Faction HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (GALIDRAAN III)

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

SECOND POST
THE_TUATH
OBJECTIVE THREE: BEAST OF GALIDRAAN
TAGS: Morgana Sinclair Michael Barran Delilah Chamberlin

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 2

CRANSTON'S BAR, MCMINN CASTLE DISTRICT,
PRESTON, GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'Aye aye aye! Whitever, ya fething jobsworth! Just keep pourin', ah'll keep payin'!'

Lord Michael was in one of his nuclear states of inebriation again, celebratory as usual, awaiting news from An-Cridheachan for the developing situation, but completely unaware of what he was waiting on by then. Barran had been completely unaware since he had been asked to show face, but by then, Lord Aron had already taken responsibility for the investigation and control over the Goidels' manhunt for whoever (or whatever) was mauling and slaughtering either outed Sith-Loyalists, or the awkward outcome, such that consisted of families that were outed after their deaths. Only part of this information had been memorised, partly down to the inebriation and in the fact he was becoming increasingly difficult to get in touch with, so all that the other Free-State officers could do in that situation was continue on until the Laird in question was sober enough to communicate with, something that frustrated his higher-ranking colleagues to no end.

'Honestly, I'm still ragin' that I never got a chance to fight for Nirauan.... Seriously, New Carannia was where we would've been able t'shine at oor brightest. Deep urban settings, Mawites, an' counteroffensives galore - honestly, Randall. Read up on the matter an' wonder why we were missing in all of it.'

'Look, Michael. We're honestly daein' fine as it is, so stop babysitting yer dram an' drink for feth's sake. Yer in a pub, dae whit we dae in such settings if ye can.', Randall McBain replied, doing his part to babysit the drunken Wanderer as he made horrible misuse of his moment of clarity, thinking again of the battles not relevant to his own military career-trajectory. It was the only thing the Highlander really detested about his Woadish commander, especially if his mind was needed closer to home, or on greater threats to his existence like the Howling Crags. Despite this, 1st-Lieutenant McBain knew it was very much a benign shortcoming for the likes of Lord-Captain Barran, and couldn't be helped - purely on the matter that Lord Michael's father had played his part in the wildest of the recent battles in the Wanderer's mind. Turning back to his old friend, McBain eased off on Barran a little in continuing,'You know there's a lot at stake, this is not lost on me, but it's time t'start making yer own plans instead o' gushing o'er the plans of others. Yer faither's son, nae doubtin' that - s'get stuck inti suhin' o' substance, Milord.', leaning back and knocking back the rest of his own dram as a further-prompt for Lord Michael to drink also.

'A plan we can get behind - money in the bank, dinner on the table for us an' oors!'

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 3

GILPHEAD LIBRARY, SAINTSTON,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'Just a moment, Lord Aron. Almost forgot the flasks - an' tae 'hink a Tuath almost went without a proper hot Tea-Toddie.... Whit is this Galaxy coming tae, eh?'

'Mate, we're still eatin' here. Sit doun an' join us, ya roaster! Long night ahead, mind?', Gowrie shot back at Mr. Gardner in jest, pulling out a seat for the elderly fellow as everyone made sure to get their strengths up for the night ahead. It was obviously going to be a long night, so the efforts of the elderly Woad would not go without thanks or reward, and certainly not as far as diplomatic-mode Gowrie was concerned, taking up the Kellas on his offer as the others continued tucking into bacon sandwiches, tomato-soup and toast, and some of Mrs. Gardner's home-cooked Killie pies. Everyone, from Gardner to Scott, Gowrie and Reed, everyone there would then eat and recuperate in complete unspoken silence, an oddly comfortable silence with the impending manhunt proceedings awaiting the last crumb and morsel to be finished, made all the more contrastingly strange by the peacefulness of the music on the Holonet terminal in the background.

Aaaaand those.... were the dulcet tones of Arlia McCarron, pits the latest o' the bairns in snooze-mode every time, honestly works like a trick if ye need the extra sleep yersel- but enough o' the good family-life, the Woad life an' that. We have some mare o' that bliss ah wiz talkin' aboot, an' ye'll hear it aw'ready.... Myles & Co. - Woadwind From The Heavens on,"True-Blues Classics!", with Callan Morgan.​

'Hmph, wholesome for Callan anyways. But then again, there aren't any Sith-loyalists or Anti-Barrans left for 'im to rail against now. Strange, but a good sign of the times all the same.... I'll take it.'

Aye, a good sign o' the times - for most aroon' here anyway.​

'I'll do the same, Lord Byron.', Lord Aron said after swallowing the last of his (six-rashers) bacon-sandwich, standing up to commence their nightshift of horrors, with the others following suit soon after. Rushing just a little to finish whatever it was they were eating at the time, all the other gentlemen there would adhere to the,"Finish what's on your plate first.", tradition that seemed to transcend their good table-manners in many colloquial aspects. Then, with all three of the others standing to leave, pushing their chairs back into the table that provided for them, short, heartfelt prayers to Dia would be whispered under-breath to themselves, knowingly going into a world their people had seemingly forgotten for centuries. With heads bowed, all the Free-State's would-be hunter-party would take some further moments to silently meditate on what they were to expect, on what Dia would do in sight of such gruesome monstrosity.

