Big Bada Boom

Xanadu Weyr - Council Chambers
Effort has obviously been spent on this room and the result is understated luxury. The elongated room, situated between the Weyrleaders' and Weyrsecond's office, faces the clearing. Two large windows are flanked by heavy antique bronze jacquard drapes and further shielded by ivory-colored sheers that allow a diffuse light inside. The walls and recessed ceiling are of a polished granite that gleams a pale cream flecked with gold in the soft overhead lighting.
Much of the tapestry-carpeted floor is occupied by a long, heavy table of Lemos hardwood, stained dark and then polished to a brilliant shine. Hanging in the space above the head and foot of the table are heavy frames of that same dark hue with a finely painted landscape in each. They're signed by the artist, a scrawl that begins with M.
Each place at that table is made ready with an elegant blotter made of leather, along with a fine pen and a pad of paper. The cushioned chairs are fashioned from the same dark hardwood, the backs and seats upholstered with softly-tanned leather. The room seats perhaps twenty or so, but can be used for more informal meetings as well, and a potted palm in the corner reminds those meeting here of the world outside these walls.

As anyone with enough experience at it can tell you, it's difficult being tall. We know Ila-player won't understand this reference, but perhaps they can engage their imagination, seek to understand just how it feels for R'hyn to be leaning against the wall in a 'paint me like one of your Rubicon girls' pose, one hip canted to take the weight off a leg sporting the metal struts of a knee brace, corresponding arm lifted high up over his head to keep the rod of a curtain perched at its normal height. It's entirely possible he was expecting company in the chambers today - fresh food has been set out, the table dusted, carpets put in place; what he wasn't expecting was for one of the curtains to come crashing down as he threw them open to let the summer sunshine in, or to have to send his perfectly capable (but much shorter) assistant off to fetch help to (at least temporarily) repair it. It's fine. They've totally got this. Shit show? WHAT SHIT SHOW. That's a lovely goose-egg he's sporting on his forehead, though - it brings out the disgruntlement in his eyes, and the red of the tunic tucked into dark pants.

HOW ACTUALLY DARE YOU????? YOU KNOW WHO ELSE WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND THE WOES OF BEING TALL: R'HYN'S PLAYER. SHE THINKS SHE GOT THOSE HEIGHT GAINS, BUT REALLY SHE IS JUST A SHAWTY IN DENIAL!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ila'den, however. Ila'den understands the indignity of being tall; he knows all about being at the markets and having tiny, short, unnecessarily angry humans pterodactyl screech about help reaching something on the top shelf. He doesn't know about wayward curtains, though. Or their penchant for falling on faces. Ouch. WHAT ILA'DEN DOES KNOW is that that assistant was probably not intended for him, but was waylaid by his very existence anyway because it's not exactly a secret as to just who Ila'den calls home. And so it is probably thanks to Lady Luck exercising her incredibly rude humor that R'hyn's (un)fortunate enough to have garnered the help of one (1) Ila'den and the incredibly casual lean he executes against the doorframe in lieu of helping R'hyn at all. One, two, FIVE, and Ila'den moves. "That looks comfortable, baby." SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. What's that sound? OH, THAT'S JUST ILA'DEN, GRABBING A CHAIR TO DRAG IT CLOSER TO THE CATASTROPHE, ALLOWING THE LEGS TO SING THE SONG OF THEIR RUDE ASS PEOPLE before Ila'den stops, and settles into it, and brings his arms around the back, chin tucked into the curve of one palm, as that grey eye settles once more on the Weyrleader. That brow rises, those lips pull in an abslutely irreverent upward arc and — "Hey." ILA'DEN. DID YOU LITERALLY COME HERE TO CHECK OUT R'HYN WHILE HE STANDS THERE IN EXCEEDING DISCOMFORT? Yes. Yes he did, but he's rasping husky laughter soon enough, gaining his feet so that he can actually step into R'hyn's space, raise one hand to help hold the burden of the murderous curtain-thing, and take in that goose egg. "You alright?" Because LISTEN, despite the HECKIN' RUDE ENTRANCE, there's a genuine reflection of concern.

OOOOH. FIGHT FIGHT! TH'ERO'S PLAYER WILL JUST SIT IN THE 'AVERAGE HEIGHT' PEANUT GALLERY BOX WITH SNACKS. Th'ero, however, is probably the "smol" one here of this unlikely trio, standing as he is at a whopping six foot NOTHING. But who said size matters? EYYY. It's going to be in the echos of those dulcet tones of mating calls chairs being dragged over stone that he makes his APPEARANCE which, NOT SURPRISING, will have him stalling in the doorway. WHY IS HE HERE? Fort's Weyrleader looks, as always, like he wishes to be anywhere but here and that DOUBLES IN SOURNESS when the source of chaos is determined. OF COURSE! Of course. It's them. Siiiiighhhh. LISTEN! Listen, he's at least got SOME MANNERS and doesn't go making callous remarks about the tableau too obvious to be ignored missed. So guess what? Th'ero's gonna do what he always does in the wake of shit storms like this and just WAIT. No, no, guys seriously take your time! He'll just stand at attention, arms crossed and glower (politely) the whole time.

