Faction Home of the Brave II [THE EMPIRE]

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

5th post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

GODMASK_ACTUAL

LORD-CAPTAIN OF FIREDANCE BRIGADE(THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD)
HIGH-SHAMAN OF THE SERENNOAN ESOTERIC CHAPTER
PRIEST-KING OF ARCHAIS

Tags: DECEASED Erskine Barran Ignacious Korvan Aoki-Barran Mira DECEASED Aron Gowrie FN-999 Samson Trahvai

FOR THE ANCIENTS I: IN THE EYES OF THE GODS - PART 5

Sparring Yard, Barran Hall,
An-Cridheachan, Galidraan III (Late 878 ABY)

'WHIIIIIIIIIIT?!?!'
'Oh, here we go.... If you need me, I'll be speaking with the quiet gentleman over here.'

That's gonna be the biggest nope that ever noped in the history of,"Nopes".
Not even ashamed to endeavour it either, prudence is King here.
​

After years of reading through the folklore, the history and the ascertained consensus, Yan'Sharlim's only surviving son knew when to step away from anything pertaining to the rivalries of the two most-prominent Goidelic clans and tribes alike; having devoured chapters upon chapters'-worth of reasons to choose life, and having formed personal bonds of brotherhood with clear-resounding examples of the risks that interference incurred on Galidraan III of all places. Much to everyone's good fortune then that a certain individual's auspiciously-timed headache required the Godseer's attention at that moment in time, a development of which Yorunarr was grateful beyond articulation - and a development of which he was also perfectly qualified to resolve.

'You there.... Yes, you. We talk - over there if you wouldn't mind.'

Ringing especially true for the Godseer, as this was the highest-ranking Shaman within the ranks of the Highland Brotherhood after all, one who had become Lord Michael's bond-brother in the absence of the former Warden, and one who had come to learn much of the pains in the everyday lives of the Empire's knightly caste. But not only had the Novanian learned much in the headaches of the Force-wielders he knew, but in the process of feeling the quiet one's pain in telepathically-attuned detection, a Midichlorian count was also detected in immediate concurrence, drawing not only concern for the pain but concern for the Lord-Regent's safety along with it. There was no reason to suggest the new face would make such an ill-fated attempt on Lord Erskine's life, but the ending of a war was no excusable reason to err against caution, not for one who had known the feeling of being marked for death before.

Making the decision to split from the crowd work every part as prudently as Yorunarr could have hoped under the circumstances.

'Lean close for your own sake - good.... Just letting you know now, this isn't just a doctor's courtesy. Your pain isn't dissimilar to those of a certain Druid I know personally.... Thus revealing that, just like the Druid, and consequently, this young lady setting her stance behind me - you also retain a strong connection to the Force.'

However, little did Yorunarr know that the perceived threat would diminish almost as soon as the quiet one's identity was ascertained, and in turn, it wouldn't take very long for the young Imperial Knight to ascertain that of the ascended Shaman muttering in his ear. In this instance a particular Druidic method would see to that, and a particular method of which the Warden had personally taught the Priest-King in the past, and though it would feel quite intense from the moment their handshake made contact, all the answers would be revealed to both sides of the procedure almost immediately after the fact. It was all planned this way, and not only in the Godseer's revelation of self, power and purpose, but also as a means to strengthen the tether between them, as this was unfortunately the only way to assure prolonged control for the safety of the one he wished to identify from the offset.

'Meet my handshake in the middle, good sir. Let us learn each other.... And in this case, your reward would be a timely, soothing eradication of that headache.... You ready?'

But as much as the Priest-King wished to rely on his bond-brother this time, he knew that calling on an incapacitated aid was rightly considered (and by both Novanian and Goidelic cultures in absolute unanimity) morally objectionable by all the people he knew - all but the one who constantly deluded himself into thinking he was anything but incapacitated.

~=Needin' a wee boost o'er there, big chap? I can feel what you're about t'do.=~

~=What I need you to do is rest, ya fething idiot! I can handle this! Just sleep, man!=~
​

'Alright then, let us begi-no, wait! Don't - ignore.... Decorum, you - maaaad - maaaaaAAA-'

Not enough time had been given to complete the verbal, though-informal prompt, but it didn't matter to either side of the tether by then, as both souls and both minds were ready and rested enough for the task; and by the time their hands latched in place for the fateful handshake, the quiet one was every part as curious as his would-be (short-lived) telepathic interrogator, denying the Godseer his chance to ready himself in active, disciplined contrast to the relaxed, atypically-Novanian mindset. Not that the fault lay in the lap of the unidentified Imperial Knight, as the order to shake Yorunarr's hand was better off given with the small caveat of demanded slow patience after all, especially if he wished to avoid the worst parts in the sudden rush of mind-melting intensity in the first place, though at least there was some small consolation in the fact the experience would prove just as intense for the other half of the tether.

Though fortunately for both sides of the contrast this part of the procedure only lasted a minute or so, and by the time they awoke within the mind of the quiet one, all the mind-boggling aspects had finally given way to the starry world within the suspect's mind, and not a moment to soon for the opposites as the very sanities suppressing the urge to scream were waning quickly in the final, traversing seconds. A blessing within a blessing for the hastier soul of the two, as this would have been an entirely new experience for the young Imperial Knight, and to make matters even easier for his interrogator, identification would be as easy as breathing after their feet touched the grounded base of the suspect's mind.

~=Oh.... Oooooh.... I see now - my sincerest apologies, Mr. Trahvai. But while I'm here-=~
​

As soon as Yorunarr was able to identify Samson, something else within the latter's mind caught the notice of the former, and there wasn't a shred of doubt in the Priest-King's mind that all of it contributed to the physical pains that reached all the way out to the retinal anatomy of the waking world. It decayed and ruined the architecture of-and-within the mind itself, yellowed and dried the grassy fields, cracked and robbed the mind's floor of it's moisture, making the fields beyond appear more as a desert's beginning than that of a fertile wilderness. Making physical of the spectral, it was then that communication would become easy enough not to add to the strain within Trahvai's mind, and coincidentally becoming easy enough for Yan'Sharlim's only son to work unhindered.

'You can relax now, I'm cancelling this detainment. You can speak as freely as you wish, but if we're being honest here, I'd rather hear you reporting on the severity of your condition, but I digress.... There was nothing suspect to be found in our little pairing phase, and by way of apology, I'll let you ask your own questions now. So all my permissions will be granted here and without reservation, and besides, fair is fair for a reason after all - and your sort of loyalist souls should be rewarded as such.... Melarran bless you, m'boy.'

