ABOARD THE NIV: PARAMOUR,
OUTSIDE CSAUS' ORBITAL SPHERE (870 ABY)
Halted well out of range of anything Citadel Caelitus had to throw their way, Michael's ship would remain in place as the operation's unexpected early-birds awaited the arrival of the NIV: Tigress, knowing that commencement would surely follow soon after; and in the hours before the Lord-General's landing, Lord Michael and Lord Yorunarr would sit at the lavish smoking-observatory, gazing on their frozen globe of dark foreboding as all of Barran's subordinates slept like logs on the wide fabric couches around them. Each and every man among the unconscious would conserve their strength as the smoking-lounge's barkeep, also no stranger to the taxing physical demands of soldiering, decluttered and wiped over table-surfaces in discrete silence, tiptoeing around those he perceived as the lightest sleepers as the barkeep worked away in cheery, calm wordlessness.
'Almost like Carlac.... Almost. Gonna be a tad more difficult this time, canni be havin' false starts like Ursa's Redoubt - no doun there. No this time.'
Just the faintest hint of resonance could be heard over the perpetual hum of the ship's inner-workings, with inoffensive, warm musical arrangements playing on the speakers around them at their quietest possible setting, something that could only have been facilitated by the barkeep in particular; this dreamy ambience the observatory had provided for the otherwise-restless Goidels as a result, kindly contributing to the uninterrupted rest-patterns of the entire handpicked platoon before the landings were well and truly underway, something the Highlanders there wouldn't forget in a hurry. Even in full tactical-gear, the Wanderer's sleeping subordinates looked to be very models of the meaning of comfort, and a fair part of it was owed to a retired veteran who knew how to read a room, a man who once needed to store his energies with similar last-minute recuperation rituals in his day.
'Since I was declared Chieftain over all Novanians, and by my own people nonetheless - the Ancients have instructed me to stand with you, no matter the cost.... That I will, and for the first time as an equal. As one who negates this false start caper you speak of, as one who knows how to instil the right mindset in you.'
'Most you've said on the Ancients since Lao-Mon, ah swear.', Lord Michael started, replying with clear irritation in his eyes, though Lord Yorunarr would be relieved to hear his commander still adhering to the hushed, near-whispered tone they'd adopted since the last subordinate drifted off to the land of nod. The only thing keeping the Woad and his Novanian friend from both raising their voices was complete consideration of the squad that had been hand-picked by both Barran and Ahan-Yan'Sharlim personally, wisely keeping to the same reasoning behind the avoidance of playing pranks on the likes of Pinely, McBain and Denwood as they slept. Yet the Wanderer would relent further, especially after seeing one of the unconscious snipers in the background moving, only to continue,
'It helps that we haven't done any Root magic the-gither since.... We were out - of - control back then, eh? Good times though.', after realising it was just another,
"Subconscious search for more couch".
'But,"Out - of - control", was exactly what the Imperium needed when our enemies assassinated Irveric Tavlar.... And the Root did help us achieve our goals in some fashion or other, but I do agree - good times were had back then. The best.'
Sharing nods of respect, both the Goidel and the Arkanian would raise their hipflasks and drink in a silent toast to the wonders yielded by inhaling the smoke of the infamous burning vine-root, to the astral travels and the vivid hallucinations they both experienced whilst surviving in the heart of war's deathly crucible. After that, the Druid and the Shaman's attentions would return to the gorgeous view of the planet they intended to leave their collective mark on, and without saying a single word, without even uttering a single sound whatsoever, both Michael and Yorunarr would attain a strangely serene, meditative state of wonder for a while. The barkeep would see this, smile to himself and take a moment to join the others in taking it all in with the intent of remembering the planet as it was before the NIO ran rampant on it's surface; becoming an enrapt trio of silent, knowing eyes as the sleepers snored, stirred and dreamt around them, like three little vigilant gargoyles on a derelict steeple, keeping watch over an old, abandoned ghost-town.
The auld man's gawnty run roughshod on this place, I can feel it.
Enthralling though the sight was, Barran knew his assumption wouldn't be all that far from the truth, and by the time his father was finished with Citadel Caelitus, the Wanderer would understand this success likely preceded a violent pursuit of the last fleeing Mawites, such that was fated to leave a trail of nasty pockmarks across the planet's northern hemisphere. Lord Michael would ponder on this for a while, realising his father was going through changes more drastic than he ever could have anticipated in his last conversation with Lord Erskine, and in that previously-blissful span of time in complete silence, the Druid began to worry for the safety of the Lord-General - for the first, but sadly not the last time. This mindset was on the verge of becoming a slippery slope to something much worse for the Lord-Captain in the long run, and a thought-pattern that had every chance of becoming a dangerous risk factor for all serving beneath him, but a blessed interruption would snap everyone out of their collective reverie, the all-too-recognisable sound of a cigarette-lighter's flint being flicked into life with a singular metallic scrape.
