3RD POST
SUMMIT'S CLAW, MT. CERBERUS,
NORTH ARRUA PROVINCE, MAR'ZAMBUL (SUMMER OF 878 ABY)
'Lord Bloodhound, I-'
Some hours had passed, and most of it had been spent watching the struggle on Exegol by the time the Bloodhound was called to his meditation room, passing by like a flash until the very moment he was asked to leave the others to their entertainment, with the walk to the Trifold Spire itself feeling like an age had passed as the world grew darker around him. And to make it all the more intensely apparent was the fact Barran had passed from one end of Fort Wrath to the other in complete silence, with nought but echoes and the whistling winds of the world outside, even finding nought but silence in the meditation room when he first entered, despite the fact one of his closest confidants had been kneeling by the Trifold Spire shrine for a while already.
But when the door eventually closed behind his Warlord, the vengeful Chiss eventually stood to speak, bowing with deep ceremonious respects before even daring to address the man who would be Khan, but Thomas knew Dreamer far too well to let protocol stand in the way of meaningful conversations.
'I think,"Tommy", will suffice here.... Everyone else is watching the events unfold on Exegol after all. Not like anybody's gonna chin you for it on any other occasion for that matter, but I appreciate you setting examples for the others all the same.'
With a gracious nod of acceptance, Dreamer then paused for a moment, letting his fiery red gaze wander off into a thousand-yard stare in deep thought before finally snapping out of his reverie, with those glowing eyes meeting those of his leader in sincerity. Then after inhaling loudly through his nostrils, the dutiful Darkhan quietly replied,
'Alright then, Tommy. If you truly have allowed me to call you by your birthname on this one occasion, then I suppose it is only pertinent that I give you mine.... Abbreviation needed, naturally; but I think,"Maaru", will suffice here alongside,"Tommy", or am I overstepping the boundaries of my-?', only to be cut short by the Woad in the hopes it would keep the Chiss from worrying so much about formalities.
'-Its fine, Maaru. No, honestly.... You needn't worry so much.'
In the assurances, the Chiss returned to meaningful silence, though instead of adopting a thoughtful thousand-yard stare, Dreamer's eyes instead turned to the Trifold Spire, holding to a reverent gaze across all the bone-carven idols of the Dark Three as the Bloodhound watched on curiously. It was obvious that it wasn't just Barran who was affected by the mere presence of the Mongrel's sword alone, and in the understanding that the likes of Rook and Dreamer would have known the Bloodhound's mentor for many more years than those that Thomas had known since resurrection, the Woad wisely chose to keep himself from prying on the matter, understanding that it was more than just his own life that had been changed by the tribe's first Warlord.
More than just the threads of his own fate that were irrevocably changed by the Avatars and their ever-weaving, perpetually-hidden hands.
Turning back to the Mongrel's successor, the Darkhan smiled for a moment to himself, (understanding the great significance of the moment in the process of weighing his words) then eventually drawled,
'Thank you, Tommy. Now - the item I was told to bring here in secrecy.... You never said, I mean - of course you couldn't, but you massively understated the item's importance.', in response, moving on from the issues in protocol in the hopes they could discuss the sword instead. Then with little more than a tilt of his head towards the carven shrine to the Dark Three, Dreamer continued,
'Don't do that, not now.... Its a nasty habit for a Great Khan to say the least, a nasty habit - for a conqueror.', pointing to the surface of the marble altar and stepping back to allow the Bloodhound a proper view.
'With that sword, the very sword you forged on Rhigar, rests the fates of countless souls in the Galaxy, the legacy forged by our First Warlord, and the legacy you are forging for yourself now.... And just like they have with that blade over there, the hammer-sparks of the future have never once stopped flashing around you either. The sword is yours, but with that, it is also your promise to the man who helped you learn to fight again.... My work here is done for now, brother. Take all the time you need.'
With a deep-leaning bow, the Darkhan then turned to leave, quietly opening and shutting the door behind him on the way out, leaving the Warlord alone with his mentor's blade as he returned to the festivities in the Hearthen Hall.
Strength rises to meet strength,
His words, the first to calm me in a sea of sorrow an' fear.
An' I can still hear it now, just as clearly as I did the first time.
Just a few paces away, just a little movement off the spot awaited the Greatsword of his dreams, the last-remaining trace of his mentor; and in his transfixed state, seemingly glued in place as if by the power of his mind alone, the Bloodhound finally understood what Dreamer had been staring at. It wasn't the blade itself, sitting safely in her scabbard with no lesser hand sullying her form with their childlike curiosity, not by any means discernible to Barran at that time, not when the implications seemed to be of much greater significance than the mere mores of nostalgia, longing and grief. Seeing that it all went much deeper with Maaru, Thomas would see the Mongrel's aura with gut-wrenching clarity for himself, understanding it all with a rising lump in his throat as he muttered,
'Oh, I see now.... He must have felt it from the moment he first held the grip, I should have been wiser in my choice.', to himself in the low-lit, otherwise empty meditation room.
Violence begets violence. The,"Civilized", people of Known Space claim this is an evil thing, to be avoided... but it is simply the natural order of the galaxy, an eternal cycle.