GASPPPPPPPPP. THIS, OF COURSE, MEANS WAR!! POP THAT POPCORN, IT'S ABOUT TO BE A BUMPY RIDE. R'hyn, meanwhile, is bored as can be. He's taken to counting the fruits hanging on the vines that decorate the curtains he's holding up, and it is that same flat, unamused, vaguely vacant look that he rolls in Ila's direction when his weyrmate appears in the doorframe instead of any one of the number of people who could actually help (no offence ila bby but listen, ignore the sing-along blog, it doesn't count when the hammer is your—). "Dick," R'hyn insults as Ila's chair caterwauls its way across the floor, potential rudeness rather ruined by the upwards quirk at the corners of his lips. "I didn't want your help, anyways," is sassed even as the bronzer moves to help him, though there's a hint of gratitude in his eyes as he takes the opportunity to step away and rub at the muscles of his arm. "Yeah, I'm fine." BUT HIS EGO IS NOT, not when the presence at the door catches his attention, cheeks coloring faintly because he can only imagine what this looks like, the both of them leaned up against the wall, neither of them nearly cognizant enough of things like personal space, and so he does what all perfectly sensible, definitely intelligent people do in such a situation, and he leans into it. "Weyrleader," R'hyn greets, fighting fire with fire, and by fire we mean 'glowering,' and by other fire we mean 'hands skidding up Ila's body as R'hyn sways close, chin down, eyes up, all invitation as he pitches his voice into a low purr'. "It's been a while. Come to join us again?" No wonder Th'ero looks forward to coming to Xanadu SO MUCH. SHEESH. At least it's clear that he's joking, sultry expression immediately wrecked by a wide grin and a rude laugh as he makes to abandon Ila in favor of offering Th'ero a proper handshake. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. Brain damage, you know," said with a good-natured gesture towards the lump on his head. "Come in? I'll…" Well. There isn't really much to be done about the curtain except hold it in place or drop it, so he kind of shrugs helplessly at Ila and puts that responsibility on HIM. Ya welcome.

ONE! ONE VINE, AH, AH, AH. "Is that a proposition, Heryn, or are you making an observation?" It's all rasped on low-pitched, husky tones that would sound desolate and harsh if not for the amusement filling in the gaps between every syllable. But listen, the important part is when Ila'den is standing there supporting the curtains while R'hyn rests his arms, then suddenly isn't because Th'ero is also standing there. GLOWERING. MAGNIFICENT. A PERFECT PORTRAIT OF FORT'S FRIGID WINTERS GIVEN MAN-FORM. And maybe Ila would comment on all that ICE if things weren't suddenly TOO DAMN HOT. Because there are R'hyn's hands on his person, the lean of his weyrmate's weight in against his own, the answers coil of muscles going taut beneath them as Ila'den braces to support them both without the stability of his own hands and that grey eye pulling away from Th'ero to fix on R'hyn with a rubberband SNAP that's unnervingly feral (and intent) despite their company. But even now, dark humor pulls as the corners of his mouth, hints at canines, answers the mischief inherent to R'hyn's pose even as the weyrleader moves away, even as Ila'den's eye follows him with zero compunctions about where he's watching until they're jumping up to Th'ero and one brow is rising high toward his hairline. "I would shake your hand, but…" There's a roll of his shoulders, an empty space filled with the implications that he's HOLDING RODS, AND NOT THE FUN KIND OF RODS, AND HOW DID IT EVEN GET TO THIS, WE'RE GOING TO BLAME R'HYN, AND THEN TH'ERO, AND THEN THE CURTAINS. IN THAT ORDER. "You look good." A beat, "Old," here comes a slow smile, "but good." DON'T MIND HIM. HE WILL JUST STAND HERE AWKWARDLY, SINCE R'HYN IS LEAVING IT UP TO HIM.

WHY THANK YOU FOR NOTICING HIS ICY PORTRAIT, ILA~ Only, Th'ero doesn't look thankful at all, while eyes narrow all the more on the display going on between both bronzeriders (FOR SHAME keep going). If he had Kimmila here with him, she'd probably lighten the mood somehow. Instead they're stuck with him and ONLY HIM and it's going to take awhile for the bastard to thaw out enough (Ahahahaha) - never MIND that this, so far, has gone so smoothly it's almost like THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS whenever the three of them are forced into rooms together and not under the pressure of behaving formality. "Weyrleader." Th'ero clips dryly to R'hyn in turn and somewhere, DEEP DOWN, there's a smile to that but he smirks instead like he's not impressed or amused (spoiler: he is) by any of this. Yet there he goes, lured into the room when he could've easily have just NOPED ON NOPE out of there and call back another time. His eyes NARROW for that implication but he doesn't rise to the bait. "It's expected and not so much a surprise." WOAH HO. Insult, much? Ah, but he'll clasp R'hyn's hand properly (ignore the too tight grip) and then look over and up at Ila'den. Does he need help? OH WELL, too bad. Th'ero's not offering. SUFFER, ILA, FOR HIS PLEASURE AMUSEMENT. "You're not looking half bad yourself, old man." Two can play that game and if HE'S OLD? Well.

"Yes," is R'hyn's deadpan reply, because both, Ila'den. It is always both. The joke lingers in his gaze long after he's moved away, eyes trailing back after the wound-tight bronzerider before focusing ahead of him on another. "Ouch," he laughs, hand coming up to rub at his chest as though Th'ero had just run him right through, staggering under the invisible hit. It's a little dramatic, really, but then, it's R'hyn. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you meant that about my mind," he drawls, hand catching on the table behind him to steady himself, "but it's fine. At least I've got my youth, and my boyish good looks." RUDE. Listen. At least he includes Ila in that, thundercloud eyes cutting over to the least-helpful wall-leaner in the room. What? If they're going to call each other old, he at least gets to join in and add an insult about their appearances like the cherry on top, right? RIGHT. "Anyways, I wasn't expecting you." Then who was he expecting? That's quite a spread behind him. "So what brings you to Xanadu's sunny shores? Business?" A beat. A feral grin that reflects Ila's only too well. "Pleasure?" No, it can't be that, says teasing a rake of his eyes, and so he adds, "Family?" HE COULD GO ON, and might have, if a faint booming sound didn't draw his attention to the windows, ignoring the quivering clink of glass-stacks as he squints out the windows as though looking for a big (possibly shiny) draconic culprit.