'Amen.'
'Amen.'
'Amen.'
'Amen.'

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 4

Monteith Village, The Southern Marches,
An-'Ghàidhealtachd, Galidraan III (868 ABY)

'So, any definitive word on the rest of the village then, Mr. Gardner?'

'They're aw fine, Milord. All alive an' accounted for - well, as far as auld Anton can tell anyway. Should I raise comms wae the Donaldsons again?', asked the old Saintston librarian, making reference to the old friend he'd been in frequent contact with as the party-of-four were still making their way north. Gowrie knew he needed people that could be relied on, and there was no doubt that anyone both sane enough to keep an entire village safe and insane enough to go out and investigate for himself was a worthy aide to have along for the hunt, so the Kellas was certainly considering keeping this individual on for the manhunt, for as many keen eyes close by as possible were needed for the night-hours investigations. However, it wouldn't be long before Sir Anthony Donaldson, Thrast clansman and veteran of the Ninth (and final) Tuath Feud, beat his old friend to the chase.

'Good idea, Mr. Gard-'

<"ah hear hounds, Jonah! But ah seen yer swoops headin' uphill fae the south, so ah'm guessing ye won't be long or....?">

<"Aye, but wharr tho? We need specifics, Anton! Ah dinnae stay here, mind? Much too auld t'remember wharr ay'hing is, like twenty years too auld.">

<"Post office, north boundary - at the gaff wae the thatched roof an' that. You know the wan, the mad-">

<"-Windmill hingmy, ah remember noo. See ye in a bit.">​

And like a shot, the party-of-four hopped back on their swoop bikes and the three younger gentlemen followed old John Gardner to the Monteith Post Office, taking less than a minute to reach their location, dismount and cool their engines down as they waited on the old clansman. Dismounting as closely as they could to the post-office for safety, the distinctly recognisable sound of growling hounds reached the Goidels' ears in the dark, only to be met by (what they viewed as) the most majestic hounds they'd ever seen, holding their ground with perfect restraint like trained guard-dogs. Only two could be seen, having revealed themselves in a bid to mark a wider boundary on the humans across the snow-strewn road, but soon enough the Goidels would see a third, closer-guarding black dog with the owner of all three aside it, though the tension would last long enough for the local aide to come out from within the post-office behind them first.

'Dun shoot! M'afta it too!'

'Dia be praised, so they are hunting-dogs then! Hoo-ya fether, man!', Lord Aron responded almost-entirely by knee-jerk instinct, letting the relief wash over him in the realisation that the dark magic and maulings were being exacted by something much scarier than the glorious hounds that ceased their growling at the sound of their master's voice. A feminine voice, but one that sounded savvy all the same, a Goidelic woman's voice, complete with the accent to match. As Gowrie's expanding hunting-party chuckled it off, Lord Aron included, they briefly took the time to warm up with alcoholic hot-drinks and cigarettes as the Tuath Chieftain himself would approach the voice as he sparked up two cigarettes, one for himself, and one for the huntress. As she carefully made her way outside with the third hound in tow, Lord Aron took his opportunity to introduce himself to alleviate any further concerns, kindly drawling,'You're safe wae us, dawl. Though you'll be needin' t'bring us up t'speed - it's clear t'me that ye know mare than we dae.', before silently offering Delilah the second lit cigarette.

'Commoner-Captain Reed o'er there's had 'is heid buried in the books, but cannae make much sense of the lore - believes it mostly t'be a load o' chite, but we need t'see whit this monster is t'be sure o' whether it is or is'nae a load o' chite.... Either way, glad t'have ye on board. Ah'm Lord-Colonel Gowrie of the Galidraani Free-State, though,"Lord Aron", will suffice if you must call my name.'

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

7th post
THE-CHIEFTAIN
OBJECTIVE 1: HOSTING FOR HEROES
TAGS: Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk Ollis Barran Morgana Sinclair
Liam Docherty Tyrell Lockhart Inarin Lsu

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 10)

CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

"The life's actions of all men, all have been, are being, and will be recounted in their eulogies.

So what will your own say of your life's merit?

Stand firm, for it wouldn't be the first slight exacted on the craven dead - history is full of disdain for dying cowards after all. Be not that man, never." - Thrast's Sword, Chapter 32

Chasing routing Sith-Loyalist scouts through the forest, Proost would personally lead Guardian Platoon's efforts in working to catch their foes by surprise, though this was mostly quick and quiet work, hoping to hit their enemies as hard as possible to keep from letting any escape in the process. Carwood McGechin's help was also proving vital in this phase of the assault on the Carr Redoubt, as none wanted the news of their arrival to reach Clan Carr's ears, and Arman Proost knew he'd need all the help he could get to succeed in such a way, seemingly the only way that could impress the Laird of Clan McGechin's rather demanding strategic requirements for the next battle. Yet the Archaisian would find himself feeling glad of the old Woads' company regardless, building something of a rapport that he had not yet attained with his Woadish Lord-General, a surprise that Arman welcomed all the same.

