All right, here goes nothing. I apologize for my pacing, I'm always either too fast or too slow. Sorry for those two visitors that read the earlier one. I've had some coffee now and can think straight when I write. I hope you enjoy it.

EDIT: Argh, I forgot to run spellcheck before I saved. I'm such an idiot. Sorry about that, guys, the error is fixed now. Hopefully the rest of the story will run more smoothly.

Edit 2: Thanks to GinnyStar for catching my mistake. Tysin's founder's name was T'sin, I'd forgotten the honorific. Guess that coffee didn't help me much, huh?

Preface

There was no more Thread.

Over the Turns, the draconic population began to dwindle, and the more pragmatic watch-whers became more common. Dragons took on excavation duties and helped open new mines, or carried lumber for building.

Eventually, there were no longer enough dragons on Pern to necessitate multiple Weyrs. First, Telgar combined with Benden. Then Fort combined with High Reaches. Ista combined with Southern. Telgar-Benden combined with Ista-Southern, and so on.

Eventually, there was only one Weyr left, at the location of old Benden. They called it Benden, of course. Stringing the names of all old Weyrs together was just too much. But then a massive earthquake decimated the Weyr.

After the confusion died down, Weyrwoman Sira, Weyrleader D'sej, and their bronzeriders and queenriders held an emergency council while the Weyrfolk waited nervously, trying to salvage what they could.

The obvious solution would have been to move to another Weyr. But which? After much debate, the council came to a conclusion. Sira’s Delrayuth was due to rise. They decided the new Weyrleader would personally decide where the new Weyr would be.

Delrayuth rose, and was caught by bronze Raylth, rider T'sin. The new Weyr's fate was up to him.

Weyrleader T'sin decided to hear testimonies of everyone that had lived at the other Weyrs, and he came to the conclusion that they were all equally-strong. The answer would be either to split up again, or to pick a new location entirely.

The latter was a tempting choice, if difficult to carry out. This way, he would avoid the ire of those from shunned Weyrs. He chose a peninsula on the southern continent with a small volcanic archipelago off its coast.

Tysin Weyr was born.

Five Hundred Turns Later

Tysin Hold was on the largest island off the Weyr’s coast, and contained the best firestone mines in the chain. It had nice cliffs formed by irregular sprays of magma, a face of which formed the main mine. It was practically made of firestone. This cliff, and the Minerhall Camp, sat by a beautiful beach.

Madar sat atop this cliff, staring at the night surf through the hot, humid air. It was worth the buzzing, biting insects to watch Pern at night, slumbering peacefully on. Below, he could hear the wher-shift miners working in the mine.

He was supposed to be asleep. But he wouldn’t miss this for all Pern. It was so calm at night, so still. This was life, humming songs while he sat in the soft light of the dimming glowbasket in his lap, his slender body swaying with the tune in his head. The hot wind played with his neck-length brown hair, making it brush against his skin. Never once did his brown eyes leave the gentle summer surf, the dark water lapping at the beach, providing time to his tune.

His humming continued, to the martial tune of a now-useless song that was swiftly fading from Pernese memory. In fact, he only knew the tune rather than the words, except for one line stuck in his head, “Free the flame and sear the grasses”. A song about fighting Thread. Now all firestone was good for was allowing the dragons to polish the walls of their future weyrs. In fact, everyone was more interested in the veins of copper ore in the mine – now that could be used for something.

But until there were no dragons left on Pern, Lord Holder Baunt had said, they would maintain a firestone stock. Just in case. He was always a “just in case” person. He ran the Hold very cautiously, always making backup plans and preparing for even the most outlandish scenarios. In fact, he had commissioned all the buildings in the Hold – including the mining camp run by the Minerhall – to be made of stone rather than wood. He was eccentric, but the buildings were quite sturdy, and at least stone couldn’t catch fire.

Madar stopped humming and rested his head in his hand, leaning his elbow on his knee. He would be too tired to mine any in the morning, the fifteen-Turn-old boy knew, but he just couldn’t stand missing this calm. The lazy, balmy air, the gentle crashing of the surf, the sound of wind blowing through leaves, the buzzing insects…

Wait.

Where were the insects?

The night was eerily calm all of a sudden. The insects were dead-silent. The hair on Madar’s neck stood on end, and he shivered, feeling a chill despite the warm night.

There was something wrong, oh so wrong. But what could it be?

He looked up at the night sky.