The more Thomas remembered, the more it ached in his heart, mind and soul, but unlike the migraine-inducing recollections of his first life, these pains that Barran felt in his first, lurching paces towards the wonder of his own making were different. No such nosebleeds would be expected that time, and unlike the agonies that hounded his second life, the Bloodhound knew there was nothing but time itself that could heal these hurts like stims could for migraines, and there was no telling if the one-eyed Woad could even survive long enough to experience any suchlike inner-peace in the end. It would never be easy to survive for long as a Marauder in any fashion, but in marking their own tribe apart from the Maw's ruling caste, and apart from all the factions known to the Galaxy, waging war on everyone would always end up being a one-way ticket to the Nether.
Of this, Thomas had no illusions of escape.
No delusions of survival in the slightest.
Not even as he committed to grasping the sword of his dearly-departed Mentor, but then Barran stopped as his hand hovered above the grip, clenching his jaw as the piercing-cold blue of his one-remaining iris began to shine with poorly-contained tears. His right hand, that which couldn't bring itself to grasp the sword in assured ownership, was trembling at the time; much like the rest of the Bloodhound's anatomy, but he couldn't control it, no matter how stubbornly the Woad tried to bite down and suppress it.
War brings Death. Death leads to Rebirth. The Reborn return to War.
As much as the Bloodhound tried so desperately to resist, the words of the Mongrel went deep, as they had when the Omen of Durace first heard them spoken in person, giving way to his desire to grasp his mentor's Greatsword and lifting it from the altar for appraisal. But in the instant his scarred fingers wrapped around the leathern grip, that same aura by which Maaru was clearly affected was leaving it's effects on Thomas in turn, bringing more tears with it, though Barran was still fighting it in the spirit of futility. It was almost as if the Bloodhound's Mentor was there in the meditation room with him, seemingly watching the struggle within from the other side of the veil between life and death,
The ashes of destruction are fertile soil. In this way, violence is cleansing. Through battle we are restored, made whole.
And the more it felt real to experience, the more it ached to feel the wonder of hearing the voice of one who made life worth living - again.
Stop struggling. Let nature take its course.
Once as a Warlord, once as a shade of himself - hidden in a sword's aura.
Did my Mentor know his words would resonate twice like this?
If not at the time, then perhaps down the line?
The outer layers of the blade's scabbard, finely wrought though they were, had been prepared from the same slabs of Pure Beskar as the Greatsword itself; though these curved, banded sheets certainly appeared as if they were made from a rare alloy instead, only revealing their true quality by the light and the ringing sound of his thumbnail contacting the hilt-side decorations. The blade wasn't even free of it's sheath yet, and the vivid intensity was still materializing to the extent of near-photographic recall, bringing back memories of the day the Shriven One became the Bloodhound, the very same day that the very same Greatsword was presented to the Mongrel on Empress Teta. All bearing great resemblance to the night the Bloodhound was resurrected, though much like history's many realities, these events never rhymed enough to reveal any such blight of repetition - though the similarities always seemed accursed in moments like these.
Does it matter who you were? Now you are, and your destiny can be shaped anew. This is your moment of Rebirth. Embrace it.
Rushes would surge up and down the Woad's spinal-column, setting his nervous system on a domino-effect of shivers as he finally pulled the Greatsword's grip, freeing the blade from it's scabbard with a rasping ring that cleaned and sang at a higher pitch as soon as the last frontal segment swiped out towards his upper-blindside, a clean flourish that revealed his creation in all it's reflective, shining glory. But in the moments following the movement towards a duellist's salute, there would be nothing keeping Thomas in the realm of self-control any longer, and though his efforts were admirable, not even the great Bloodhound could keep a lid on his emotions after that. After all, Thomas had been suppressing much since the last time he wept, harbouring much in the way of life-changing trauma since the night after the Battle of Tython, but this flood of tears differed to those of yesteryear.
Mentor, I forged this - wonder.... So you could prevail with it.
With this in your grasp, you could have ruled the entire universe.
You should have been here in my place. The abomination should have perished in yours.
'Mentor.... I know I feel but a small part of your soul in this shade o' you, but a part o' me also knows you can hear these words o' mine.'
It was enough to bring the Warlord to his knees, but for the first time in his second life, these tears were of another nature entirely; and though it registered as grief in the beginning, as any process of perceived spiritual visitation would wreak emotional havoc on one's mind, it soon became apparent that such tears were of the life-affirming, elated sort. This was the first glimpse of his leader since the latter-autumn months of
876 ABY, and after taking more than long enough to get past the grief and to begin the process of moving on, it was only natural that some of those grief-struck traumas resurfaced with the joy, granting a bittersweet sheen to the wonder in his hands - not that Barran could see it properly by then.
'You are free now, but the future still remains uncertain, as it needs a new leader to complete the Cycle. To end all pain and to end the Galaxy's centuries-long stagnation once an' for all.... Words an' intentions I can still hear ringing clearly like Beskar, words an' intentions of which I mean to see manifested - though I hope these would be made manifest sooner rather than later.'
Even whilst trapped in his teary-eyed state, it was clear the resolve within the Woad was strengthening with every passing second, like the sword itself was granting Thomas the urge to rise again a new man; a leader of a tribe who prophesied his resurrection, his aspirations and his true power, leader of a tribe led by one the Bloodhound knew as a true great of the Maw, the real reason the Galaxy feared the threat of the Unknown Region. Entire armies in the past, entire taskforces of multiple factions had fought, bled and died in the attempt to stem the savage tide before, and though they were all much stronger and well-prepared in the latter years of the war, Barran had long since understood that they were all far from infallible by then as well.
'I think I'm quite done playing with my prey, Mentor. I find no joy in it any longer.... My insatiable hunger takes precedence now.'
