Despite the joy at seeing the last of Thread, there was still some that couldn't shake the unease about something seeming not quite right. It was common enough knowledge that dragons instinctively laid less eggs when they weren't in a Pass; there were less of their population that would be lost and needed to be replaced during the peaceful Interval, so it was hard to feel entirely comfortable in their new way of life when the queens kept laying unnaturally large clutches of eggs. Yet over the next three months the Red Star continued to recede and there was no sign that they should be worrying. Perhaps the dragon's cycles simply needed time to adjust? After all, the records from the end of previous Pass could have been a little off and at times seemed a little bit vague, so it was possible that this was simply the way it went after Thread.
No one could ever understand how the dragons would know that something was wrong. Few would make the connection to that and the odd flash across the sky near the Red Star three months after the end of the Pass, certainly it wasn't a large enough occurrence to attract much attention aside from the handful who'd seen it clearly enough for it to be of interest. The first few months into the Interval were a bit odd and not quite what they were expecting exactly, but nothing about it could have given Pern any hint of what would happen in the days following what seemed like relatively insignificant events.
It was the early hours of the morning at Southern Weyr when it happened. It was a hot night and the majority of the inhabitants had fled to the shoreline to sleep near the breeze that came off of the gentle surf, so the beaches were full of Weyrfolk and dragon alike when the all-too familiar hiss of Thread dying in the water drifted towards them. Of the few that were awake only a small handful of them actually realized what it meant, but there was no hope of them raising the alarm quickly enough to do much but flee in panic as the first strands fell into the sand.
Assistant Weyrlingmaster B'jarl was the first to hear the terrified chorus ringing through the minds of the dragons. Thread?! THREAD! They repeated, bellowing their helpless fury as they were devoured by the enemy they'd been told was gone, not to return. The brownrider's mind and soul clenched, his stomach churning as his body reacted to the onslaught of agony. There wasn't room to question what was going on, no energy to do anything but try to shut out the voices of dying dragons as their final cries tore through him.
But nothing was as terrifying as the sound of his own dragon screaming in pain, his presence drowning out the others. No! Between Endemeth! Between! Come to me! he screamed through their bond, running to the entrance of their weyr to try to see where the brown was but was stopped short a few feet from the opening by a writhing mass of thread on the stone ledge. Revolted, B'jarl back-peddled and retreated to the safety of the inner-weyr.
It's eating me! The familiar brown shape appeared suddenly, forcing his way as far into the weyr as he could to escape the thread. Only years of training saved the dragon as B'jarl found the washbasin to dump on thread that tried to cling to Endemeth, fighting to borrow into the flesh that would sustain it. The tangle fell away, its surface hissing and spitting but it didn't die completely. B'jarl hastily shoved the soggy mass away with his broom, abandoning the thing as the thread latched onto it, but at least the corridor was clear. It's gone, I am clear. It hurts B'jarl! Endemeth told him, crying piteously.
"It's alright love, hold on just a little." It was hard to function with the suffocating noise hammering him physically and mentally, but with shaking hands he managed to dump watered down numbweed over the many scores across his dragon. Many of the scores seemed like they'd been glancing, but the brown's left wing was a complete ruin and he knew immediately that Endemeth would be lucky to fly again. It didn't matter now, he was alive where dragons were dying en masse. It had been nothing more than sheer luck that Endemeth preferred to sleep under the shelter of the bluffs by the ocean rather than directly on the beach as most of the dragon population did.
Now that the wounds were soothed, B'farl could get a report from his dragon, thankful for something to focus on aside from hearing everything. He would always hear the dragons, but with practice he'd learn to fade the many voices to the background when he was concentrating on just one. He put a steadying hand on his brown's shivering hide, doing his best to help calm his friend. Shevath and Holrenth have fallen, Tekriath, Sorjeth… Anamith! B'jarl's face paled even more at the last; that meant the adult queens had all perished in the span of a few minutes. Even through the panic he could feel the anguish from the remaining dragons as they lost their golden leaders. No! Endemeth didn't have to relay the names of the next two, he felt the passing of Pyrakkath and Kovalth as two dragons he'd been particularly close with.
And then more voices that he was strongly connected with started breaking through as the weyrling dragons were waking. Thank Faranth they were safely tucked into the barracks; even if he couldn't get to them while thread was falling outside, they were sheltered. "Endemeth you'll need to help calm them too," he told his brown as he sifted through the frightened young minds to assess them.
No R'glan! J'daw! Don't - Endemeth cut the command off suddenly and B'jarl recoiled at the loss of Aldroth and Zabeth. The noise was quieting somewhat outside, but this was overtaken by the pandemonium in the weyrling barracks as the large bay doors were opened and the strong Southern winds brought thread into the young men, women and dragons within.
"No damnit!" B'jarl and Endemeth frantically started bellowing orders to the weyrlings, doing what they could to establish some sort of control even as the blues and greens who were nearest the doors started dropping like flies. Neither bothered to keep track at this point, rather their attention was focused on who was alive and keeping them that way. Harloseth! B'jarl called to the young queen, you must keep them! Though only six months old, the gold was already a solid leader but she was floundering at the sheer magnitude of the disaster. She was reaching, grasping after her siblings, trying hold the ones that had lost their lifemates or were panicking into between. Get everyone away from the door, anything organic needs to be moved so the thread can't get to you. Do not go after the ones tha -
And then suddenly his contact to the little queen was severed and the Weyr was stunned into a brief silence as the last living gold at Southern died.