​

 

[Michael Barran]

5th post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

CAIRN_ONE
RINGLEADER OF THE PELLAEONIST CLIQUE
WARDEN OF THE IMPERIAL KNIGHTS
DRUID-GRANDMASTER OF THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD

TAGS: Aoki-Barran Mira Siyndacha Aerin

BORN OF BRIGHT STARS IX: HONOURING ANCESTORS - PART 5

THE BARROWS OF GOVERNANCE, HART HILL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (LATE 878 ABY)

'Alright....'
​

Drifting into his own mind, like a trawling boat on the seas of his youth, the Wanderer reached in to the darkest depths and lit them with such an intense glow that Lord Michael felt like he was holding a god's lantern throughout, instinctively squinting in mind and body alike as the rays of his meditative glow illuminated everything - bringing to light the world around the self who worked within the mind.

~=Mine Cairnsman knows what he must seek, so focus the mind - it will be needed.=~
~=It was seen in thine dreams more than once before, Michael.... But hath thee remembered?=~
~=We keep it in the minds of all, but we reveal it only to those in whom we find promise.=~
​

Heeding the wisdom and insight of the clan's ancestral spirits, Barran listened intently to the advice of the progenitor, but in hearing the input of the sons who followed, the Cairnsman quickly realised the dead possessed something of a careful, prudent streak. An attribute that seemed to have been lost over the years, especially in consideration of Lords Erskine and Ollis in particular, seemingly carefree under fire, as their fathers were before them. It was enough to note the jarring differences in levels of prudence on their own, but in seeing that the flame-red hair of the progenitor, noting each generation gradually becoming dark hazel at the brow over the centuries, the Lion of Serenno soon understood (in part) the true extents of the distance strayed from the very origins that brought his clan into being.

~=So it was more than just imaginings! Ya sly wee bunch o' rogues so yees are-=~​

Lord Michael, like his Sinn'Searann at the time, afforded himself a sniggering smirk so as not to ruin his attempt to soar to the tallest reaches of his mind, though the mortal's mirth was something more akin to appreciative acquiescence for all the ancestral spirits were doing to help their Cairnsman in his existential gamble.

All the good, the bad and the ugly aspects of the self and life that Michael scoured in his meditation, all would be seen in the process of scouring for that golden, rune-covered Temple of the Mind, gazed upon with the aim of finding his way to that one point on the towering, sprawling domed roof of the inner-conscious itself. Then as soon as that glowing gold speck was spotted on the starry canopy, the assurance of all his family's previous generations gave wind to the Wanderer's back as he set for his leap of faith, readying to soar towards the revelation and the truth of his lineage, the discovery of the true power it awoke in unravelling the secrets of the family's Cairnstones. But in order to achieve it, the leap needed to reach the distant golden speck if Lord Michael was to even hope for enlightenment, as the very floating ground he was trying reach (and upon which the temple had been built by the very same ancestors who guided him) was a one-time opportunity.

As there was one small detail that none of the dead would dare reveal at such a vital moment, as Barran's one chance of reaching it in the afterlife would have been rendered null-and-void if he failed to reach it in the leap for enlightenment, a cruel-but-necessary precaution the ancestral spirits implemented specifically to keep the unworthy from sullying (or utterly ruining-) countless centuries of celestial toil and wonder alike. Understood in the likelihood a dark element in the family could find his own way there, a dark element with enough malice it was very likely to infect the clean, gleaming light the ancestors were trying to protect from him - Lord Thomas I.

The one who refused to remain with the dead.

~=Its time, bai.... Mine Cairnsman must leap into the stars of his mind, an' it must be the greatest leap ye can muster if it is to have a hope o' reaching mine beloved temple. Reach for the gold speck, an' thine ancestors will meet thee at our doorway - good luck.=~

~=Handy info, an' thanks.... See ye soon, Sinn'Sear.=~

~=Likewise, now leap! LEAP FOR ALL MINE CAIRNSMAN IS WORTH!!!!=~
​

Kneeling in stance, dipping his posture a little below parallel with eyes aiming for the dim golden star in the sky, the last elements of much-needed focus were snatched up for the seemingly impossible task; however, despite the challenge presented, Lord Michael smiled, knowing his growth in astral and dreaming lucidity were more than enough to satisfy the demands of his ancestors. So leap the Wanderer would and leap he did, digging the front heels of his imagination deep into the grounded floor that held the entire content of his mind in place, launching with pistol-shot intensity as his front-leaning foot posture stomped the great skyward jump into motion, and without so much as a second, self-doubting thought to discourage him in the final stationary moments.

Let them see it.... Let them see the wise choice they made. Make it look easy, man.
​

The ground that cracked beneath had been impacted hard enough that the very walls of Barran's mind shook and vibrated from the sheer force offered in the jump towards the golden temple, a shockwave so wide-reaching, so forceful it doubtlessly would have been felt and seen from as far up as the temple Lord Michael aiming for, though as much as this was expected to surprise the Wanderer's ancestors, he would remain clueless of they fact they were hoping for such a display from the start, though fortunately for the Cairnsman this would only remain a mystery for as long as it took to reach them. An easy feat made easier by the fact his arms were kept by side to improve his chances, even if it but a tiny fraction of difference in the end, and as soon as the gold blot had grown large enough in perception to see it's full form, only then did it become clear enough that such streamlining efforts were just redundant distrusts in his own abilities.

~=We all knew it, we all knew it was possible for the latest Cairnsman.=~
​

Whilst the landing itself could have been cleaner, touching base on the porphyry slabs of the path to the temple's entrance with a sloppy, stumbling arrival, it was still enough to assure his presence on the surface of the unreachable, fully-connecting with the souls of his ancestors after decades of dreaming and meditation within the beating heart of his own mind. But as soon as the Imperial Warden arose to meet the faces of his ancestors, all the previous efforts seemed little more than an afterthought as Barran's gaze was distracted by the majesty, the wonder and the serene beauty of the glyph-covered temple he dreamt once as a child, and in reaction the hairs on his neck stood on end in the conscious, waking world - empowering the Wanderer in ways that defied the full extents of his colloquial comprehension.

Something quite otherworldly, and undeniably so.

