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Plexith had returned to Trine as devastated mentally as the Weyr seemed ot have been physically by the attacks from the Handlers. He had set aside his inner grief to try and help, had relayed the news of what happened to the best of his ability and then returned to his wallow. There to stare at his riders empty hut and keen softly for his loss.

Oh D'lin wasn't dead, not yet..but he was taken and gone and he, Plexith, could do nothing about it. It was enough to drive the dragon mad with rage..if the sorrow didn't do him in first. D'lin had been shielding from him heavily ever since sending him away and Plexith was sure this could not be a good thing, what would his rider hide from him but something terrible? And so the bronze lay huddled, staring at the hut and mentally trying to check on his rider as much as he could.

Coryxoth had been an utter wreck since Etasha failed to return from the dangerous mission into Benden. He could barely hear her; the wounds from the gold wher, combined with the stress and poor conditions of the prison, had left the blackrider hardly coherent enough to reassure her dragon. He knew that she was still alive... But the little black wavered between periods of despondency and desperation, where he was nearly on the verge of trying to jump between to retrieve her. Without coordinates and without any chance of making it back, it hardly seemed to matter.

Recognizing the two wingleader dragons - one whose rider was captive, the other who had been the only one to return from the disastrous Benden mission - he fluttered over, keening quietly. Pardon me - I don't mean to interrupt, but... Is there any news? Of our riders, I mean.

His eyes were dull grey-white, and even his hide had lost some of its usual gleam. While his mindvoice was polite as ever, the sound of it was subdued and weary with misery.