'Gidd shaw'itt, Arman. We'll make a proper Ghillie o' you yet, an' make nae mistake!'

'Heh! You telling me that if I retire, I get to keep the foxes at bay in God's country - for a good wage? Find me a shack, old man!', Proost replied jokingly, enjoying the fact his shooting-partner for the pre-assault skirmishes was doing well in making it bearable for him, considering Arman's preference for warmer climates in the windy, wooded westward push. Both would chuckle and joke with each other throughout their little hunt, putting down as many hidden scouts as they could find as the others quietly used the gathering evening shadow to their advantage in the westward push towards the old redoubt; a glorious showing of well-contained, localised conflict, especially with the advantage of momentum, stealth and silencers considered. Reloading, the Archaisian took his opportunity to continue,'I would die happy knowing I could retire at any point and live out my days here, never thought I'd be saying that either. Helluva world, helluva province too!', with a sincerity that would further endear the old Woad to his new acquaintance.

'Ye certainly belong anyway, best thing Tal ever did was take ownership of Archais. Best thing Barran ever did was recruit there too. Now there's a world I wouldn't mind dying on, I'd emigrate ti a condominium in Hirkenburg any day!'

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 11)

BARRAN HALL, CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'My apologies, Imperator. That was rude of me, rambling on an' here I am - missing a most-sincere gesture in action.... It honours me that you'd feel comfortable enough to reveal your true face, and infinitely more that you'd choose to do so within the walls of my home at that.'

Fel, without his mask of great renown - an unexpected gesture for sure, but one that would be treated most-kindly by the Lord-General, both in the fact Barran had expected much worse to hide behind the iron, and in the fact the abominations both Rurik and Erskine had faced in the path could easily be seen as infinitely worse than the Imperator's face ever could be. Yet, what surprised Lord Erskine the most in this rarest of moments, in this most anomalous of encounters, was the fact that Konrad Harrsk bore no discomfort in seeing his Imperator's true face either; and in this realisation, Barran found himself encumbered with a whole slew of questions on what the young man had seen or experienced already, what the young man had known to remain calm and without awkwardness like the Woad. With eyes darting back and forth between his two guests, Lord Erskine drawled,'It would seem all three of us have seen the worst things in war and the likes, I appear to have misjudged our young friend here also. You're in good company in any case, Imperator.', with amiable nods given in both directions.

Drawn to sounds of drunken revelry by the water-fountain in the northern courtyard, Lord Erskine would lean back as he sat on the desk, looking out the window to find a group of happy uniformed Woads passing by, only to see graffiti left by a young Thomas on the left arm of the nearest gargoyle at the fountain's base. A message left to any and all who would dare walk the lands in their absence,"We won't be gone forever, scum! - Thomas Barran.", one such that shocked Lord Erskine to his core as he read it out aloud for his guests to hear, though he still chuckled proudly at the only act of vandalism he ever allowed of his firstborn. An act of defiance against all of the officers who conspired against the rising Lord-Captain, against all who tried to have him arrested and executed, against all who seethed and threw tantrums at the fact he was allowed to live out his years in exile, so it would be no surprise as to why Lord Erskine allowed his son to leave a message for their enemies in plain sight - like a literary sentinel over Barran Hall itself.

A flashback of a time when his grief and severe-duress manifested fear-inducing hallucinations of his slain friends, subordinates and lastly, Thomas most of all. Though it was but a supremely-brief traumatic flashback from darker days in his life, it was enough for Lord-General Barran to turn his eyes away from the fountain in the courtyard, heard inhaling harshly through his nostrils as his gaze turned to the eyes of his Imperator. Raising his eyebrows as if to say,"It happens, but nothing to worry about.", the Stormchaser would then provide a welcoming demeanour again as he asked,'Cigar, anyone?', suppressing the grief for what felt like the hundredth time and moving the conversation along to a more-sociable tone once more. A troubled soul he most-certainly was, but Lord Erskine would still remain the most effective example of his ilk despite it all, a true testament to unbreakable spirit of the Goidels of Galidraan III.

'So, Mr. Harrsk.... Any particular plans for the future?'

 

[Lachlan Sinclair]

ᛟᚹᛚᚦᚢᚦᛖᚹᚨᛉ
THE BEAST OF GALIDRAAN
KILL COUNT: 13
DECEASED Aron Gowrie | Delilah Chamberlin

​

Across the moonlit spans, the beast bounded, draughting the cold air of the night fully to drown his senses in the abundance of his killing spree. It mattered not how young or how old, traitorous bloodlines would be punished. He was an act of the wild gods, an agent sent to be their wrath, to deal their punishments, and to cast their judgment upon those who would see the sacred land corrupted by the twist and tide of the Darkside. False idols had become the fixation with this latest iteration of the curse, the fringe gods binding his soul to their side, ushering him into the strange realm of vague consciousness to mete his hunger upon the blood of the cowering few. It was their gentle hands, those gods, who had foreseen this long before he had been born, spinning the threads of his fate to weave into the tapestry of history. None had known from the time he was born, that the wolf in their blood would rouse from his slumber, and return to rule the night once more.