~=Beautiful, isn't she?=~
~=Understatement, but yes.... So what now?=~
​

In the effort to aid in helping Lord Michael snap away from the awe-struck fixation on the Temple of the Mind, and to reveal how vividly his form would appear in the mind's eye of his descendant, the progenitor moved to block the view to the temple itself and smiled with pride as the Wanderer smiled in response. A moment of which Lord Michael knew he would never forget, owed specifically to the fact Barran never knew how much he needed to connect with his ancestors in such a fashion, a true rarity of the likes he knew would not be repeated again until another Barran walked the same path in life, as there were none among the living who possibly could have known what the Druid endeavoured (or achieved-) in his meditations.

~=The task is complete, mine Cairnsman succeeded, so these hard-fought permissions to visit will be granted henceforth. Now, it would have been suggested to come inside, but there is time aplenty for such things whenever we are needed.... Thine ancestors would prefer it if the time was spent reflecting the future, so prepare ye must as we must in turn.=~
~=Fair enough, Sinnsear.... So, shall we return to the Barrows on Hart Hill?=~
​

Receiving a curt, though affirmative nod in silent response, the Wanderer smiled as he nodded back, letting the Progenitor place his tattoo-covered palm on the Druid's soul as the meditating journey within was drawn to it's natural, satisfactory conclusion. Then as soon as all was said and done, and with little more than a blurred awakening into the waking, conscious realms, Barran was home again, looking hither and yon at all his proud ancestors as they gathered around him for the last time that night. To each a man, woman and child who passed before their time, all were relieved to see their rocky, arduous faith in Michael rewarded with lasting, assured finality, a confidence of which all had questioned at differing moments in his life by then.

~=I will dim the lights for now, but I intend to return when these living skies become a myriad.... Thank you, Sinn'Sear - an' I extend that same gratitude toward the rest o' you. Thank you all for everything!=~

~=Farewell for now, Michael. Hurry back soon.=~
​

Standing up, the Wanderer took a moment to gaze on the dematerializing forms of his ancestors, bowing with a reverence of the like he hadn't expressed in years, making sure to offer one last mark of respect before the last wisps of celestial matter dissipated in the snow. Then with little more than the click of his fingers, the glowing capstones were dimmed to their normative hues once more, completing his triumph with a joyous flourish to celebrate an unexpected endeavour, earning Barran a few moments of peace to himself for daydreaming and silent-reflection. After all, whatever this leaping endeavour unlocked within the mind of the Druid, it was certainly more than just access to astral temples, as this was normal fare for his own and Yorunarr's wheelhouses, making this distinct change within feel all the more distinctive at the time.

But just like with all the Barrans of the living sort, the thought of food and sleep seemed all the more necessary to Lord Michael, so after just a few minutes of thinking in aimless joy, the Wanderer made his eventual about-face and turned back towards the gateway. Walking back downhill with a smile on his face, in complete contrast to the mask of grim determination he wore on his way up, but something was awry, and Barran's hereditarily-high pain threshold was getting in the way - again.

Its nothing, residual nonsense from Neshtab.... Walk it off.
Deal with it when ye make it back to the cottage.
​

As the Wanderer passed the entrance gate, closing it behind him as he went, he tried to shake it off to keep a clear head on the walk downhill, but the dull, throbbing pain persisted. Even as he passed the oaken threshold of the forested pathway, Barran couldn't ward the pain away, almost-completely forgetful (or ignorant) of the damages incurred just days before, or already wading into a predicament akin to concussion or shock-delirium. A dangerous precipice to dance on, and despite his uncanny ability to take it all in stride, Lord Michael was barely a quarter-mile down the trail when his vision began to blur, irritating Barran to near-infuriating extremes.

'Self-triage it is then.... Great....'

<"Lookin' a bit pealy-wally o'er there, cousin. You aw'right?">
<"Aye, runnin' triage on masel the noo. Auld injuries comin' back to haunt me is all.">
<"As long as yer sure, cousin. Thrast out!">
​

The first area of concern would be the corners of the mouth and at the gums, and in the Wanderer's great haste to get to the root of the problem, ran bare fingers over both, only to find nothing of the bloody sort when he withdrew them to look. Next was the ears, but again, no blood would be found when he looked, and with the same dryness discovered in the nostrils to top it all off. It was irritating enough that the confusion was veering dangerously close to the point of outrage, though the mood swings were just another missed indicator of the real problem at hand, but before the Cairnsman had any time to figure it all out, his legs buckled and collapsed beneath him.

And despite his best efforts to remain upright, nothing could stop the proud, powerful Goidel from falling to his knees, a loss of motor-function at the most inconvenient of moments - and yet another missed indicator of the real problem at hand.

'Eeeh?! How am - I not figuring this out? What am I miss-ing here? It should be - easy.... Whit? Wait a-'

Although every roadblock to successful self-diagnosis had been thrown his way, and though the painful distractions only seemed to intensify and repeat with every passing second, Lord Michael would suddenly find himself grateful for his instincts as soon as his hand wandered towards the back of his head. Taking little more than slight contact on the suspected area-of-concern, just a slight touch was all that was needed to tell Barran everything he needed to know, and in the wincing reaction alone the Wanderer would hold his key to accurate diagnosis; but when Lord Michael found blood on his fingers, and fresh blood at that, the Cairnsman knew then that he was in more trouble than he previously assumed.

'Feth's sake, man.... Sloppy - work, so it-'

Then as soon as the blood on his fingers blurred beyond recognition, the world around him darkened, dropping his perception in consciousness as the body itself reverted into a comatose, auto-pilot state, and all owed to unexpected complications in recovery from head trauma. But despite the complications, along with the fact this meant the Wanderer would be found lying face first in the snow for the second time in almost a year, reaching the Temple of the Mind would always be worth the pain.

​

 

[Kallirróē Vrenth]

OUTFIT: x
TAG: Tish Cowen | Open

"One Polanis ale, thanks."​

The chilly breeze of Galidraan winter pierces deep through the gaps between my rib cages. It's a feeling I will never get used to, despite growing up in Mygeeto, another freezing planet. My internal organs are screaming, desperately begging for another drop of alcohol, for an extra pump of blood. Yet they are not the only parts of me that are craving for intoxication. No, my brain is also cheering me to chug another glass, or more. For some people, alcohol is a death sentence. They will stop functioning with a drop. For others it loosen up their nerves. For me, however, it's a parasocial relationship. It enhances my senses, it straightens up my tongue, and I keep on coming back for more.

