1st post
Markwood Marshes, Spirewatch Forest,
Canthar Province, Panatha (Early-Spring 877 ABY)
'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
Against all odds, all sense of reason - Gowrie had just crossed paths with a dead Barran on Panatha.
The world was falling apart around him, with the undead and the living alike bracing for the worst, last play of aggression from either side, though as for what that would be, Lord Aron in particular wasn't keen on sticking around to find out. It was bad enough as it was with the fire, gore, screams and deaths everywhere, enough to know that there was nothing left to be done within the foggy, smoke-filled expanse of Spirewatch forest. Not after all that had been wrought on Panatha's surface already, and by both sides along with it, and in seeing all the tell-tale signs of a crucible made complete, it only made sense to call off the search for the Mongrel's successor - letting the crucible burn out in a task incomplete.
But in the process of running back in the best judgement-call of his career, Lord Aron was suddenly met with the sight of a warrior carrying a wounded Twi-Lek woman, walking back in the direction he only just turned away from, immediately marking them as Mawite from the moment the Kellas was able to let the puzzle-pieces click into place. It was enough that Gowrie had drawn his
Sting o' Frost almost as if by instinct alone, sliding the Songsteel cavalry-sabre from the scabbard before he had any time to notice what he was doing, but as soon as the encumbered warrior lifted his eyepatch-wearing head from the task at hand, the Tuath-born general recognised the Woad-born features of a man everyone assumed had been dead since the latter half of the Third Imperial Civil War.
Features belonging to none other than the firstborn son of his old friend, son of Lord Erskine Barran.
From one shock to the next, the spectre-made-corporeal's voice served as a lash that was altogether more vicious than that which preceded it, fitting for the many layers of malformed personal-growth experienced by the latest of the Tuath's adversaries, almost as if the opposite side of Gowrie's contrast was staring him down as the storms raged overhead. The voice itself a reminder of years bygone, but made harsher somehow, and though it made the Kellas endlessly curious, the overriding hatred that began to build up was all too strong to resist in their silent staredown. Muting the words of the Tuath by little more than the power of presence and his voice, the Woad still retained enough bewitchment over the Chieftain of his tribe's oldest rivals on Galidraan III, though only enough to say,
'See ye soon, Gowrie-', before being cut short by the the Kellas in the heat of his quiet fury.
'You an' I will clash swords someday, Barran.... An' when that day comes, I'll be a greater swordsman than yer faither ever could be!'
And with that, the two Goidels parted ways, pacing backwards away from each other as soon as both warriors passed by their respective counterpart, revealing a promise of violence in mutually-driven desires to fulfil and exceed the wonders of the mentors who prepared them as well as they could for such a day of days. It was exactly what their fates wanted, and had for centuries, perhaps even stemming as far back as the beginnings of their Late Clan-Wars era, but there would always be that one factor that none would consider until some time after the fact, that which dictated the presence of fates much greater than their own. Instilling within the emotions he recognised (and almost too easily at that) were the memories of the last time he felt this way towards a Barran, back when Lord Erskine finally recognised Gowrie for the Tuath-born chieftain he really was, no longer recognising a lower-Laird of a clan's lesser, cousin-branch as was suggested before that moment.
The rivalry was still very much a tense affair in those days, but after the death of their mutual friend on Generis, the slow and steady frosting-over of the formerly-unsteady peace took hold, creating a friendship within a newfound duelling rivalry between the tribes' most-prominent leaders of the era. But in being aware of the consequences that awaited ill-advised action on the matter, and especially if endeavoured without consulting the father of the offending Woad in particular, the scar-faced Tuath knew that the chances of another Clan War would immediately flare up all over again - and perhaps even more ferociously than ever before.
Oh, Erskine.... You best have an explanation for this chit, I swear it.
As soon as my debrief is done an' dusted, sur....
You an' I are gonnae have oorselves a wee chat, so we are.
And yet, despite knowing what it meant, Lord Aron knew there was only one way to achieve it without the clans rising up in arms over it, and the Kellas was more than willing to attempt a brow-beating that benefitted everyone in the end; and in the moments he sprinted back northward again, he truly believed he was the one to finish the Bloodhound and end the Mongrel's destructive legacy along with it, and these beliefs in such men always led to something akin to the finality of accomplishment. Fate would always have a hand in the outcome, but it was down to the abilities of the Imperial Major-General, his tenacity and his cool-headed approach to the ultraviolence, understanding fully that any deviation from his ways would mean certain death in a fight against the Maw's wildest contingents, ringing especially true in fights against those who adhered to the spirit of their own tribal-communities in turn.