His hatred grew each passing day he cast himself to the periphery of society, forsaking the tradition of his father and grandfather before him, the son expected to be groomed to lead the clan and house once his time had come. Perhaps things would have been different, had he been born first. There was no need for him within his brother's shadow, no need to take secondhand notes upon rule and order, on trade agreements or alliances made in fickle circumstances. From the full moon's rise on his eighteenth birthday, the truth, the purpose, for his birth had revealed itself in full, and it had cost his family nearly everything.

It was better this way, his confinement to the wilds, The Highland air his sole sanctuary from the rancid spread of the Sith's filth. They had spread across the world in most places, sinking their roots through the ancient traditions and ways, corrupting and erasing much of the culture and peoples who had existed long before they had even dreamed of conquering the world. Savages, they had been called. Uncivilized. Stupid men with equally ignorant women and children doomed to never break beyond the cycles of clan wars and cursed to die by the blade forever. Their gods had been spurned, their lands corrupted, and their bloodlines tainted. And all he could do was watch, bearing witness to it all from the side while his hatred was nurtured close to his chest and evolved into something the likes of which even the morrígan responsible had never seen. By the daylight's call, he would be a man again, returned to the reclusive solace he had built his home within, yet the moonlit hours were numerous and ahead stretched a night of terror that would seem to have no end.

A new smell upon the wind caught his senses, the Beast turning his nose upright to taste it. Voices, a number of them, each familiar in its accent and cadence. Natives. An act defying the mindlessness of his rumor, he turned himself back to investigate. The darkened buildings in the distance grew larger, most of them stilled and blacked out by his vengeful scorn, and he did not stop his animalistic bound. Through the thickening mud, he pressed his weight, bearing down to leave behind tracks as proof of his existence, each of them larger than any native beast which dwelled in the land. Corded muscles tensed and propelled him into the air, where his clawed fingers plunged into the shingles of the manor he had only just silenced, and he climbed to the roof. Meticulously, paying mind to his weight, he stalked over the peaked rooftop, shadowed by the drift of clouds across the moon, and looked beyond to find the source of the sounds.

A group stood some modest distance away, a collection of peoples accompanied by a trio of hounds. Had he the mental capacity to draw conclusions, he would have realized it was a hunting party. What he knew then, he knew from experience, where bold hunters had taken on the chance at a hefty reward for his capture or death. These night-cloaked bloodbaths were rarely without interference from outside forces, and it had been his instinct each time to avoid them, refusing to harm his brothers and sisters by faithful command he could not grasp tangibly. He was not alone out here, nor were they, and perhaps the preternatural dread of that feeling would spur them to act. The Beast, however, did not wait around to find out and retreated back the way he had come to spy upon them, vanishing on the other side of the house to rush across the pasture, where his next quarry lay in slumber.

The three-story stone manor would be the site of his next horrific trial, and the graveyard for every soul found guilty.

 

[Konrad Harrsk]

D E M O N ' S _ H E A D
MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, 501st LEGION
GALIDRAAN III

For the most part, Konrad remained with crossed arms, confined to being lost in his own thoughts as Barran and Fel exchanged words. Reminiscing old battles was a right reserved to veterans, to those who had participated in them and shed their blood for the Iron Sun on those killing fields. To Konrad? Young of age, who had merely been a kid, the teapot bore far more interest than war stories and Rurik's face scarred with the mark of every single battle - as if the Third Imperial Civil War had played out on his face itself. The faint smell of tea reminded him of the tea he shared with his grandfather and mother as he grew up among the Shadows. Tea was as traditional to Kandara as it was to the Galidraan.

Yet, the black tea served on Galidraan III was far less spicy than those on Kandara. His people - those on his mother's side - loved the addition of cinnamon in their teas, along with a generous amount of honey... and well everything else, really. Very rich in flavor, to the point it was repulsive to some, and a smell strong enough to knock a standing man down.

His attention was finally taken back to the present and his silence was broken when Erskine turned his eyes to him, asking of the young assassin's plans.

Konrad didn't even need to glance at the Imperator as he would reply directly and rather boldly, "Eradicate the Empire of any forms of dissent, Lord General, but without repeating my father's mistakes." green eyes narrowed, his grandfather - He-of-Two-Horns - would've been disappointed in his openness.

"...and enjoy this tea as best as I could, I reckon." he drew a soft sip from the cup, then,

Rurik Fel | DECEASED Erskine Barran

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
SOVEREIGN IMPERATOR
GALIDRAAN III
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Konrad Harrsk | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Liam Docherty | Ollis Barran | Willan Tal | Tyrell Lockhart | Fiolette Fortan | Enedina Tal | Morgana Sinclair ​

​

It was an interesting quandary, over the nature of Rurik's 'true face'. Nevertheless, his tortured gaze was that which he'd bared since the day of his birth. It was delusional to neglect his true and candid nature and it was rare that ever revealed it. The man of Iron was what the Empire had come to know of Rurik Fel. For the better or worse, he was seen as the man as inhuman as he was unbreakable. It was best that way, as Emperor, even if it meant a detachment of self, an internal crucifixion of his ego.