There was faint movement against the moon. Madar strained his eyes to see, but he couldn’t make it out…

Suddenly, his view was blocked by a big body, glowing eyes staring at him, the watch-wher’s scent washing over him. Madar could see by his glow the darker veins along his rusted-bronze flank, his father’s wher, Majsk. His eyes were an unusual color, a red-yellow - Madar being used to their usual bluish color. He made a sound Madar had never heard before, “Hrruh! Hrruh!”

“Majsk, what are you-”

“Hrruh!” Majsk repeated urgently, turning his body to block the sitting boy’s view.

Suddenly, Madar smelled a strong, sulfuric stench, and he caught sight of a sack of something in Majsk’s claws. The wher’s claws tightened on the sack, and then he dropped it, letting the top fall open.

“Majsk, what’s wrong?” Without getting up, Madar held up his glowbasket to see the watch-wher’s face.

And there, at the very edge of the soft glowlight, was movement – silver, shimmering, deadly movement that made Madar’s throat close up in horror, his eyes wide as he dropped the glowbasket.

Thread.

A green wher flew past, searing the clump with a gout of flame. Majsk ducked his head as she swooped over them, barely missing him. Her wings flapped feebly against the thick night air. Though whers could fly at night when the air was heavier, they couldn’t do so for very long, especially the greens and blues, and this poor green was tiring.

Worse, there was a missed clump of Thread coming right for her, visible in the pale moonlight, beautiful silvery death landing on the exhausted wher’s back. She let out a scream and escaped between, coming out close to the ground and landing in a crumpled, bloodied heap.

Madar whimpered. Thread. Thread. How? He leaned against Majsk as the wher extended a wing to shield the boy, crunching firestone. They couldn’t take firestone very well, their flames were weak. But until the Weyr’s dragons were roused, there was nothing more, save the brave little firelizards doing their very best to aid their malformed cousins.

Pressed against the watch-wher’s side under the cover of his wingsail, Madar could hear the churning of the underdeveloped second stomach as it broke down the firestone. Majsk craned his neck up – harder for a wher’s thick neck than a dragon’s slender one – and belched his best stream of flame, searing a good deal of the clump - but the rest was left to fall on his body. Majsk screamed as the Thread ate into his bronze hide, but he couldn’t escape between, Majen’s son was counting on his protection.

“Majsk!” Madar gasped. “Don’t die! Go between! Don’t die!” His brain caught up to the situation, and he realized why the wher was there. What an idiot he was, sitting here while Thread was falling! He threw his arms around the bronze wher’s Threadscored neck. He felt the Thread’s thin form lashing against his arm, crying out as it bit into the new flesh. “Let’s go to Father! Go between to Father!”

Majsk gave an acknowledging grunt, and then they were surrounded by nothing. Madar whimpered as the cold of between enveloped him, somehow aware he was still clinging to the wher's neck even though there was no sense of feeling. Air! No air, he had to breathe! But there was nothing for his lungs to take in.

And then he was on solid ground, still clinging to his father’s wher’s back, gasping for air. Strong hands were trying to pry him free, and he let him, let his father pull him away.

Stumbling against the wall, Madar took stock of his surroundings, breathing heavily. He was at the entrance of the mine tunnel, looking out. The green wher that had saved them earlier was clearly dead, eyes dull save reflected moonlight, tongue slipped out the side of her mouth.

“What were you doing awake?” Majen asked behind him.

“I like this place at night…” said Madar shakily, mind fumbling with the question while it took in the shock of the dead wher on the ground.

“Are you hurt?”

Madar swallowed and shook his head, consciously rubbing the small Threadscore on his arm.

Exhausted green and blue whers were landing now, unable to force their stunted wings to fly any longer. They made their way to the safety of the mine, tired and scored, guarded by firelizards that snatched portions of firestone from their near-empty sacks.

Madar stepped aside to let them through, and spoke when they had all gone deeper. “Majsk protected me.”

“I know he did, I was telling him to.”

“You were?”

“Do you think the whers are taking firestone all by themselves? The other handlers are deeper in the mine, fighting from behind their whers’ eyes.” Majen bent to examine the Threadscores on Majsk’s back. “Hmm…” he mumbled worriedly. “…These could become infected if Threadfall doesn’t end soon.”

“Shards…” Madar moaned morosely, sitting cross-legged at the entrance, staring at the green corpse. “Why do I have to be such a dimglow?”

“I wish I could answer that,” Majen replied tartly. Majsk made a pained, plaintive bleek sound. “I know, I know, there was no way anyone could have known…”

Suddenly, the browns and bronzes were landing, and much larger shadows blocked the moonlight. The dragons had arrived, to fight Thread once again!