'Sssshh.... Good morning, Sinclair. Still no sign of 'em yet though, might as well crash oot again as soon as that's been finished an' stubbed oot. But if yer stayin' up, might as well join me an' yer predecessor for a few whiskeys while we wait.'
THE WOAD-BORN HUNTSMEN: THE SECOND SALVO - PART 1
SOUTH ROOK VALLEY, LOWER-ASCENDANCY MOUNTAINS,
CSAUS (870 ABY)
25 miles outside Citadel Caelitus....
As soon as everything began to sway into motion around them, the handpicked platoon were in their dropship almost as quickly as they were awake, knowing what awaited their landing on Csaus; Darth Caelitus had been a power force-user before his shift towards the deepest depths of the Dark side, wielding untold numbers of undead in the NIO's favour, a tool for which the Wanderer's father had been thankful in the earlier years of his Imperial military career. Some there had even felt this power, though very much on the receiving end of a wrath inflicted by a Miraluka who'd become much stronger since, as Carlac was something of a horrifying masterstroke that the veteran elements with Lord Michael could never forget for as long as they lived, and none quite so acutely as 1st-Leftenant McBain. Then, to top it all off in an all-too-troubling fashion, were the reports on the exploits of the dark lord's Perished and the fact they could move unlike any undead entity they'd ever encountered before, somehow still cunning enough in death that they managed to sneak up on the Stormchaser and turn the tide of battle with just a single bite.
First the bomb, then the bite.... It would seem the Miraluka's been runnin' roughshod on the auld man an'aw.
Much had been divined of the Miraluka's growth in power as time passed, with each and every scion of the Highland Brotherhood sensing the slow death of the Lord Halketh they all know from the recent history books on the Third Imperial Civil War, understanding with ease that whoever, or whatever they would be facing off against in the future - would be some-one, some-thing entirely worse as time progressed. Kezec, a dream long gone, a part of both Halketh and Caelitus in the deepest depths of the soul that both personas shared, this would be the only thing the Goidels would never learn of, the only shred of innocence that none could reach or use against him. One of these days, even if only for a momentary ripple in the endless winds of time, Barran would find himself wondering what kind of person his perceived future opponent had been before the Galaxy's wars came to find him, perhaps even gaining something of a Force-Adept's momentary glimpse of the childlike wonder still resonating meekly from within.
Similar things had happened on Michael's travels, but like then, there was some paths that even the Wanderer was unwilling to walk down; and in the realization that he'd see it in more enemies than Darth Caelitus alone, the Druid would make no such attempts to bring Caelitus back to the man he was when he still went by the name,
"Halketh". However, despite this, the Woad had no intention of gunning for the Miraluka's spine outright, intending like he had with Khaostra Devoid, to play whatever games his opponents had to throw his way. If the Druid wished to strengthen his mind in every aspect, he knew he couldn't resist the tests of his enemies, and in wishing to become more powerful than every last one of those among his dark-hearted opposition, Lord Michael knew that he would need to embrace crucibles much darker than those his father had been put through.
Whatever the Highlanders were stepping out into, the Lord-Captain would know then what the best course of action would be - choosing to let his intuition take control for the first time since his ritual on Dathomir, the Druidic element within the Wanderer would decide the best course of action.
An' the Brotherhood will achieve victory every time.... The difference a Krieg-Mandalorian can make, staggering.
Readied up in full winter gear, the Highlander's best warriors, (judged after their training exercise on Serenno) in all their quiet, calmly resolve, seemed like they were acquiescent to whatever fate, or their Laird, had in store for them and others aligned to the iron sun of the Imperium. This generality in action, though comforting to see, still wasn't new to Lord Michael - and still wasn't the most noteworthy aspect to what the Druid was seeing on a soul-deep level. Apart from the slight fluttering of Randall's aura, every last operator in,
"Fang Platoon", including Caulen, Woodsy, Lachlan and Yorunarr to near-exact extents, was calmer than they had been for their deployment to Ursa's Redoubt, though it was obvious that the Lycanthrope could feel the 1st-Leftenant's unease emanating for himself. None blamed McBain for it, as he had been kind enough to reach into his own trauma each and every time it was asked of him, as Carlac in particular had left him understandably cautious whenever the undead were mentioned in the 1st-Leftenant's vicinity.
'You did well on Carlac, mate. Naw, honestly.... I shouldn't have put so much responsibility oan yer back like that, an' should've focused harder on closer threats at hand. That's on me - always has been, understand?'