"It isn't that I hide it, my true face. It is simply not the visage befitting of the Emperor. It is not what is expected of me. Irveric wore a face of Iron all the same if only of tested mettle and enduring will, the difference being that mine is merely a mask and his was his true nature. The Emperor should appear unbreakable. If he is to lead men and expect the will to both kill and die from each of them, he should only show the same. After what was done unto me almost a decade ago, I wish I could remark my Iron Skin as a purely aesthetic garment, but in truth my existence would be far too wrought with pain without it." Rurik said, imposing his reasoning for the outward bulwark of metal he donned.

At the offer of a cigar, unsurprisingly, Rurik motioned a hand in polite denial. Hardly a man who indulged in substance or vice.

Then came the question posed to Konrad, to which Rurik offered an arch brow in acknowledgment to the answer.

"A simple aim. Keeping your sights in such a direction will prove beneficial to you. I'm afraid, however, it is a lofty goal, a hopeful one, so long as men and women like you remain in pursuit of it, but chaos never rests. I know though...the weight of legacy. I am, for better or worse, detached from all who share my name, Fel. But it was under the reign of Fel that order was brought across the Galaxy, that is the shadow I live within. Though it has been generations since the last Fel reigned, every realm across the stars knows the name, knows what it tolls. But ultimately, Fel is remembered for Roan and not Ronin. I will not be the latter. A name can only carry so much weight, fate is ultimately what man makes of it." He comments.

 

[Delilah Chamberlin]

M E M E N T O _ M O R I
x x x
hounds: Ire, Bo, Rex
|| ✖ [bodies found: 9 ] ✖ ||

​

The rolling wind reminded her to take in a breath, hands held up in stillness until the man spoke. It seemed to settle the sudden spike in her pressures, but her guard would never drop nor the look she carried as her hands found rest at her side and the core of her spine relaxed.

'Commoner-Captain Reed o'er there's had 'is heid buried in the books, but cannae make much sense of the lore - believes it mostly t'be a load o' chite, but we need t'see whit this monster is t'be sure o' whether it is or is'nae a load o' chite.... Either way, glad t'have ye on board. Ah'm Lord-Colonel Gowrie of the Galidraani Free-State, though,"Lord Aron", will suffice if you must call my name.'

She held a neutral expression after his introductions. Steely eyes surveyed the hunting party while two fingers illuminated by the moon silenced her two snarling guards. They hushed their fierce jaws instantly, no longer bearing teeth, and continued their statuesque position as the woman approached to center them.

Ire had not fallen back like his brothers, following at her side like a sheathed blade attached to her shin. “A pleasure, Lord Aron…Delilah Chamberlin.” She uttered softly, though her voice should not be mistaken for that of a petite and meek woman, her reservation in executing her own boisterous introduction was on the subject they were after. The beast of Galidraan...


“We foun’ nine bodies ...or rather what wus lef’a bodies throughout the manor. It tore'em apart, leavin' not a single soul to res without ensuring they suffered a violent death.” She wasted no time in pleasantries and small talk, jumping right to business as the smell of copper and iron still lingered on the soles of her boots and ebony paws. Slowly, her hand went to scratch a torn pointed ear, seeming to alert the blind animal at her side. “Ey’r had been swayin’ eas’ since we arrived. S’where m’planin t’ead.” She stated, inching towards the man to accept his offering with her shadow in toe.

She’d been a few years clean of the vice but would never back down from a friendly gesture. It would have been rude and perhaps raise suspicions about her person. “Thank ye.” She uttered with a small smile, instantly settling the cigarette between her lips for its first welcoming drag. Though this moment of calm, an unsteadiness tugged at her stomach when she felt the anxious vibrations of an animal locked in focus.

“E’can feel somethin…”

She whispered, looking around as her separated Cerebus bristled up with hackles pointed to the stars like raven guards. The twins pointed east towards a three story manner while Ire continued his vibrations, jaws chattering. “Is still’ere…” Her hands slung around her rifle, holding it against her chest at the ready while she nudged her head towards the party. “I dun’ave time ta f*ck aroun’ an sip tea, come on then, les fine this thing.”


// Lachlan Sinclair // DECEASED Aron Gowrie

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

8th post
THE-CHIEFTAIN
OBJECTIVE 1: HOSTING FOR HEROES
TAGS: Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk Ollis Barran Morgana Sinclair
Liam Docherty Tyrell Lockhart Inarin Lsu

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 12)

CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'GET STUCK IN, LAAAAAADS!!!!!'
'RIP HIS KARKING THROAT OUT!!!!'
'KILL THE SITH-SCUM!!!! KILL 'EM GOOD AN' PROPER!!!!'