HOW DARE YOU, HERYN? Ila'den parts with husky, rasping laughter, a dark promise inappropriately fixed upon the expression that drops from Xanadu's Weyrleader to Fort's. "He wasn't calling me of being old this morning." IF YOU KNOW WHAT HE MEANS. EYOOOOOOOOOOOOO. But Ila'den has enough manners (despite the fact that Th'ero has known him since he was arguably a child) to allow R'hyn (who is, as you can clearly see, much better suited to the finer nuances of civilization, like having a conversation or just not being Ila'den) to make a polite inquiry after WHY, ON THIS UNANTICIPATED TO HAVE THIS COMPANY KIND OF DAY, DO THEY HAVE THIS COMPANY? In fact, Ila'den inserts, "Well, technically we are family now." But half of it goes unfinished because the same explosion that interrupts R'hyn interrupts Ila'den in turn and has the bronzerider tipping into the wall a little more heavily before shifting to try and see over his shoulder to the world outside. A beat, two, five and — "Th'ero," comes without the RESPECT OF TITLES, because WHEN HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN ILA'DEN TO RESPECT A DAMN THING IN HIS WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE? "You didn't send Syn, Ibby, and Leia out to announce your arrival again, did you?" It comes deadpan, as if Ila'den is reliving the glorious booties meant to PRINCE ALIIIIIII Th'ero's spirit into Half Moon Bay what feels like a lifetime ago. There's also WILD ACCUSATION IN HIS QUESTION, but only if you know the kind of man that Ila'den is. "Or you, baby," a look for R'hyn. "Did you commission more of Syn's fireworks?" You know the ones. We won't say the ones because it would be inappropriate to NAME ANATOMY IN THESE HERE TEXTS, but YOU KNOW THE ONES.

Th'ero is UNMOVED for such theatrics! Do think him so easily fooled, R'hyn? For shame. Still, there's the vaguest (ooh, so close) twitch at the corner of his mouth and he almost smiles. ALMOST! Have a long suffering smirk instead. "You said it in your own words," he replies dryly. "Not mine." Boyish good looks? There's a scoff for that but hey, who's to argue here? Not from the well groomed, put together Fortian Weyrleader! What with his meticulous looking formal riding gear and his shoulder length hair half swept back in a braided plait, streaked with grey now. He even grew a beard, guys! A smol one (and surprise, well coiffed). It just adds to the IMAGE, okay? Ila'den's remark and laughter earn a pointed look from him, but he only snorts like one UNCONVINCED of the other bronzerider's prowess. WHO WAS R'HYN EXPECTING? Th'ero furrows his brow. "Did my message not reach you or your assistants?" Well, isn't THIS AWKWARD? Now he really DOES roll his eyes at 'pleasure', but there's a hardness that settles over him at the mention of family. R'HYN HAVE YOU NOT FORGOTTEN THAT THAT IS SEMI-OFF LIMIT DISCUSSION? He's about to answer when there's that booming sound so faintly in the distance. Suspicious! Then ILA BRINGING UP A POINT and Th'ero concedes that that 'family' is acceptable (barely). "Could we not?" Get into those WEIRD ASS DETAILS. Only Ila'den could get away with just calling him BY HIS NAME! So rude. So personal, who do you think you ARE? Oh right. Just a clutch sibling and all that for TURNS NOW! Then there's names mentioned and a sort of slow dawning horror fury. "Fuck." That'd be a NO, he didn't send them ahead because WHY WOULD HE BE THAT INSANE!? So now all eyes - or well, both of HIS (ahahahaha) are on R'hyn. What did you do (or not do)?

Is R'hyn better suited towards civility? Is he? Bantying about baseless insults and treating into frought familial waters might make it seem like thats the least adequate statement to be made this turn - this century - but at least the bronzerider knows when to quit. "Don't remind me," is timed well with Th'ero's request not to delve further into that topic, a delicate shudder rolling his spine. "Things are already twisted and confusing enough without trying to account for what everyone means to each other. I'm out." DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200. And so forbidden topics remain safe as the bronzerider circles back to Ila's previous statement, one finger coming up to poke the air between them as he playfully chides, "And you, behave." K E T T L E. But he doesn't have the time to pursue that line of thought, as Th'ero and Ila'den's separate but equal confusions float to the surface, brow snagging in the middle as he tries to sort through independent thoughts to bring them together into some sort of logical conclusion. "No…?," seems to be answer enough for them both, blue-gray gaze switching between them both even as he lowers himself off the table. "I haven't talked to Syn since last seven, and we weren't expecting you for at least a fortnight," he murmurs, consternation overriding his expression as he moves to push back one curtain panel, clearly intending to peer outside and perhaps resolve the mystery for himself when suddenly the window - the wall the window once featured in - suddenly ceases to exist at all. No, that's not right, some detached bit of R'hyn's brain manages to think in that strange surreal way one's mind has when chaos is descending all around and somehow, some logical thought manages to thread its way straight through. Both still existed, just in shattered, fractured pieces flying through the air around them, carried backwards into the room much as he is now. Ah, comes a last, niggling thought that somehow made its way through the intense ringing in his ears, this is going to hurt.

It's strange how quickly amusement and casual banter can turn into confusion, how quickly that self-same confusion devolves into this, this moment, this split second in which every hair rises to attention with eerie foreboding along the back of Ila'den's neck and down the length of his arms. It's between one inhale of breath and the press of his lips in an attempt to speak the beginnings of what, he doesn't remember, that world goes wrong. Ila'den doesn't remember much aside from looking to R'hyn, aside from knowing where everybody stood in the room until suddenly there wasn't much of anything aside from the bones of a room holding the memory of its shape under the sudden stress of missing half its support and a seat of shattered, broken, splintered detritus. Ila'den doesn't remember even that much when he comes to on the floor, buried beneath layers of dust and bits of glass, confusion temporarily masking the immediate howl of pain through a body abused by an unprotected throw. He can't hear aside from a deafening ringing, he can't see through the haze of desolate ruin, he can't even remember where he's at, or why he's here. It takes long, too long for him to pressed the palms of hands bloodied and littered with minor abrasions to push his weight up, to bring him slowly to his elbows as he coughs once, twice, thrice. "Heryn," comes choking and raspy, as if his throat is suddenly too dry for speech. "Th'ero." Because he remembers that much — at least he thinks he does. But he still can't hear, his one eye is still weeping, there's still too much destruction airborne and settling for him to see, so he feels instead, sweeping his hands outward as he relies on turns-old training to crawl and try to find any survivors. Cough. Cough.