Nodding, McBain would be given reasonable cause for a moment of self-reflection, hanging head low for a moment before straightening his posture out once more, and then, without any prompt or coaching whatsoever, Barran's best Highlander would be seen exerting more calm than he had been before.
Now that's more like it, Randall. This, right here, is the Kern we need.
With an aura that was steadily beginning to calm to an extent it was steadily starting to align with all the others, Randall,
"Gallowglass", was finally starting to look like he had morale that could outlast the Maw's offerings for the Imperium, one of the very few things Druid's clique relied on more than anything else, perhaps even more than the very weapons and ammunition they carried into battle. Just in time for the eventual flashing,
"Brace for Landing", light atop the landing-ramp opening in their sector. Affectionately slapping his second-in-command across the shoulder, Michael gruffly concluded the matter by saying,
'Gledd ti have ye back, McBain. We'll be needin' some o' that Gallowglass action the-night, an' that's puttin' it mildly.', and sharing one last nod of kindly affirmation before the ramp fell outwards beside them. It was time for the Highland Brotherhood's Grandmaster to make his final call on their particular strategic approach, so Lord Michael made sure to be the first to step out into the frozen wilderness, to let his senses run wild as any true Goidel would in his shoes, to make his mind up once and for all.
'Noted, but remember - you still have a choice to make. One we need you to make in the next minute or so.... Figure it out, sir. We'll wait.'
McBain was more right than he would ever know, and there was nothing Michael could do or say to change this fact, only hindsight would offer the Druid's trusty subordinate any wisdom in later life, for time never permitted such moments of revelatory self-speculation for the warriors of the Highland Brotherhood, as there were always more pressing matters of more-immediate concern getting in the way. Powdery snow-particles would lap up around their heads as Lord-Captain Barran considered the unspoken for a short moment, stepping out alone as he thought on what his next decision would mean for their warfighting doctrine henceforth, but when he saw the stars above the hills to the north, everything began to make sense. Serenity, littering the skies in an ocean of wonder, like bioluminescent plankton on a calm sea-tide, a breath-taking beauty to behold in a moment when absolute clarity was needed.
Good thing we landed here anyways, I'd hate t'be catchin' glances o' this on the way oot, that's for sure.
'Sinclair, on me!', Barran exclaimed, reaching into his left trouser pocket for cigarettes as the Lycanthrope stepped out to stand beside him and join him in looking out to the view of the wintry landscape beyond. This decision would affect Lachlan as much as it would himself, but Lord Michael knew that he wouldn't have any other way, seeing for himself that ascension awaited them both - regardless of what decision was made in the end. Taking a long draw from his Dunwaller Silver as Sinclair lit one of his own, Barran would look to the stars one last time, taking it all in for a while with his bodyguard until he finally said,
'We use our recent-training - I will trust Kurze's advice.... We shall stick t'the shadows, an' if we're lucky enough, perhaps one day we might behave like the shadows that shroud us.', stopping to take another draw, exhaling the smoke through his nose as his gaze turn to seek Sinclair's own in sincerity.
'Safe though it might be, it buys us enough time t'weather the real storms oan the horizon. Buys us time ti adjust, buys us time t'learn what the feth we really are.... The Aurora De Danaan have plans for you an' I, plans I would have them forced to divulge - an' out of principle alone. More on that later.'
'For now though, we ought to get moving.', the Lord-Captain concluded, flicking away the last third of his cigarette and walking northwards with rifle unclipped from the shoulder-sling and shouldered with intent, then kneeling to properly mark his pointman position for the rest of the Wolfpack. Those alighting the dropship would step out into a singular fire-team formation, allowing the others to bring their IFV down the wider off-ramp and drive it up the line to protect the vigilant first fire-team as each rifleman climbed aboard. Nothing would get in the way of the top-turret's chambered ammunition as every last pair of eyes looking to the horizon was assured safety, and in their attempt to slip into the nooks and crannies of the hills beyond, the newly-trained Highlanders would negate the valley-floor's many disadvantages without so much as a single shot fired in anger, safely moving in a direction that was in fact being watched from afar.
Michael could sense almost every presence in the mountains beyond, and some of the more powerful auras from within the citadel itself, though he could not put faces or names to the powers of Dark and Iron Light that could be detected so early, only speculation as to who it could've been at that point. If they were resonating with more intensity than all those around them, the Druid could only surmise that Rurik Fel and Darth Solipsis were among those already making their first moves within the Citadel itself, the living, breathing avatars of Order and Chaos locking horns - setting an explosive tone for the fight ahead from the very offset of the assault the Highlanders were trying to get to. But then the Woad sensed one presence in particular joining the clashing lines of force-users beyond, one he recognised, one that was still quite recent to his mind's collection of memories.
Dooku.... An omnipresence, one who remains out of my reach. Just like he was with my father.