But despite the obvious complications caused by the mere living presence of Thomas Barran just moments before, Lord Aron was quite confident he could defeat Lord Erskine's firstborn in duelling combat, and almost just as confident in the Empire's ability to beat the Scar Hounds on the conventional warfronts along with it. After all, it wasn't just Wildcat Division and the 501st Legion making strides against the Maw that day, and in the moment he saw one of Kelga'an's subordinates popping up to safely ward him towards the safety of Coyle's defensive line, Gowrie understood this truth with some helpful perspective adding to the comfort factor.
'Sieur, follow me! Your six is covered for now! Quickly!'
By the time the last of the wounded were loaded onto the medical drop-ships, there was room for some of the unharmed and steady-footed soldiers to go with them, leaving the other Goidels and the last of the Imperial contingents on the planet to await the last evacuations, and with plenty to think about while the skies continued to darken and boom with stormy thunderclaps. Dwelling on all they were subjected to, from the very first week to the very last moment, cursing the planet Panatha with every dropship that came to evacuate them all, battalion by battalion; and one by one with the changing hours of the clock, each dropship that made it to ground level in one piece, offering salvation with each and every off-ramp that hissed with that inviting, beckoning urgency.
'Aw'right, Aron.... Time ye spilled it!'
Gowrie, the medics, the Anaxsi and all the remaining elite units had stayed behind to give cover for all the others, choosing to board the last ship out in holding to rear-guard commitments until the very last moment, and it was only when the last off-ramp had dropped safely that Lord Aron would choose to reveal the truth of the matter, needless though the discretion was by that point of the fight. All standing with the rains beating down on their heads and helmets, listening intently as they indirectly huddled around the Kellas, poised to hear his final answer once and for all as the Major-General replied,
'I should've known.... All the signs were there an' I blundered m'way past EVERY LAST FETHING ONE O' THEM, COYLE!!!! It doesn't even seem real to recall the face I saw back there, like I somehow dreamt it.... The flayed blue-lion.... Roaring with his own flesh an' skin between his teeth.... I can't fething believe it-', just before he was cut short by a vicious punch to the jaw.
THWACK
'STOP WITH THE FETHIN' BLUBBERING AN' TELL US WHAT YE SAW, YA FETHIN' IDIOT!!!!'
THWACK-THWACK
'I'M NOT FETHING ABOUT HERE!!!! JUS' SAY IT AW'READY!!!!'
Lifting himself off the wet, muddy ground with a laboured grunt of exertion, the Tuath looked his Woad-born field-surgeon up and down with a mild disdain, shaking his head for a moment before eventually replying,
'Danny.... I'm not even sure you'd believe me if I told you, man.', giving Alun Reed every reason he needed to stand between them. But in that moment, Gowrie realised that there would be no further mercy beyond that point, they knew that their commanding officer had seen something that affected him, and in the understanding that withholding vital information from his subordinates was more than undue with their circumstances considered, the Wildcat officers were acting well within the means of their authority to withdraw whatever was being kept from discovery.
'Alright then, you ready for this? I doubt it, but here goes.... I saw the face and heard the voice of none other than Lord Thomas Barran himself, firstborn to none other than our reigning Lord-Regent; missing an eye, granted, but I still have no doubt it was Lord Erskine's son.... Proudly wearing the golden-skull sigil of the Scar Hounds!'
Silence followed, but not that of voiceless processing of the Major-General's words, it was clear to Gowrie that all the comrades around him had been rendered dumbstruck by the power of the revelation itself. For none could ever predict their theories of the Woad-born raider to such an extent in other circumstances, never truly banking on being quite so correct in the end, as it wasn't in the power of mere soldiers to predict, not even in those so noticeably acclimated to facing off against the Galaxy's darkest, most outlandish threats. But to learn it was Thomas Barran (as unlikely as it seemed at the time) was impossible for the others to disprove, especially after seeing the horror it brought to the eyes of Kellas in recounting what he saw, seeing for themselves that there was no portrayal or dramatization in the responses of their commanding officer, seeing the clear horror in Gowrie's darting gaze with their own eyes - bearing witness to the very definition of irrefutable.
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TRIBULATIONS OF THE WILDCATS IV: A REALM AFLAME - PART 1
FORT WULFNGARD, ARCENON-ESCHATE DISTRICT,
ARCENON PROVINCE, KALIDAN-LYSENIA (SPRING 878 ABY)
Aaaah, familiarity in futility.... Not good, not even slightly.
I remember a time when they called on the Wildcats to win battles-
Where, oh where could those days have sauntered off to?