When the time comes that they can all look back on this, will they ever be able to figure out the signs? WERE there any? That sense of dread, so familiar and such an old, old friend, settles cold and hard in the pit of his stomach but Th'ero's coming to the conclusion too slow - like the rest of them. Goose flesh runs down his arms, the same icy feel racing up his spine to raise his hackles. Something is wrong, something bad is happening and that terrible moment where time slows further. That sickening lurch, where one is helpless in the wake of it, some part of the mind screaming to GO, to MOVE, to DO SOMETHING but stand there. Th'ero glimpses flashes of the initial impact that is more SOUND that it is light, that punch of ethereal force by an external source. Snippets of it striking R'hyn first, Ila'den a fraction of a second behind and then… the rest is a blur. Sensations, mostly. Blunt pain, sharp pain, familiar heat, familiar smells of metallic origin, dust and stone. In the sudden absence of everything, there is only dead silence for a few terrible heartbeats after Ila'den's calling his name. Yet, take heart, there are no screams of a draconic nature that would indicate things have gone FAR worse than they already have. Velokraeth isn't quiet either, but the ugly bronze is probably viciously cursing and insulting everyone within range - COLORFULLY. More coughing will sound from somewhere in the rubble, which is Th'ero coming about in a dazed and rattled state. In fact, that's VERY much his arm coming up so his hand can grope for purchase on some part of the table (what potentially remains of it?), leaving a bloody smear for EFFECT. There's a grunt, a cursed oath and that'll all Th'ero voices to claim his 'I'm here'. GIVE HIM A SECOND~

R'hyn is silent the longest, but for any outside the concussive sphere, there's no mistaking the brassy roar that splits the skies far above. It's sharp, enraged, but very much filled with a defiance that speaks to life, a screech that is much warning as it is alarm as the blackened bronze plummets towards the ground. Xermiltoth's descent is swift and heavy, hard backwings forcing smoke and dust to billow and furl in furious fashion as claws find ground, find rubble, and pull. "Sh'up," is R'hyn's first wheezing word as a slab of decorative granite is pulled from atop the rubble that kept it from squishing Xanadu's weyrleader, pained chokes and gasps keeping him from finishing his sentence for a long moment. "Can' hear shit 'n you're still loud as—" Does Th'ero's swearing complete his sentence? Probably. Panic grips him before he can add further COLOR to dark, heavy air, focusing on dragon speech that is - for once - a quiet affair for the rest of the weyr as he shakily hauls himself to a seated position, back propped against detritus as he tries to breathe. Fails to the tune of riotous coughing. Tries again. "Get help," he gasps at length, unable to watch the bronze's upper body retreat as bits and flakes of damaged ceiling drops, forcing him to shield his eyes, the spinning, the ringing in his head intensifying, robbing him of further speech. « STAY, » is as much for Ila'den and Th'ero as it is his own rider, the barest glimmer of gold brushing the other bronzeriders' minds, but the intimation clear: stay put. Help is on the way.

Was it suspiciously anatomically correct fireworks? Did the Trifecta find their way to herald the (unanticipated) arrival of Fort Weyr's Most Illustrious Weyrleader? Those were the beginning theories beginning to take root in the seconds before everything went wrong. Nobody quite knows the what or the who or the where, merely the fury of three bronze dragons in tandem, a furious flight of blackened hides and the answering, eerie hush sweeping through the rest of the weyr. It's Xermiltoth finding help, while the three men caught in the utter destruction of the blast, thrown deeper into the room along with the entirety of one wall and a horrifying amount of detritus and debris, are scattered among the wreckage. And through the white-out pitch of destruction, Teimyrth's fury joins that of the first two — a howl, a keening fury tinged with an abrasive kind of sorrow, the cry of a leader falling, falling, falling as viciousness prevails through reason. It's a dragonsong inspired by all the dark spots between stars, an empty, hollow, pitch-black agony that crescendos until its cut mid-roar from the skies, brought to a jarringly abrupt end. There is no beat of wings, no talons sinking through lung-scalding pitch to help or hinder, no insidious winter storms to ease the burningburningburning — a queen, perhaps, alighting control over a lack thereof. And there is a queen; she comes in a hazy, tentative brush against minds, abandoning the pulse-pounding thrum of bass and drums to reveal only the quiet of a single dancer in a feathered mask, one who kneels and reaches, who brings with her the sensation of downy wingtips brushing along cheeks and jaws and leaving behind a hint of spun sugar. There's little more than warmth before she's gone. But Ila'den can't breathe. Every breath, every movement jars, every couth pulls and twists at his insides and it still isn't enough to quiet the impulsive need to find Th'ero, the bone-deep instinct to abandon his own comfort and safety to find R'hyn. At least, not until Xermiltoth's instructions are pressed into his mind, only adding to dizzy disorientation as he hesitates a moment — just a moment — and sweeps his hands out again. Perhaps it's one last, vain hope that he will find something of more substance, but nothing comes. And so Ila'den stills, stills but for each rending cough, stills but for the press of his eyes closed, except for the sway as he sits, reclining with a hiss into something he cannot see, but feels stable enough to support his weight.

In stark difference to the song sung by Teimyrth and Xermiltoth's sense to find help is a foreign mind of mulled wine, spices and lavish finery and smoke. Velokraeth's approach is a mental assault of rather vividly eloquent and descriptive curses and insults hurled, each more colourful than the next and DOUBLE AS MUCH if anyone dares interject or interrupt him. Ugly imp bronze COMING THROUGH! OOP. Maybe not, when Leirith comes into the mix and even Velokraeth's not brash enough to challenge a queen (though he may mutter about her not being HIS QUEEN). Distantly, more voices are filling that gap, including the expanding void of blackness and stars - Zekath, along with a spattering of Galaxy riders undoubtedly wondering what just happened and mobilizing. There's definitely a lot of coughing filling that room and that's a good thing. It means people are alive, but questionably whole. Th'ero is still partially visible, having half-hauled himself over the edge of what might've been a chair now and not the former table. He's still trying to push to his feet but with little to very slow results; his body is still in that rebellious stage of shock. There's bits of glass on him and stone dust and… yep, that's blood. Something, be it part of the window or the old curtain rod that was once a source of jokes and the only thing originally damaged (R'HYN'S FAULT). It might've struck him at some point, but who is to say? The only casualty so far are the DELICIOUS SNACKS once set out. Woe, lament! "Ila? R'hyn?" he manages to hoarsely croak out each name, likely in echo of a former clutch-mates need to find and reassure and damned be his own injuries!