An enemy encampment had been spotted to the south on their westward push toward the Carr Redoubt, but in the fading light of the day, the clouds, fog and cordite smoke had obscured all semblance of a far-seeing view from above the treeline; making matters all the easier for the Free-State and Clan-affiliated warriors closing in, enveloping the camp on all sides before being given the order to tighten the noose around the Carr levies' small array of defensive positions, such that would be directed with precision by the increased cohesive partnership of Proost and McGechin. Laying waste to both layers of defences, only the last twelve Carr clansmen outside the castle remained, and they were losing their duels badly by the time Carwood & Arman walked out from the treeline, and to such an extent the smell of iron and sweat could be detected in the air from as far as fifty yard away from the last, most-ceremonious flareups of hostilities between them.

'FIIIIINIIIIIISH HIIIIIIIIIIM!!!!'
'SHOW NO MERCY!!!! YOU'D RECEIVE NONE IN HIS SHOES, WOULD YE?!?!?!?'
'CUT HIS KARKIN' HAAAAAAUNS AAAAAAFF!!!!'

Free-State soldiers and the host of McGechin clansmen had gathered around this last part of the fight, happy that the remaining survivors raised their swords in challenge for duels to the death, as each and every Carr clansman knew what torturous ends awaited them, as the call for hanging, drawing and quartering had extended far beyond Clans Campbell and Barran alone. However, all the fighting had ceased when the noise died out around them, ceasing proper as soon as Lord Carwood was seen walking towards the center, walking towards the young boy the Carrs were seemingly protecting as he exclaimed,'You should be in the castle, boy! Believe me when I say it would be better to die with your father, with sword in hand - as I have it on good authority that Lord Brandon would fight us to the bitter end!', drawing his family's ancestral Vibrosword Claymore with the most wicked smirk his amiable, elderly face could muster.

'His lowest consorts surely adhere to this now after all, so who among your twelve remaining clansmen would face me as the young Lairdship's champion in his absence?'

'Haw, Carwood!', a voice called out from the west, followed by a pained grunt and pained groaning. An intruder had sallied out and punched his way through the encirclement, and it wouldn't be long before the Laird of the McGechin clan found out who had so bravely stepped out from the Carr Redoubt to accept a challenge he hadn't known was being made; at least, until he had gotten close enough to kill two of Lord Carwood's levies to get to the heart of the fight itself, but none could have possibly known what the lone warrior had heard or guessed at, none could've possibly divined what fate was actually planning for them that day. The identity of the warrior himself would remain a secret for a little while longer, as he was both masked and hooded in the garb of local Druidic tradition, though of a particularly arcane and sacrificial sect that all had hoped had been long forgotten before that moment, such that thoroughly enraged the lifelong elderly devotee to Dia's Holy tenets.

'Ah swear, Brandon. If that's you, I will make your death slow an' painful for this! You know what the Death Druids did ti yer Sinn'searann, their women - THEIR CHILDREN?!?!?!?!'

Shrieking with laughter and rage alike, the masked warrior threw his head back and let it all out before returning his gaze to the approaching Laird, heard making a mirthful death-rattle at the old man's expense soon after, such that dispelled all thoughts that Lord Brandon had chosen to step forth after all, this was no doubt a descendant of the Death Druids from ancient times, and no doubt still in control of Clan Carr to some degree - even if only from the shadows until that moment. Looking around him, the Laird's challenger shrieked with hyena-like laughter again before replying,'I am no mere champion, gentlemen.... And am no mere scion or noble of Clan Carr either! No pretender, tale-teller or charlatan for that matter. You - know me, but you haven't the heart to SAY MY FETHING NAME!!!! ', with all the venom expected of one with nought but thoughts of blood and vengeance on their mind.

'SAY IT, MCGECHIN!!!! SAAAAAYYYY IIIIIIT!!!!'

Jumping down from the small rise to get closer to his would-be opponent, the old Laird proceed to stare dagger-sharp ire into the eyes of the man he would name, half-growling,'Sawney.... Malcom - fething - Sawney! In the flesh, as they say. You should be dead, boy! How close was the carotid-miss then? An inch, half that?', before shoving his head into the mask that hid the face of his dead tormentor's son. The son who, in turn, would torment Carwood's son throughout the process of Lord Carwood's captivity; life had been difficult for the loyal ones in the Barrans' absence, and none quite so much as the McGechins, loyal to the exiles - even if it meant the denigration, the oppression, and lastly, the brutal murders of some of the Stalwart's closest family members in the process. Carwood's revenge on the Heartlands, a sad affair though it was, revealed the gut-wrenching, soul-destroying events that gave rise to such resolve - a lust for vengeance that would soon show to dwarf that which resonated within his younger opponent.

'Draw yer sword.... DRAW YER FETHING SWORD, SCUM!!!! I'VE WAITED YEARS, DECADES EVEN - FOR THIS!!!!'

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 13)

BARRAN HALL, CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'It isn't that I hide it, my true face. It is simply not the visage befitting of the Emperor. It is not what is expected of me. Irveric wore a face of Iron all the same if only of tested mettle and enduring will, the difference being that mine is merely a mask and his was his true nature. The Emperor should appear unbreakable. If he is to lead men and expect the will to both kill and die from each of them, he should only show the same. After what was done unto me almost a decade ago, I wish I could remark my Iron Skin as a purely aesthetic garment, but in truth my existence would be far too wrought with pain without it.'

