now growing restless, eager to leap to the skies to do what they know best...flame thread. A pair of riders bicker over whose dragon will flame more thread, healers rush about, and dragons rustle their wings. An air of excitement hangs about the atmosphere.
June 23, 2001:
A stillness that is almost abnormal for the Weyr holds the air. All of a sudden, a signal is given and the fields spring to life. Riders, dragons, firestone, gear, and the clank and clatter of pre-fall preparations have begun.
Towering mountains of flesh swarm around the Landing Field, small creatures scurrying underfoot. Dragons and humans alike begin to prepare, each doing his or her own part to get things going as quickly as possible.
To one side of the landing field the Dragonhealers set up their things: the large table with bowls of redwort, the bucket loads of numbweed, the suturing threads, and pressure bandages. The worst can happen, but these vigilant people will be on the lookout, trying to stem the problems from exacerbating.
Groundcrew begins to congregate, most hefting agenothree tanks easily. One fair-skinned maiden sighs as she fails to lift the weight, for fear of rumpling her dress. "I just can't do this," she says with a toss of her golden hair, and prances away to do something else.
Ground crews assemble, and their leaders nod in respect to the riders as they pass through the field on their way out. "The air seems still enough today, hopefully this will be an easy fall," a resident comments, saluting < wingleader > and moving on.
A young girl of about fourteen turns pauses at the edge of the Landing Field for a moment. She announces to the world, "I am coming, to aid the magnificent dragonriders in whatever way I can, for they are the protectors of Pern!" Fist is waved challengingly at the sky, and she scurries to groundcrew, determined look set upon her features. Many snicker at her little speech, but she doesn't care as her duties distract her mind.
Over-anxious, one of the nannies returns after filing her children away to safety. "Has everyone had enough to eat?" she crows, "Food? Water? Keep your energy up, dears!" In all of her skittering, she finally ends up in front of < Rider > with her basket of goodies outstretched.
A resident rushes over to one of the Smiths, thrusting out his flamethrower with a concerned glance. "It's not working when I depress the button," he remarks. The smith looks over it, deft hands easy across the metal, and puts it to one side. "Find another lad, that one is a little dangerous right now."
A small pack of experienced riders stand in low conversation. Occasionally they look to the horizon with frowns in place on their faces.
A grunt comes from one rider as a firestone sack catches her unprepared for the weight. She flashes a grin at the resident who tossed it, and opens it, beginning to feed her lifemate the 'stone within.
Candidates, watched carefully by their coordinators, are escorted about the fields, stopping at various stations to learn and perform a number of preparatory tasks.
All around, dragons of every hue and shade crunch down, masticating firestone, the odd premature flame, quickly quenched, escaping from the former weyrlings. Except for the golds, who wait patiently to one side as their riders inspect flamethrower tanks.
The skies dot with local firelizards, some wild, some recognizable as coming from the Weyr. They chitter excitedly, eyes whirling red towards a tiny gray smudge far off in the distance.
A rider shouts a warning to a newly graduated weyrling as their lifemate lets out a premature burst of flame, almost injuring one of his other newly former classmates. The new rider lowers his head, and then encourages his lifemate to calm.
A hurrying assistant comes running towards a healer, calling, "I have the salve-oomph!" Apparently that salve will be needed quickly as the clumsy assistant trips on his own feet, winding up on his face.
Two very young children run in and out amongst the dragons and riders. Far across the field a nanny searches frantically for the two little escapees. Just as they think they have evaded that old nanny for good, the children make the mistake of hiding right behind the beautiful golden tail of < gold dragon >.
As the final minutes of preparation inch on, the moment finally arrives. All of the children and residents simply out to view the excitement are shuffled back to the Weyr, leaving ground crew and wings to do their job.
The air rumbles as more and more dragons munch away. Cloudchase, clustered around K'run, are firing up to the southeast, while Monsoon is looking serious as they gather together. Younger weyrlings and residents run back and forth with last minute preparations while healers frown and consider their stores.
A tiny girl almost hidden beneath the bag of stone in her arms runs headlong into a bronzerider from Nightveil who scoops up the lass, kissing her on the forehead and sends her back towards her mother.
Most of the wings are pretty much mounted up, and waiting with quiet patience for the order to take to the skies. There are a lot of anxious faces all over, seasoned riders and newly tapped wingmates alike. The dragons rumble with anticipation.
The healer apprentices scurry across the field, as if joined by the hip, to the triage area and wait for the first injuries to appear. Their master healer arranges the apprentices to where they won't be in the way much to their disgust.