Were those words? It's so hard to hear past the blaring drone inside his head, the sunbright boom of Xermiltoth's words as inquiries from Galaxy Wing are answered with a brisk report and swift summons, as nearby offices and halls are urged to evacuate, as queen minds are licked and traced with the only reassurance the weyrleader's dragon can offer them: there are survivors. Gold trails after feathered dancers, pops from between champagne bubbles, and then the bronze's vast, heated mind focuses inward, narrows his communications, and does what R'hyn cannot. Attempting to push himself up into a sit triggers upheaval, finds R'hyn pressing the dirtied, glass-stricken back of his hand to his mouth to keep contents of his stomach (filched from that beautiful spread, rest in pieces) where they belong, but no - he definitely heard something that time, dim, distant, like voices through water or down a distant hall. "Ila? Baby, is that you?" It's hard to tell timbres apart when you can barely tell that they're timbres at all, eyes swept for dust and the leak of reflexive tears before squinting into the haggard, grey gloom. He tries again, because maybe it's, "Th'ero? Fuck." He quiets, unable to hear past his own voice and the cough that comes with breathing bad air if he doesn't, hand shifting behind him to try standing again and— Nope. Bad plan. That's the earth pitching under his feet, the dull rush and cold draw that speaks to the potential for losing consciousness, an experience he's had one-too-many times to ignore it now. He'll just. Be right here. That's fine, right? Good, it'll probably have to be.

In the event of an emergency, everyone is supposed to follow procedure. They're supposed to evacuate (single-file, walk don't run, stay calm~), but there are moments in every life when crisis arrives and some people aren't built for following procedure. If anyone has been paying attention, F'yr's ready adaptation to a filing system that doesn't exist could probably have clued someone in that when trouble comes to their door hall, he was not going to meekly follow the herd. But then, he's also a farmer. When there's a crisis on the farm, people pull together because it is the only way to get everyone out alive. This means the people he's planning to evacuate are behind the council room door. Glorioth, to his credit, is not getting in Galaxy's way, although someone may have had a hand in that, but he is soaring out on sentinel search of the local area. His rider, having been just down the hall, might be one of the first to get to the door and his blue eyes, urgent but not (yet) panicked, does a quick structural assessment. A spare shirt from the office is already wrapped around his face to protect his lungs from the worst of what might be in there to at least some small degree, with two more tucked into the waistline of his pants. One deep breath and then he's bracing his broad shoulder to the door and doing his damnedest to get it open, a task against the debris that landed against it on the other side. "R'hyn!" His steady call is forced to be calm. This is the man who lives with Glorioth in his head. This is the man who acts like bizarre and unthinkable things are normal every day. This is just one more. Nevermind that his heart is actually in his throat, nevermind that he's got more than just a little adrenaline to aid him in getting in. "We're coming!" Who's we? F'yr knows he's not alone and Glorioth will serve as his pipeline to Galaxy, a two-way conduit, to be sure.

But it is hard to hear — between his own coughs, between the persistent, deafening ring in his ears, between so much and too much noise in too little noise, Ila'den can't hear R'hyn or Th'ero. It's a muffled sound that reaches him, that has Ila'den trying again: "R'hyn?" Rasp, cough, cough. "Th'ero?" But it has the ill-advised effect of putting him into motion again, of Ila'den ignoring the searing pain in his side, the very one that steals more of his breath and, upon that instinctive sharp inhale, sets him coughing again as the AWLM shifts back onto all fours and reaches out again. It's Teimyrth now, still furious, still rife with unspent worry-turned-rage that presses into his lifemate's mind, that helps Ila'den steady even if the invasion sets him, too, to dry heaving. Or maybe that's the coughing. Or the pain. It doesn't matter. He should be staying put and he's very much not. "Please," comes harsher, a little broken, a little hoarse and probably much too soft for anybody to really hear before it's swallowed by coughing again. You would think a guy who spent a good chuck of his dragonriding years being Search and Rescue would know to stay put, but sometimes there are just things infinitely more important than one's own safety — the kinds of things that take turns of repetitive exposure to tasks and render them moot.

Contrary to what Rhodelia might want to be believed, she does actually work sometimes. In an office not very far from the council chamber so it's no wonder the juniors feet are some of the first to come running as something shakes the chamber and the connecting halls. "What exploded this…" What started as curiousity abruptly cuts off when she rounds a corner and unexpectedly inhales a cloud of dust from the explosion. She'll cough valiantly through it as she blinks into the chaos. "Is everybody alright? How many healers should we call? I'll just get them all!" And flip flop flip flop that's the sound of Rhodelia running away. FOR HELP THIS TIME. NOT CHICKENESS! And her giant chicken of a lifemate sense the disturbance in the dragon force and while she's SURE Leirith's mostly got it… a sea of champagne reaches out to check on all those bronzes, foreign and domestic. Reminders of HAPPY PLACES. Or if not happy places, some pleasantly tippy ones! « Shhhhhhhh… »

With clear information given, Galaxy Wing is like a hive disturbed and a small group set forth to investigate, help and, more importantly, clear the gawkers and onlooking, gathering crowds in the wake of evacuating people out. Zekath has no doubt taken his own vantage perch point somewhere to direct, but if he spots or senses Glorioth, there will be much support for the aerial position - eyes in the skies are never a BAD thing! Down below, Th'ero is battling the same ringing, throbbing in his head and the absence of clear sound favoured for a dullness. It's both infuriating and unsettling (okay okay, so he's a bit unnerved and freaked out, okay?), leaving him feel (gasp!) vulnerable. He grits his teeth against the urge to get up and fight, as he's in no condition to be going anywhere in haste. There's more coughing, a string of curses behind a half-breath as his head spins and the world lurches a bit. Ugh. Definitely hit in the head! He's not threatening to heave (yet) like R'hyn and isn't so damaged for breathing as Ila'den but he's… gonna just hug lean heavily into that fractured chair, okay? Okay. Outside those doors, where F'yr is working to get in and Rhodelia's has taken off to find help (and probably gained some followers who can help herd some Healers!), another is trying to fight the current of people leaving. It's a slight uphill battle, which may explain why K'vir joins the younger bronzerider with a little more force than necessary. Maybe it's experience in these things? IT'S NOT FAMILY MATTERS AT ALL.