A good point, though Erskine felt that he needed to further enlighten his Imperator on the local take on matters of,"Showing one's true face.", to further endear Rurik to the comforts such language conjured in the minds of the stereotypical Woad. However, despite this, the Woad was learning much of the man, especially from the content of his Imperator's reply, much like Lord Erskine was from the youth in his reply to Barran's question, one such that the host wouldn't expect for a second until he had heard the reply with his own two ears. Much Lord Erskine had learned about Konrad in the time he'd spent with Rurik and himself by then, from learning of his ill-predisposed feelings towards the Warlord element in the Imperium, to seeing what the unperturbed demeanour around Fel's true face entailed, the Chieftain of the Woads was very much getting the measure of the man in the making as they proceeded to interact with each other - and yet, what was replied to the query of future plans would be a revelation much greater than those that showed before.

'Eradicate the Empire of any forms of dissent, Lord General, but without repeating my father's mistakes.'

Michael probably says similar things about me, but this one appears to be serious about it.​

With eyelids narrowed to press home his point, the green irises of Jaeger's son brooked no doubts on his statement, giving further rise to the Woad's belief that this young individual was far from flippant on the matter; after all, Konrad, before and during his time with the ISYG and the likes, had never been given any reason to joke on the matter. Yet the intensity would give way eventually, continuing,'...and enjoy this tea as best as I could, I reckon.', revealing a preference for blends more exotic than the barebones offerings of the traditional Galidraani tea in the process. As for which particular blend it was that tasted better, Barran genuinely couldn't tell, so the Laird let the matter go in the hopes he would find out later, knowing that the choice of spices would give further insight into his young guest's life and cultural leanings. There was something about this lad which differed from others his age, and the drive to eradicate any and all dissent towards the Imperium was certainly not the biggest catalyst, and in seeing that this indefinable element existed, the Lord-General knew he wasn't even close to scratching the surface.

'A simple aim. Keeping your sights in such a direction will prove beneficial to you. I'm afraid, however, it is a lofty goal, a hopeful one, so long as men and women like you remain in pursuit of it, but chaos never rests. I know though...the weight of legacy. I am, for better or worse, detached from all who share my name, Fel. But it was under the reign of Fel that order was brought across the Galaxy, that is the shadow I live within. Though it has been generations since the last Fel reigned, every realm across the stars knows the name, knows what it tolls. But ultimately, Fel is remembered for Roan and not Ronin. I will not be the latter. A name can only carry so much weight, fate is ultimately what man makes of it.'

'Too true.', Erskine started, pausing only to drink from his glass before chiming in again. Savouring everything as he framed the rest of his response, the 804-cask was even better than he imagined it, but Barran knew he wished to continue, placing the glass back on the desk he was sitting on before continuing,'Take it from someone who was forced to detach from the name, the lands and titles that went with it.... There is something of a blessing in it, as it drags one out from under ancient ancestral shadows - dropping you slap-bang in the heart of the present-tense, in the very heart of history in the making.', as the whiskey's burn momentarily reminded him of the ancestral shadows he once walked in. As his eyes returned to Harrsk's gaze, Barran would make sure they were making eye-contact before concluding,'If ever you manage it, Mr. Harrsk.... I will gladly drink to your success.', expressing sincerity throughout.

'And if we achieve Imperial supremacy under your rule, Imperator. I dare say I'll be drinking to that until I kick the bucket.'

'Now, on the matter of the,"True face.", talk, we Woads have a certain view of what man is in his truest form.', the Stormchaser said, pausing to point out the hearth and couch behind the Imperator, sipping as he framed his little insight into his culture. Turning his attention back to Rurik, Erskine would give a brief bowing nod of respect before concluding,'If a man can leave his hardened exterior at the door of a home, then in that home he will show his true face. A face not only of contentment, but of warmth and comfort to be one's self at the heart of the man. That is what we would consider the removal of a man's mask - and in showing your comfort here, your true face was showing before and during the unmasking itself, as it is now.... Your trust towards us was a revelation of who you are under all that iron glory, a man who's real face chooses friends supremely well.', before raising his glass once more.

'To trust, to fighting for the friends who earn it. And you have mine, Imperator.... For as long as I live to serve the Imperium, you will have my absolute, undying trust.'

 

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

SECOND POST
THE_TUATH
OBJECTIVE THREE: BEAST OF GALIDRAAN
TAGS: Morgana Sinclair Michael Barran Delilah Chamberlin

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 2

CRANSTON'S BAR, MCMINN CASTLE DISTRICT,
PRESTON, GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

"Ha-Eyy, Royalist! Are Ye Walkin' Yet?
Or Are Yer Drums - A'Beatin' Yet?
If You Were A'Walkin' Ah Would'nae Wait-
Tae Ah Gun Oan Yer Halls In The Mooornin'."