The street of Saintston is bustling with festivity today. How can't it be, it's a celebration. Celebration of the braves. The braves, they pass on, on to another realm. The gifted however, they stay on, triumphant on their castles, on top of the graves of the braves. It's a bleak thought, or so you say. The world is a mosh-pit and chaos is a ladder. A spiked, endless ladder. A ladder that I'd be eager to climb, after I get to chug that glass of Polanis. I was born for this, anyway. When you have a war-hero for a mother, and a trillionaire for an uncle, you are destined to climb. It can be here, it can be there, it doesn't matter. The only thing matters is that you climb. And climb I will. But I digress. Today is a day of celebration, after all. And when you mix all that, boom! It's the start of something beautiful.

Despite how lively the city is, I only ran across familiar faces a few times. Some people from the academy, family friends here and there, that's about it. Not one I consider friends, both in the traditional meanings, nor just people that'd be fun to snort spices with. I navigated the street, eyes looking and glances returned. It's still a measurable distance to the Hall, yet it won't be open for another hour anyway. It started to get boring. Boarding-houses are not my vibe, it's dull, not interesting, so soulless. I have to find someone to talk to, to pass the time, to climb. Figuratively. Which means, it's time for the spice, at least just a bit. I walked around, looking for an empty alley, and an empty alley I found. It's dark, not a shed of streetlights, only a fading glimmer of the sun. The smell here is not the best, there might be city pests nesting down there, but that's for the best. That means no one's looking and I can do whatever I want. The image of a junior Imperial operative snorting spices is not ideal, not for me, not for the Imperial propaganda machine. But it's secluded here, so it goes. Now I'm ready to mingle.​

​

 

[Siyndacha Aerin]

ERRANT HEIR
THE ORDER OF IMPERIAL KNIGHTS
HART HILL | AN-CRIDHEACHAN | GALIDRAAN III
Michael Barran | Denniston Thrast II | Aoki-Barran Mira

​

A year on from the day that she had aided in thwarting the outlook of a crumbling Empire - for the foreseeable future - the Echani could hardly blame anyone but herself for the sharp turn her career as an Imperial Knight had taken, largely away from the battlefields and camaraderie of the 501st, where she had started. Siyndacha had weighed the decision to throw her support behind the younger Barran, and found no other satisfactory path, regardless of the differences between her ideologies and his… but what she hadn’t taken into account was that she would be reassigned almost entirely because of that.

That was what it was to serve the Empire.

When Lady Aerin arrived on Galidraan III to the greeting of its snowdrifts, and went about settling in for the stay, a disquieting feeling began to work its way into her psyche, and when she went to track down the Warden, that feeling solidified further into an urging concern when it became rather apparent that Michael wasn’t anywhere in or around Barran Hall after her line of inquiry, but rather out in the wintry night, but at least there was some small relief being that he had overwatch in the form of Thrast.

That being said… she wasn’t even certain whether it was a confluence of dates and the weather, or simply the pull of the empyrean that would be more the kind of thing that he would insist… either way, whatever it was, it had the ashen-haired Errant checking her personal logs for the specific details of that previous occurrence a year prior, before she departed to make the trek up the hill.

She comprehended cults and dark, life-draining, putrid rituals from an experiential and academic standpoint, as thoroughly as her knowledge of the lines in her own hands, but the wandering, communing, spirit-bound mysticism that the Wanderer was tethered to was a rather different subject: while cults and Sith magic harmed others to a significant extent, the outcomes of the Warden’s beliefs and methods could be just as much a danger to himself. It was going to take more than the year of observations she had already to grasp the full extent of that. It had been explained to her back then, but it was her way to take every possible detail into account. At times exhaustively so. A thorough understanding.

Yet she had arrived late enough to sight him coming back down the hill - a good sign, he was mobile - and this caused her to come to a stop, and simply watch his descent. Maybe… she had been alarmed for nothing; a single previous incident was no cause for concern. Once does not indicate a pattern, so where had that sharp disquiet come from and why? The answer would start to lay itself out soon enough, when, in a matter of minutes, she witnessed his legs buckle and give way beneath him.

Lady Aerin’s eyes widened and she broke into as much of a jog as she could manage across the wintry ground, as he felt the back of his head and pulled away his fingers to reveal blood. In the next moment, his eyes seemed to roll back and he collapsed entirely, landing his face once again in the snow. For the second time in nearly a year. Maybe there was a pattern.

“Damn it.” She spat underneath her breath as she reached him and slowed her gait, dropping to a knee alongside him, “We can’t let you out of our sight for a second, now can we?” Was that the imperial ‘we’, or another one? She checked the site of the cranial bleed, and quickly put two and two together, at least where this was concerned; she knew full well what he’d been up to in recent days, and was at this point rather familiar with his penchant for shrugging things off.

“I know I should have said something,” she let out a soft ‘tsk’ as she reached for her comm to get ahold of the man that was effectively her eyes in the absence of her babysitting, “but would there have been any point? Hm, I really do wonder.”

She got on her comm and connected with Thrast, “Raider One, this is Aerin,” Siyndacha said in the particular, crisp tones of a Bastionite, “it would appear our Warden has collapsed into a bloody, impromptu nap in the snow once again,” she informed with smallest whiff of irritation, “might we trouble you for a pick-up?”

 

[Denniston Thrast II]

4th Post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

REAVER_ONE

Captain of the 1st Scouts Battalion,"The Raiders" (Highland Brotherhood)
Imperial War-Historian
Heir-Apparent to Mathan Glen

Tags: Natalie Scott Siyndacha Aerin

THE FAR-TRAVELLED HIGHLANDER II: WHERE THE HEART IS - PART 4

CHESTNUT BRAE, OVERLOOKING HART HILL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (LATE 878 ABY)

'But enough wae that chite though - Heh! Startin' t'bore masel wae that caper aw'ready.... Whit ye been uptae anyways, Nat? Seen yer folks yet?'

<"Raider One, this is Aerin,">
​

Just when the conversation was about to pick up sociable steam, in what was on the verge of becoming a welcome change of pace for the highest-ranked Reavers of Raider Battalion, an unexpected hailing on their comm-link channel broke the reverie, though they would quickly learn that urgency guided the hand of the correspondent on the other end of the line. Representing what appeared to be a reminder that the Second Great Hyperspace War had only concluded almost a week before that night, it wouldn't take long for the Hunter's mood to change back to the workaholic's mask of focused dispassion, along with that of Vornskr as they turned towards the comm-receiver on the handlebar of Thrast's speeder-bike, a bitter realisation in the making.