Gazing out across a frozen expanse, that which quite-closely resembled the frozen wilderness on which he was raised, Lord Aron was silently keeping to himself, increasingly withdrawn by the predicaments and blights of the war as it seemingly progressed with no end in sight. But in reality, it was the memory of the face Gowrie saw smirking at him on Panatha, etched into the forefront of his mind like a molten-hot brand had been pushed down upon the very surface of his recall, burning it's sigil deep into the gateway of his soul that day. Remaining as a mark of the perpetual grip it would keep hold over the scar-faced Tuath henceforth, there to vex and torment the mind, heart and soul for the rest of his days - finite though these days were predicted to be.
Not that it affected the Kellas enough to put a dent in the sheer weight of willpower he had at his disposal, and though his hair was growing greyer like his mentor, the vigor of his fighting prime was not yet done with Lord Aron by then; ever the warrior-poet and psychotic trench-fighter, still holding to his ferocities in the midway part of his fifties, both features and movements alike would effortlessly belie his age for a few more years at the very least. IMPAF's highest-decorated General was ready for anything after all, making it seem as though leading from the front was somehow good for an officer's health and longevity, though in the case of the Kellas, many would have been forgiven for believing it to be an accurate assessment of the one Tuath who defied every norm he encountered in combat.
The Major-General wasn't exactly sitting idly by in the two years since that day though, not by any means, though it would never be the case that Gowrie's toughest subordinates would ever allow him to slack off in his training either; pushing their commanding-officer past his natural limits as much as they could, improving every aspect of Lord Aron's athleticism in the sparring-yard and weight-lifting gym alike, with other aspects of the process being implemented along the way to give further credence to the merit of a coach-agitated second wind. Preparing for war as everyone else around him had been, but in galvanisation process, it quickly became obvious to the others that the Kellas was training for one opponent in particular
Expecting the Mawite landings would consist chiefly of Bloodsworn and Scar Hound contingents, Lord Aron had been smart in preparing for the worst, keeping expectations low in the process of hoping for the best, the cold eyes scanning the horizon (all whilst standing on the roof of the fort's air-traffic control tower) would do so with more purpose than merely scanning the treelines and beyond in idle, tourist-like observance. Much like the others manning the walls of the HASCO-line, Gowrie would also have his firearm drawn with the safety off at all times, watching with a poise that knew his enemies would come spilling from the treeline sooner or later, understanding that OPFOR's firepower and ferocity would be wielded with abandon against an immovable defensive object - with the Maw playing their part as the irresistible force in the Crucible's equation.
<"Reed to Wildcat One! Briefing's done, Counterstrike procedures are in place.... So whatever Sallying Plan you choose, we're ready - jus' get down here an' have a drink wae the commandry clique aw'ready. Whiskey's starting to take a wee dent, so it is.">
<"Not this time, Alun.... But you can relax with the assurance you've got time to spare. Wildcat One out!">
But with the sounds of war sounding off too far in the distance to be of any consequence within the outer boundaries constructed beyond the ancient walls of Fort Wulfngard, the Kellas knew he had time to spare for a quick cigarra or three, though in his solitary gazings out towards the frozen forests beyond, Lord Aron would find no peace for as long as the threat of the Bloodhound remained unchecked. Even with muscles still aching from his last sparring session with Lord-Captain McGechin, there was nothing of the rest and recuperation that would be spent idly, and though the cold certainly helped to soothe the aches and pains of his training, it did little to encourage warmth and conversation in one so single-mindedly devoted to bringing the rogue Goidel to a proper, lasting demise.
Not that the solitary reflection would ever last long with enemies pushing ever nearer towards the staging-point of their breakthrough, and certainly not with the fortress as well-manned as Wulfngard had been for weeks already before their arrival, though as for whether the evacuations would be finished in time to complete their main task or not, Gowrie could only hope so for the Eternals' sake. Though much to the relief of the Kellas, explosions would sound off on the nearest hillsides, likely mines or booby-traps heralding the nearing approach of the Maw's ground forces; but just as Lord Aron lit another cigarra, the sound of boots crunching on snow could be heard, followed by the clunking of the same boots on the Durasteel step-ladder that led to the top of the lookout tower.
'I smell Anaxsi Cognac in the air.... Is that Nukth down there?'
Eina L'lerim-Vandiir
to struggle to keep the Empire together.
Ingrid L'lerim
's absence, it seems that they would attack each other for even more power. A civil war for power threatens Kalidan and the Maw seeks to take advantage of the Barons and Baronesses disunity
Kyrel Ren
.