ALAS, RHODY. This time the explosion is literal. Xermiltoth's mind descends to settle around hers (or perhaps Inasyth's - his aim is poor on the best of days, and despite his mobilization he is not at his best), a skittering of diamonds and warmth in appreciation of their dual efforts. He's doing his best, promise. See: « Ohmmmm. » At least someone can joke at a time like this, dark though it may be. It doesn't last; he leaves Glorioth's skyborne reports for someone else handle, lips lifting from the big bronze's teeth in a snarl as hammered gold thoughts invade Zekath's with an unusually gruff, « There is dissent. Riders are refusing to disperse. Please direct attention there. » The clearing, a visual shows; F'yr is, for the moment, beyond his scrutiny, awareness slashed elsewhere as the youngest bronzerider enters the scene. R'hyn, for his part, just hears voices, voices, nausea fought, will drawn up, body tensing to reveal his presence in an attempted shout this time when movement in the gloam catches his eye and— Well. That's a rush of expletives that even Velokraeth would be proud of, even if they are hissed in fits and starts, lungs fighting, though for what they do not seem to know. The effort it takes to drag himself crab-legged is monumental, but now that he's in motion, he can't stop, not until palms freshly cut with broken glass can draw familiar shoulders in against him, any part of him, a very long, very quiet moment following the fold of as much of him as he can around as much of Ila as he dares before that big breath is taken in again. "HERE." Is it loud enough? He doesn't know, his own voice echoing in his head, but as dust attempts to settle, perhaps it's enough for K'vir, for F'yr, for even Th'ero to pinpoint them in the chaos.

L I S T E N. IF YOU THOUGHT THERE WAS ANY CHANCE THAT GLORIOTH'S SENTINEL SWEEPS WERE ANYTHING OTHER THAN A+++ HEROICS, YOU WOULD BE WRONG. THIS IS A BRONZE WHO HAS A QUEEN MAKING HIS VERY OWN ARMY WITHIN HER. THERE ARE NO HIGHER STAKES HERE. He won't, thankfully, bother the dragons at work, but he will report whatever's relevant to the Galaxy pipeline, inasmuch as F'yr remembers who's who and how from their time spent with the wing in Senior Weyrlinghood. With K'vir's helpful shoulder, the two bronzeriders are able to wedge the door open and secure it enough that it's not going to snap shut on them. Eyes squint against the dust that might seem like ashes but aren't. If F'yr pauses infinitesimally in his moment of surreality at not being able to even see through the cloud properly to understand the full state of the room, it might be forgiven. He knows this isn't the moment; action now, processing later. He moves. It's a careful process and it's slow going because no one needs the rescuers injured and there is not a whole lot of visibility. Fortunately for everyone, the blond is not paying attention, primarily, to his eye level but rather to the floor so he doesn't, in fact, TRIP ON A COUGHING CACTUS ILA'DEN, although the sound might be part of what drew him that direction rather than toward where Th'ero clings, unseen by F'yr. The person he knew to be in here, THE LEADER OF F'YRLESSNESS, is nowhere to be seen, but that does not mean he has any hesitation in crouching next to Ila'den to check him for immediate life-threatening injuries. THANK GOODNESS FOR BASIC WEYRLING LESSONS, Y'ALL. U IN GUD HANDS, ILA~~

Getting all of the healers is probably for the best, honestly. So while Rhodelia executes her mission, Leirith bolsters and rallies behind Inasyth's efforts, adding her own gentled calm into the fray — a trait arguably absent at the best of times, but so strong now. « They are coming. » And still, there is no bombastic overload of sound — it's that lone dancer, wrapped in iridescent plumage, steady and calm and sure. But she is mostly irrelevant; she is an afterthought imprinted, a strength to complement Ina's instead of override it, as if encouraging the queen to find her own strengths in this moment. Important is K'vir and F'yr as they shoulder through the door; it's Th'ero as he combats the effects of concussive disorientation; it's R'hyn, as he finds Ila'den through the gloom and Ila'den pulls his younger weyrmate in against him. He doesn't need words, he doesn't need to acknowledge the searing heat in his side for the moment it takes him to press R'hyn to him, to cradle the back of his head, and press his nose and his mouth against his temple, to struggle for another breath before there are even more hands and Ila'den is reaching back for those as well. "Th'ero?" It's a rasp, a choked sound that rattles and devolves into more coughs. So he reaches, calloused hands sweeping over the cloth on F'yr's nose, pressing over cheeks to his temple before he retreats, leaving behind blood. "Th'ero," he rasps, already catching at the youngest bronzer's shoulder as if he means to haul F'yr, and R'hyn, and himself towards the Fortian leader. The growl that pulls from him is more akin to a roar, but for all that Ila'den never yells, there are a few exceptions. Not being able to hear himself (that well) is one of them. QUICK, RHODY. COME SAVE THEM FROM THEMSELVES.