'Huh?'

Despite peacetime, there's always fallout billowing in every direction, like an echo of the war that preceded it. A particular lesson that too few in the Galaxy were willing to accept as one of the constants to the cosmos, so easily forgotten that it was impossible to warn later generations - and their Lord-Warden had just stumbled his way into becoming a collapsing, bleeding reminder of this unwelcome truth.

<"it would appear our Warden has collapsed into a bloody, impromptu nap in the snow once again,">​

'Ah, of course he did.'

Unimpressed with his cousin, though not for the stumble itself (that deserved a disapproval of a lesser sort) as there was a transgression that was considerably worse in contrast to that of the hubristic sort, though one of which that wasn't discussed with Leftenant Scott beforehand. After all, there was no good reason to lie to a cousin, and certainly not for fooling the same cousin into facilitating a sly escape from the Milicent military hospital, as it was quite obvious that Denniston would never have agreed otherwise; the fight on Exegol's surface had put Lord Michael on a deathly precipice, even worrying the younger cousin sick after seeing all the blood smeared where Barran was resting after the battle concluded, giving the Hunter more than enough reason to be furious when he stood to approach his own comm-unit.

<"Might we trouble you for a pick-up?">
<"Sure thing, we'll be there in about five minutes - give or take. Speeders are parked nearby, an' I'll forewarn a report of my explanation on arrival.... This is partially my fault. Raider One out!">
​

Silently standing up with the Captain, and without so much as a growl or a sigh uttered for that matter, Vornskr calmly started walking towards her own speeder, parked just a little distance downhill to make it easier for the Hunter to catch up as early as the first escaping lurch from the lower-gear settings. But just before Denny kicked the repulsorlift engine into life, he held off in the attempt to quickly admit,'Aye, looks like you'll be owed front o' the queue privileges on that explanation. I'll spill the beans on the way.', before any inward assumptions of avoidance had any time time to form in the mind of his colleague. If anyone had a right to know of Thrast's mistakes first, there could've been no doubt that Scott was to be considered first and foremost, above and beyond the demand of all others if they were to have a hope of surviving in the long run.

A habit neither Reaver could afford to shake, and especially not if it applied more to their battle and infiltration methods than anything else in life at the time - with matters pertaining to their Warden's health being no exception.

It was clear that the Captain was lucky to have a Leftenant like Natalie Scott, but the hard toil of yesteryear never seemed to permit Thrast enough time to truly appreciate how fortunate he was to know someone as reliable and as trustworthy as Vornskr, though time, peace and breathing-space alike always had a way of lifting the foggy veil of cluelessness, even freeing the eyes of the Galaxy from the smallest of idiocies whenever the process was allowed to play out to it's natural conclusion. The realisation alone was enough to bring a sudden smirk to the Hunter's otherwise-curt mask of warlike focus, but in the given moment to consider it for longer than a few ticking seconds of the clock, the Reaver-in-chief began to ponder on what it was that he actually liked about his second-in-command.

But when he realised there was more than just vocational respect to consider, and more that he actually liked about her in turn, Denny's acute sense of professionalism started kicking into overdrive immediately.

Denny, you should know better.
Never seek romance on the job, man. Its stupid!

These are risks we do not take in the Highland Brotherhood. Ever!
​

Try as one might, it was always impossible to hide from the truth forever, and though the Hunter would resist the thoughts that began without warning or telltale signs, (and more than any other man would, especially in peacetime) the slow-creeping realisations would find their way eventually. Not even months upon months of reluctance could keep these self-questionings at bay, and as loathe as he would be to admit it, destiny would find ways to encourage or shunt Denny into his eventual leap of faith. There was no way for Thrast to know for sure by then, especially with all the expected efforts to repress the what-ifs in his mind, but in the following years, knowing would become an all-encompassing reality - a path to lasting happiness of the likes too many tried so desperately to avoid.

But peacetime brings hope, and a hope for lifelike change in the Galaxy's rarest of healing phases. A hope for something else besides duty to the realm, fleeting though it was.

Not the time for that sorta caper, Thrast.... Not yet.
Need t'heal the mind a bit first, so ye dae.... Among other things.
Then we'll see - jus' try avoiding demotion in the meantime.

Head in the game for now, smarter thinking keeps everyone safe.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

4th Post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

SHIELD_ONE
LORD-REGENT OF THE EMPIRE
GRAND-TRIUMVIR OF THE TARKINIST ADMINISTRATION
GOVERNOR-CHIEFTAIN OF GALIDRAAN III

Tags: Ignacious Korvan FN-999 Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Aoki-Barran Mira
[OPEN FOR ALL KNIGHTS AND OFFICERS, MOFFS ETC]

FATE OF THE REALM VII: HALLS OF OUR FOREFATHERS - PART THREE

THE GLASSHOUSE SOLAR, BARRAN HALL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (SUMMER OF 877 ABY)

A good turnout, so it is.
Not too packed, not too sparse - packed but with room for everyone to breathe.

It may have been more if we had ended these accursed wars sooner.
​

Such was life for any such leader who arose to prominence from the war-time military of their realm, and Lord Erskine was no exception, especially not with all the untimely departures of friends, comrades and the like considered, and most-certainly not in consideration of all that the former-Stormchaser had endured to survive it all for their sake. But despite it all, the old Woad was on his feet again, and in light of his constantly-decreasing dependence on the gifted walking-cane, it was obvious (Even to Barran in these moments-) that the Steward of Imperium was ready to embody his sudden change in political policy.

If a Lord-Regent was to hope for peaceful, joyous hearts beating with life across the Empire's vast expanse of Galactic sectors, then was better off wiping the jaw-clenched, grimacing mask of trauma for the sake of those hearts in the closest proximity to his own, especially if he planned for the party to go off without a single hitch along the way.

'Is the cane a fashion accessory this time, Milord? Seems to me that someone doesn't like utility-belts any more.... Old fart behaviour, trying to get fat on us like we wouldn't notice, just you wait until your next SARM-stim, you won't be getting lazy on us then. Mark my words, Milord.'

Laughing in response, and enough to bring back a former trademark, one such that had been suppressed with years of warfighting and bereavement, Lord Erskine couldn't help but appreciate Sir Marten for his perpetually-dry humour in these moments. What made it a welcomed trait (and even in the weeks after the last shot was fired in anger) was the fact that through such behaviours, Barran always knew where he stood with Wyll's like, a particular Thyrsian trait the Goidels always welcomed in the general sense. Considered well in the Lord-Regent's thoughts when he mirthfully replied,'Oh? An' there I thought we were supposed to be relaxing here, can't have it both ways now.... Besides, for the sake o' the cameras doun yonder, I think it would be for the best if our enemies thought me slow to recover, an' this,"Cane", here does the trick perfectly.', turning back to Wyll and the others in his personal guard-detail with a cheeky smirk in plain view.

'After all, the Coruscantine senate still hasn't publicised intentions for any war-memorandums or negotiations for that matter.... Not yet anyway, but we shall see; until then though, I do not want the Galactic Alliance to know certain things, I'm still inviting hubris to capitalise on here, I kid you not. We have peace for now! Aye, Sure thing, but we still can't escape the fact no such arrangements have been made - no doubt making this a matter for the Grand Assembly now.'

The Steward of Imperium wouldn't and couldn't allow himself to forget the persistent, pervading threat at the borders between the Empire and their rivals in the Galactic Alliance, nor could he, for all slights were remembered by those forced to survive and fight back against them. All who remained by then (and even those among the retired few) were ever prepared to remind all the younger generations of the accords, the alliances and relations that were disdained in the years leading up to the first hostilities between them, and yet, in turn a condemnatory attitude was expected for the content of Lord Erskine's latest decree - almost expecting the off-chance likelihood the decree itself would meet with the great uproar of IMPAF's luckiest veterans.

'And then what?'

A blight of which Barran couldn't avoid, not if he hoped for the realm to survive another ten years or more, a decision of which (as much as the Imperial Custodian disliked it) was tailor-fitted to remind the old Woad there was no way of pleasing everyone in this matter.

'We play it carefully for the foreseeable future, the Great Game isn't over yet - an' not by a long chalk.... Besides, we have a party to liven up a bit. Can't be leading folks t'think we've become bores on Galidraan III of aw places, so hand us o'er a glass o' that whiskey an' lets get this party fething started!'

 

[Michael Barran]

6th post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

CAIRN_ONE
RINGLEADER OF THE PELLAEONIST CLIQUE
WARDEN OF THE IMPERIAL KNIGHTS
DRUID-GRANDMASTER OF THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD

TAGS: @Aoki Mira Natalie Scott Siyndacha Aerin

BORN OF BRIGHT STARS IX: HONOURING ANCESTORS - PART 6

ICU-UNIT 4, MILICENT MILITARY HOSPITAL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (LATE 878 ABY)

What the Wanderer set out to discover, left undone.
What the Druid found on Hart Hill, accomplished.

Barran's attempt to return to the Hospital before any night staffers noticed - an abject failure.
​

The Lord-Warden, in his persistent impatience, had blundered, and at great risk to more than his own career-track in turn. The Empire didn't forgive such disdains to danger and the like, and in adherence to Imperial law, the Goidels of Galidraan III had agreed to work against such traits within their star-system's military structure. If the Woads, Highlanders or Tuaths were to become Imperial heroes, turning the tide to fight among the best of the realm's trooper-class before long, then their leaders were to better-reward the braves for their surprising ability to prevail against the odds. But alas, old habits die hard in those who were first to endure such reindoctrination, and in the steady timeline since, such habits still found ways to trickle down to the likes of Michael Barran and latter generations in turn.

Thine healers should've known... Local, it should be known hither better than yon.
Healers should know better, this was wrong.
As it was to go without mentioning it to a single Sinn'sear in thine travels.
​

The most lethal of all Goidelic habits, strangely remaining that of shirking the aid of medics and treatments of any sort, a strangely melancholic fate that somehow remained from centuries bygone, long after such sacrifices made sense in the grand scheme of the wars they fought. "I've had worse, leave me be.", would never escape a medic's scrutiny, and for as long as such behaviours were prevalent enough to leave a trail of mentions in battlefield medical-reports at every level, there was no way such valued assets would be permitted to contribute to otherwise-alien behaviours in the Empire's many culture, not whilst IMPAF's elite medics relied on the Goidels to cover their backs in combat. It was more often than not that the Galidraan Imperial-State turned to protect the Empire's wounded, especially in situations of great vulnerability.

And in the unlikely pairings of contingents, the Medical Corps (in all it's iterations) were given more than enough time to study the deadliest of Goidelic behaviours - and in almost-uninterrupted earnest along with it.

Mine Cairnsman should have mentioned it, we could have healed you in the Golden Temple.
But mine Cairnsman's lips were sealed in idiocy.... Make not a habit of these things.

Cairnsmen are careful, an' mine has made the same sort of all thine brethren.
​

The clan's progenitor had found the Wanderer again, though it was made easy for the fact there were blood-dots all up the path behind him at the time, though it was only noticed at the last reverent second. By then, it was much too late to stop the end of the ritual, and much too late to do anything about it until the way could be found to Lord Michael's realm of the mind for the second time that day. However, even with all the idiocies of yesteryear considered, the Sinnsear understood the real reason why he drew the latest Cairnsman towards the other barrows on Hart Hill, a despair of the likes neither could be brought to ponder or discuss - though in this a blunder of the progenitor's own making had been revealed in turn.

Like a puzzle-piece the ancestral spirit was somehow reluctant to place in it's deserving spot.

No excuses, no blunders, no reason to anger a Sinnsear.
Noted - but while you're here.... Think you can fix the ol' dome at the back?
Celestial hands find limitation, but healing of a sort can still be achieved.
​

It wouldn't amount to much in the grander timeline of the Wanderer's recovery, but it would serve for a time, and perhaps enough to wake from his stupor before long; and yet, if Lord Michael was to have a hope of recovering well beyond that point, it was clear to ancestor and descendant alike that the latter would need to take it all much slower than before. Such circumstances would be state-mandated beyond a certain point, and whether or not the Lord-Warden was ready to accept the truth of his predicament, there would be hidden hands at work trying to aid his recovery, working to slow him down for tests, scans and therapies of every sort. Bacta-tanks would be out of the question, it was clear that the risks of head-bumping against the glass (or the durasteel sealings) were every part as prominent as they were in the hours following the escape from the Unknown Regions.