Rhodelia doesn't really have to go FAR to fetch the healers. Even in Xanadu the Weyr's medically minded aren't so accustomed to explosions to be immune to their occurrence, and especially not when coming from the depths of where Important Administration Stuff is supposed to regularly happen. She's still coughing as she shepherds (or is shepherded along herself) in with not one, or two, but THREE HEALERS. "IS EVERYONE ALRIGHT?" Rhody yells extra loud from the relative safety of just inside the door way. If the bronzeriders don't shrug them off, the healers are gonna start going about doing there thing. Inasyth works best as a team and so her normal joy will be turned into just a sea of good feelings and comfort to spin out from Leirith's dancer, radiating assurance that EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY. She's so sure of it, she doesn't even need to say it. Just know. Trust them. You all got this. BECAUSE INASYTH BELIEVES IN YOU!!! The feeling isn't just focused on the angry, angry bronzes, but also to the crowd as a whole as the massive, soon-to-be-egg-heavy gold plops herself on the ground near where those looky lous are needing to be disperesed and spreads those massive wings to start physically herding folks away. « If you're too stunned to follow instructions, clearly you need HUGS!!! » COME HERE! SHE'LL SMOTHER YOU IN LOVE! At least a few start to wisely run away.

« Got it. » Zekath's all too happy to go ACT UPON SOME ORDERS (such a good soldier helper!) and the bronze will set to the task with gusto. Inasyth probably has more effect than he does, but hey, he'll roll with that! « Thanks for the support! Think you can tempt a few over that-a-way? » For HUGS! Hugs are better than gawking at nothing. NOTHING TO SEE HERE! Unless you're inside, that is. Then there's plenty and K'vir's already going through to motions of covering his face as the dust billows out as F'yr wedges open those doors. Squinting in the gloom, he'll hear the coughing rasping voices and the names being called. Especially reassuring is the 'here' shouted from R'hyn. "Hold on!" K'vir adds his own words to the mix, pitched not quite as a yell. He's assessing the situation, already beginning to move just as F'yr draws similar actions. K'vir almost calls him back - almost, but as the younger bronzerider is already ahead and level headed enough about it, he allows it. Barely. "Don't let them move too much! Doesn't look like we're risking collapse," K'vir's speaking of the CEILING (and partially too it, though we all know the orders are directed to those who can hear them), which is eyed warily but promptly ignored as another step has debris crunching underfoot. "Wait on the Healer-" OOP, there they be! Along with Rhody's concerned yell that nearly has him jumping out of his skin. "Everyone's breathing." K'vir calls back. SO THAT'S GOOD! There's a gesture for the Healers - maybe for F'yr, Ila'den and R'hyn's sake. He's crouching now by the third victim and no, no one is seeing mildly double; though it may be tougher to discern the family resemblance given Th'ero's bloodied face. K'vir has QUESTIONS but that'll be saved for later, as he crouches down to check on the Fortian Weyrleader. Ila'den's yell has K'vir scowling his way, concerned, but promptly distracted when his shoulder is gripped and is being used as leverage as Th'ero decides NOT TO WAIT for no damned Healers! Or maybe he caught some of that distress call? "Hey- wait…!" Protests fall on deafened ears (literally) and all K'vir can do is act the support as the older bronzerider painfully gains his feet… to a sort-of hunched crouch one does when the body is stiff and bruised muscles and not wanting to work properly.

Listen, what's worse than two stubborn bronzeriders doing things to their bodies that should not be done in their current states? THREE. THREE STUBBORN BRONZERIDERS AH AH AH. Listen, one hopes the cavalry of healers has sedatives or something, because that is more likely than not what it's going to take to keep them all from doing whatever-they-damn-well-please. At least R'hyn takes a moment to brace himself for the hurricane-brain to come, using the time when F'yr settles in near them, when Ila'den's hands are on the young rider's face, to push back ugly thoughts, steel himself, and attempt to breathe (read: cough a whole lot more). "You're alright," is as much for Stefyr as it is for Ila, though a stained hand lifts to touch the F'yr on his arm, shoulder, knee, whatever is nearest. "Help me up." Because despite the hand clenched desperately into his weyrmate's clothes, he knows better than to put pressure on Ila'den's body. "Felt Ina and Leirith. Rhody? Risa?" ARE THEY SECRET? ARE THEY SAFE? CAN HE HEAR F'YR TELL HIM EVEN IF THEY ARE? Maybe so, considering his head is quick to turn (mistake!!!) when a female voice sounds from the doorway, staggering hard enough in his rise that maybe he does need the healer trying to lend them assistance. "Good. Good." Answer to that shouted inquiry? A healer-y brush off? Maybe both, considering he's pushing past it, on the move, as much a person who needs to lean as he is a shoulder to lean on as they make rough, slow progress through the silenced chaos. "Thank fuck," he breathes as familiar - almost upright - figures become clear, and if Th'ero or K'vir are not very, very careful (and by that we mean, very, very dodgy), one or the both of them will will get drawn into one of the more awkward, painful embraces of their life as sweeping relief comes crashing down around him. COME ON IN, RHODY. THE EMOTIONAL WATERS ARE FINE.

Should it be the son telling his SURPRISE Not Dead Dad, « REASSURE HIM, MY STALWART SIRE, » and Teimyth can have the VERY LOUD ECHO of that. If Leirith's not upset, Glorioth's going to CONFIDENTLY ASSUME that E'ERYBODY IS JUST FIIIINE. That must have been prompted by his F'yrociously unflappable lifemate because F'yr is nodding big for Ila'den to see, he's giving the older man a thumbs up and a point in some general direction where he can hear K'vir, since F'yr hasn't been totally deafened, not being in the most immediate vicinity. Surely, there's some ringing in his own ears just from relative proximity, but not the same degree. He doesn't have much to offer, really; he's not equipped for this, but he's the one here, and what he has is two very random (perhaps floral printed?) shirts. THEY CAN ALL BE BANDITS TOGETHER. Because although F'yr apparently has met Ila and R'hyn once or twice in his life and thus doesn't bar them from doing the dumb things they're doing, like GETTING UP, he tucks his arm under R'hyn's shoulder and it might seem like an embrace is incoming, but no, it's much more practical that he's wrapping one of those spare shirts around R'hyn's face so he stops breathing in so much crud. No one needs that! Hear all this coughing? Terrible. Ila'den is next join the flower-bonnetedmasked badass brigade courtesy of F'yr's quick work. He keeps things loose enough to try to avoid injuring what's been injured already, but tight enough to actually do what it needs to do. Meanwhile, he's calling to Rhodelia's healing herd to help them navigate the thick cloud finally beginning to dissipate. IF R'hyn's going to be insisting on that RIDICULOUS AND UNTIMELY JOYFUL GROUP HUG, only then will F'yr let himself be fiercely drawn in, but he will refrain from gripping anyone as tightly as he damn well wants to. Don't worry about the tears in his eyes. It's totes just the dust y'all.