Focus, an' maybe some o' that swelling can subside at least.
No chance o' closing the wound with what these hands can achieve.

The rest is for time, an' the hands of thine healers. Meditate for now.

​

 

[Denniston Thrast II]

5th Post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

REAVER_ONE

Captain of the 1st Scouts Battalion,"The Raiders" (Highland Brotherhood)
Imperial War-Historian
Heir-Apparent to Mathan Glen

Tags: Natalie Scott Siyndacha Aerin

THE FAR-TRAVELLED HIGHLANDER II: WHERE THE HEART IS - PART 5

ICU-UNIT 4, MILICENT MILITARY HOSPITAL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (LATE 878 ABY)

'Peace has truly knocked me sideways here, I clearly haven't been thinking straight. Just been - off, askew somehow.'
​

Perhaps there was more to the so-called peace than anyone was seeing by then, though there was no way for one such as Denniston to discern this any time soon, and whether there was more to their reaction to the peace (or more to the silent, unseen workings of the Galaxy) the truth would rear it's ugly face soon enough. Leaving the Hunter with thoughts of what-ifs and the like, thinking that if his Warden had braced for the worst and visited the barrow-tomb of his older brother, then perhaps he would have stood a better chance of a safer trip back to the hospital - but nothing was ever this simple for the Wanderer's sort.

'An' all that idiot needed to do was open a door, walk down a stairwell an' see if his brother's, ah - my cousin's bones were there or not.... I honestly believed the Lord-Warden was farther along in the recovery process, farther than that at least, an' tae 'hink he was puttin' on a brave face the entire time, idiocy for him an' me in equal measure. What a fethin' kark-show, man!'

Shaking his head in disdain for his own and for Lord Michael's actions alike, Denny couldn't help but let at least some of his feelings surface on the matter; and though he was quick to understand that Lady Siyndacha and Natalie were both very unlikely to want to see it in such times, there was enough in the way of outbursts to know it would make matters easier to calm himself, serving then as a stark reminder that nobody else (and especially not Thrast himself) had any time for such behaviour either. Fortunately for the Hunter though, the Reaver-in-chief was just moments away from yet another fortunate turn of luck, and in the form of a rather tired-looking surgical consult, rushing out to find the other Highlanders in the hopes they were still there.

'Fell for it - hook, line an' sinker - an' for the third time in my career with it.... If this gets him shipped on a medical, I'm setting myself up for a Court Martial-'

'Sir! Captain Thrast, I presume?', the consult asked, exclaiming his way out through the sealed doors from within ICU-4, and approaching a nodding, though surprised Hunter as soon as his inquiry was silent answered through the shock. Then as soon as they were but a metre or so apart, the surgeon stopped in his tracks and continued,'The Lord-Warden will fortunately pull through, and with heightened security - I'm sure he can do so uninterrupted.... Thing is - uh - he may be waking up soon, so you'll be needed to keep 'im bedbound! Think ye can manage that, sir?', leaving no room for refusal without expecting at least a slew of chidings and insults for the trouble. Then after another silent nod was given in response, the surgeon's expression softened suddenly, seeing for himself that Lord Michael was more than just a commanding-officer, more than just the Grand-Master of his Brotherhood - the Warden was family to this man.

Bonded by blood, and to such obvious extremes that ICU-4's consult in command could read it all over the Hunter's face.

'There's nae doubt ye might have fethed up royally here, but rest assured - yer backside is well an' truly covered now. Relax, man.'

 

[FN-999]

Tags: DECEASED Erskine Barran | Open
​

'WELCOME TO THE YARD, NINES!!!! SWORDS ARE ON THE RACK AT YOUR SIX, PROTECTIVE GEAR'S IN THE LOCKERS ON THE LEFT - JUS' HELP YERSEL AN' JOIN US FOR OUR MORNING WORKOUT!!!!'

"It would be my pleasure." responded the Baron, turning back to withdraw a blade from the rack.

As he approached the rack, he withdrew his personal sword, leaning it and its sheath up against the rack before withdrawing one of the training swords. Compared to Iustitia, it was a much lighter weapon, but it had nowhere near the reassuring comfort his personal sword gave him. At least he wasn't required to take off his armor. Instead, he assumed his faithful Storm Armor fell within the category of "protective gear" and strode forwards into the sparring grounds, armed with only his generic sword.

Truthfully, the Baron was quite excited. A friendly duel was as therapeutic as any of Doctor Lamaty's Force-induced visions, and nowhere near as uncomfortably intrusive. If he could take the chance to take his mind off his shortcomings for even ten minutes, he would take it without hesitation.

"I became quite familiar with the blade in my years as a riot trooper." called the Baron. "If anyone wishes to spar, I shall be your guest."

Tags: TBD | Open

The Baron of Borosk was a sight to behold, decked out in full stormtrooper armor in the middle of a feast.
​

Even when surrounded by enticing food and drinks, Nines refused to even consider taking his helmet off, the duraplast bucket as familiar to him as a second skin. Along that line of reasoning, if FN-999 took his helmet or any other part of his armor off, it would impact him as if the skin surrounding his vital organs had completely peeled away, exposing them to all. Only in the privacy of his personal quarters could he afford to be so vulnerable.

And so, instead of feasting on the many delicious meats and fruits to offer, the Baron scooped up handfuls of nuts and began to pocket them for later.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

5th Post

-A THREAD OF THREE PHASES-

SHIELD_ONE
LORD-REGENT OF THE EMPIRE
GRAND-TRIUMVIR OF THE TARKINIST ADMINISTRATION
GOVERNOR-CHIEFTAIN OF GALIDRAAN III

Tags: FN-999

FATE OF THE REALM VII: HALLS OF OUR FOREFATHERS - PART FIVE

THE GLASSHOUSE SOLAR, BARRAN HALL,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (SUMMER OF 877 ABY)

'I became quite familiar with the blade in my years as a riot trooper.'

Oh? Nines, training in swordsmanship? Am I hearing that right?
An' there I thought his likes only wore them formally.... Not bad.
​

Placing a cursory hand on his subordinate's shoulder to stop him from leaving, Lord Erskine quickly nodded back to the square, promising a show with nothing more than a wink whilst Nines proffered,'If anyone wishes to spar, I shall be your guest.', not knowing the treat he was in for either. FN-999 would find Barran already waiting for him on the marble square, beaming with a smirk that was more proud than congratulatory as he raised his sword to salute and cast it downward with a respectful bow, and especially so in the moment the same pre-clash decorum was cast in reply.

'Been a while, my friend.... I believe it would be my honour to spar with you today, Lord-Baron.'

Swiping and slashing at the air to one side, the Lord-Regent casually tested the weight and the balance of his trusty Song o' Fate, silently encouraging his sparring-partner the same before advising,'We'll keep it light to start, but with the rising intensity we'll keep it loose an' relaxed, trust in simulation as I do.... I'm here t'learn as much you are, an' I'm sure we can learn from each other, an' knowing each other as we do - at the very least we have a good trick or twa to teach one another.', stopping there to let the Baron of Imperium consider these words properly. By then it would be quite clear to see the extent to which such an art form affected the Lord-Regent's psyche, like very pursuit of swordsmanship itself was enough to affect his philosophies in life, and within the events endured and survived with basket-hilted claymore in hand, there would be no surprise that persisting in a warfighter's life had affected nearly everything unseen behind the eyes of the old Woad in turn.

'Now, take a second to take in your surroundings, your footing, an' the wind.... All should be considered.'

Without a care in the world as to who was watching, the old Woad raised his gaze to the snows above, closing his eyes in a slow, luxurious sigh of bliss, seemingly oblivious to everything until a rather large snowflake was cut in two - instinctively slashing a little off to the right of the Lord-Regent's shoulder with more than enough space to spare for the Baron's sake.

Instructive, demonstrational, as all training sessions from tuition authority were supposed to be like among gentlemen.

Opening his eyes again, Barran dropped the blade down to an adequate level inconsequence, chuckling a little mild oafishness before continuing,'This way, we slay giants with little more than reassured minds, even for folks among the NFU-caste.... Take Lord Aron o'er ther for instance, closest he ever got to being a Jedi was having Cotan Sar'andor along for the ride, an' Gowrie would fight just about anyone with his trusty Sting o' Frost in hand - you probably know this better than most here in all fairness.', in the spirit of whatever constituted the equivalent of shop-talk at such levels of prestige. It was handy enough to keep from pondering (and aloud) on why he was unable to see his friend's face these days, and though Erskine would be the last one to ever pry into his friend's choices of view-obscuring attire, the realisation Nines was still among the last troopers to remove helm in peacetime still troubled the Lord-Regent.

Yet despite it all, and despite his next bout of closed-eyelid meditation, the old Woad calmly exhaled for a few seconds before stating,'All that aside - whatever you need, you can count on the Goidels for help. A standing order, so to speak.... Through the thick, an' the thin.', opening his eyes again to look into the coverings of those of his Legionary peer, lifting his sparring-armour (along with the shirt beneath it) to reveal the blaster scar across his abdomen. Achieved without further prying into the reasons why Nines was still armoured, and despite erring against gaining insight on circumstance and overall-condition alike, Lord Erskine's olive-branch had been subtly extended all the same, expressing full-commitment as he had multiples times as an officer himself.

All you need do is tell me what you need.
An' all I need do is snap m'fingers for a friend's sake.
​

A gesture of which, as normal as it seemed for Barran's like, had not been expressed in almost ten years before that day - one small reminder of the man he was before.

​

'Now, let us set our stances roughly ten paces apart.... Good, now! Salute, bow - straighten posture - set.... Commence!'

 

[FN-999]

Tags: DECEASED Erskine Barran | Open

From across the sparring arena, the Baron stared down the Lord-Regent, both their blades drawn.
​

The colonel let his superior dictate the terms, listening attentively as he initiated the duel. Just like the senior Barran, Nines took a moment to process his surroundings, his brain pushing itself into overdrive as he let the instinct to analyze the battlefield take over. There was a light snowfall, which presented a marginal risk of icing on the ground. The twilight hour limited his visibility to about twenty meters but was largely irrelevant due to the pair engaging in strictly melee combat. There was a light wind, but its impact on balance and accuracy was negligible. In all, the match would be decided strictly by the merits of its combatants.

The Baron was about to move to analyze the Lord-Regent when the man suddenly took his shirt off, snapping him out of his tunnel vision.

Yet despite it all, and despite his next bout of closed-eyelid meditation, the old Woad calmly exhaled for a few seconds before stating,'All that aside - whatever you need, you can count on the Goidels for help. A standing order, so to speak.... Through the thick, an' the thin.', opening his eyes again to look into the coverings of those of his Legionary peer, lifting his sparring-armour (along with the shirt beneath it) to reveal the blaster scar across his abdomen. Achieved without further prying into the reasons why Nines was still armoured, and despite erring against gaining insight on circumstance and overall-condition alike, Lord Erskine's olive-branch had been subtly extended all the same, expressing full-commitment as he had multiples times as an officer himself.

For a moment, Nines paused. What, he thought, had he possibly done to deserve such respect from the Lord-Regent himself? As much as he acknowledged his successes, he also knew that there were many other commanders whose merits matched or even surpassed his own. Still, who was he to turn down the honor of being recognized by the Empire's greatest man? As Lamaty had taught him, sometimes it was okay to be selfish.

So the Baron indulged in his own emotions, feeling sincerely flattered by the Lord-Regent's show of vulnerability.

"Likewise, my lord." replied the Baron. "The Reborn shall execute your will anywhere it is demanded."

'Now, let us set our stances roughly ten paces apart.... Good, now! Salute, bow - straighten posture - set.... Commence!'

Now, the Baron took the time to thoroughly analyze his opponent. On one hand, Nines was stronger than the Lord-Regent and outweighed him by at least twenty kilos. However, the senior Barran was also a far smaller target than the tall and broad Baron. Furthermore, the senior Barran was an extremely intelligent individual with excellent tactical prowess. Given the present circumstances, landing a blow on the Lord-Regent would be a difficult feat, but one that would have to be done. In the moment, the Baron formulated that his best shot at victory would be pinning down the senior Barran and pummeling him at all angles, slowly but surely chipping away at his strength until a decisive opening could be secured.

Nines saluted, bowed, straightened his posture, and commenced.

Immediately, he was on the move, one hundred and twenty kilos of well-trained muscle hurtling straight at the Lord-Regent. Midstride, he raised his sword over his right shoulder in a two-handed grip and swung directly at the Lord-Regent's left flank, moving with such speed and force that the blade appeared to be a silver blur.