TH'BRO. THE BRONZERIDER BRIGADE IS COMING. NEVER FEAR. IT'S ALL THE MORE BETTER FOR BEING LEAD BY THE FIERCELY AMAZING RHODELIA, WHO IMPORTS THE WEYR'S HEALERS EN MASSE. Not just one healer. Not just TWO healers (AH AH AH), but ALL OF THEM!!!!!! And while Leirith, for once, does not join in the antics of attempting to force irreverent gatherers into fleeing with something as sweet at Inasyth's HUG THREATS, nor as badass as Zekath's cucumber cool gusto, she does bring out the one woman who can be an honest-to-Faranth tempest when she puts her mind to it. Is Risali okay? The sound of her voice dripping with an authoritative edge, suddenly shouting instructions to the world outside so that the people inside can keep focus and get the hell back out alive speaks to a physical resilience. The fact of the matter is that, sans her children, Risali's entire family is in there but for Citayla, and the only way she knows how to stay strong in the face of an emotional upheaval is to be angry. So as Rhody's murder (yes, murder) of healers descends, so too does Risali, her too-strong command of, "Rhodelia! I need you!" perhaps barbed only because it's hiding fear. But the healer coming for Ila'den is waved off with another growl — a growl disrupted by a cough, a cough that earns a sharp inhale of breath as if it might curb his pain if only he could put a name, a sound to it; it's a sharp inhale that sees him coughing again as he keeps hold of R'hyn, dizzy and still disoriented. His rise is slower, more painful, his own form hunched much like Th'ero's, his breaths coming in staccato, shallow wheezes that double him over with one arm wrapped around his ribs and allows F'yr the advantage when he provides some relief for detritus-abused lungs. There's a rasped, "Thank you," even as Ila'den tucks himself beneath R'hyn's other arm and grits through the pain to provide secondary support, even as he steals some of that support from R'hyn in a careful give and take. Those steps are staggered, each one bringing a white-hot ache through his ribs that he knows only too well as they make their way through the ruins to K'vir, to Th'ero. Ila'den is the only one who does not throw himself into the press of bodies, who instead transfers his hand to R'hyn's shoulder so that he can clap Th'ero's gently, so that he can reach for K'vir's next.

ARE THOSE STARS IN HIS EYES? Yes, but not for the reasons you think. Th'ero's vision does start to fail, not helped in part by the blood making one eye squint, but from the burst of pinpricks of light as his body PROTESTS this act of hugging! It might be more his head, but… details. There's a grunt, a pained sort of gasp-snarl-growl and what is most definitely a curse (it's said with love). No way could he dodge this awkward AF group hug! It's not like he can move. K'vir only ends up half pinned into the group, which is awkward in its own right and incredibly uncomfortable for a variety of others. "Okay, okay! Seriously." he grumbles, features still set in WORK MODE because that's what he's supposed to be in this scenario right now. Right? "You're gonna crack something more than it already is." Long suffering sigh aside, that may be relief right there that everyone's kind-of standing and conscious - injuries aside, it could be far worse! F'yr is given a look and nod, both for (good!) thinking about giving makeshift masks to Ila'den and R'hyn. As well as volunteering to be a crutch! Such important duties. Tears, what tears? NONE SEEN HERE! It should be no surprise that after K'vir's reminder, Th'ero will be the first to try and dislodge himself. He will probably dart a cold look to F'yr if the young bronzerider ended up too close because who the fuck is this? he only realizes now that he is unfamiliar. Important, clearly, on some level? But his head hurts and there's bits of glass still clinging to his clothing, among other things. "Can we move this along?" he remarks dryly - or tries, given he can't hear right, growing more uncomfortable by the second from too much proximity (and yes, even to his own son, ahahaha he's a jerk folks). K'vir will try to step in to help for support before a Healer descends, but Th'ero waves him off. He gonna be a stubborn ass man and try to walk out on his own power. Spoiler: older injuries won't let him but he gonna try to save some pride all the same.

Did R'hyn expect anything different? Absolutely not. It's not a prolonged gesture, not a gradual sink into something that could mean anything beyond 'thank any deadass dragon you like that you're not a bloody, braindead splatter on my wall.' Tears on anyone else's part are purely incidental, to be handled on an individual basis - later. "Sh'up, you big baby," comes muffled thanks to his shirt-mask, though it's hardly the only thing ruining the effect. The tinnitus, the decimation, the unsteady sway that speaks to a lot of trouble coming down the mental pike as the Xanadian weyrleader moves to push past, his human crutches in tow… take your pick. It all leeches the mirth out of words half of them probably can't hear anyways. Xermiltoth takes over. « Kindly exit the room. Master Aegomor is setting up triage in the wingleader ready room down the all. You are all required to report. » YES, EVEN YOU, BOLD SAVIORS WHO HAVE BREATHED OF THE TAINTED AIR. Shirt scarves help, but are not enough to be spared from cursory inspection. « When you are cleared, wingsecond, the weyrsecond would like a word. » Because a hero's work is never done, is it, K'vir? « Listen to your healers, » is a last growl for the rest of them as gold dust washes out of minds, fading away like sand dissipating to another half of an hourglass. Bolstered perhaps by Xermiltoth's words, the healers of the room begin their work anew, making to assist every single blessed bronzerider out of the room, no matter how willingly the assistance is taken, making way for a Galaxy investigation and what sure is to be along day week mont… listen. It's going to be a very long time. Enough said.

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