Michael was singing old Anti-Fortanist Rebel songs from bygone centuries with Randall by that point of the evening, having already sunk twenty pints and more than that in glasses of whiskey, it was that time of the night that the Wanderer would properly put the nuclear into his inebriation once and for all, no longer teetering on the edge, no longer toeing the line of peak alcoholic intoxication. Yorunarr would walk into raucous auditory hell, but one that had every drinker in Cranston's Bar contributing to it in their own small or great varying ways, all rather irritating to the sober son of Yan'Sharlim; someone was drumming on their table as their friends leaned back with drinks in hand, another was strumming an acoustic guitar for all his worth while everybody else sung and shouted what was the chorus of the old Aleckist rallying-cry, something Yorunarr would need to learn more about in his time on Galidraan III.

'Milord, MILOOORRRD!!! WE NEED - TO TALK - OUTSIIIDE!!!! THIS - IS - IMPORTANT!!!!'

'AW'RIGHT THEN - YOU GOT ANY SMOKES?!?!?!', Michael replied, only half awakened from his drunken haze in the process of being peeled away from a drunken group of revellers. Yorunarr would practically throw a Faslaner Silvers cigarette at his commander with a fair amount of annoyance felt in the Shaman's heeded request. Barran would then yell,'THANKS, DICK!!!! LEAD THE WAY!!!!', to let Ahan-Yan'Sharlim assist him in his multiple attempts to walk through the throng of local drunkards to the outdoor smoker's lounge. After circumnavigating the crowds on their way out, the Wanderer then let the Shaman open the door for him as he sparked up the cigarette he'd been given, stepping out into the windy night air, and slurring his words as he drawled,'Whatever it is, I hope it's important enough t'drag yer Lord-Captain away from his sacred downtime. Not joking either, Yorunarr.', after taking the first few draws to be sure it would stay lit.

'There's been another mauling - family of nine this time, all dead. Up in Monteith Village of all places.... And again, discovered to have been Sith-Loyalists afterwards.'

Pursing his lips, the Chieftain's successor would clench his teeth then take another draw from his cigarette as he tried to process the information given, and though the drunken brain was having a tough time of it, Lord Michael wouldn't take long to return his gaze to the Shaman and calm his intensity enough to reply with at least enough lucidity to be heard and understood with absolute clarity. A simple response, but enough to give something Yorunarr to do, allaying the Novanian's concerns simply by saying,'Got a message on Datapad from Gowrie, he's there. Apparently they have an actual hunter there, so we wait. Return to your post for now, Shaman.', returning to smoking the cigarette Yorunarr had thrown at him. Despite this, Barran was kind enough to bring his gaze back to Ahan'Yansharlim's with a kindly nod and friendly punch to the shoulder to let his friend know that all was being done to get to the bottom of the matter.

'Gladly, Milord! Bloody stinks on the sub-streets, you belong somewhere a little more - er - Patrician than this chithole! Stinks even worse than the tent I use for my Root rituals, and that's no exaggeration either.... See you tomorrow, sir.'

"Alle-Ee, Alle-Ayy, Alle-Oo, Alle-Oh,
Open Up Yer Prison Gates An' Let Oor Aleck Go!
Alle-Ee, Alle-Ayy, Alle-Oo, Alle-Oh,
Open Up Yer Prison Gates An' Let Th'Chieftain Go!"

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 4

Monteith Village, The Southern Marches,
An-'Ghàidhealtachd, Galidraan III (868 ABY)

'A pleasure, Lord Aron…Delilah Chamberlin.'

A beauty, a fierce beauty at that, though much too young for Lord Aron's tastes, and much too far from his love of fidelity to even entertain replying with flirtatiousness, though Lord-Colonel Gowrie would smile like a Tuath and adopt a warm, yet confident demeanour all the same. Nodding respectfully before taking another drag, the Kellas would allow the hunter her chance to explain the situation, exhaling into a frozen, heavy gust of wind as Delilah explained,'We foun' nine bodies ...or rather what wus lef'a bodies throughout the manor. It tore'em apart, leavin' not a single soul to res without ensuring they suffered a violent death.', holding her ground well as any Goidelic woman would in her shoes, though the majestic hound next to her was somehow helping her give off a rather powerful aura of traditional tribal strength at the same time. Intriguing, especially to see such pronounced traits of Galidraan III's proud peoples manifest in such a way, like the,"Auld Yins.", were somehow talking to a heroic archetype from the folk-tales of old.

'Ey'r had been swayin' eas' since we arrived. S'where m'planin t'ead.'

Accepting the Laird's spare lit cigarette, the huntress would drawl,'Thank ye.', before indulging Gowrie's more-subtle offer to enjoy the quiet reflection required to enjoy a cigarette properly. There wouldn't be many opportunities for a smoke on a night such as the one they'd be embracing, so both the huntress and the Laird understood what such a lull would mean for their mutual temperaments in the later hours of the night itself, what it would mean for their willpower in the cold as the bite of the early winter set into their stride at every turn, rise and dip on the already-harsh terrain. Lord Aron and Delilah would then turn to look on the Aurora Tuatha in complete silence, beholden to the ethereal glow of green, pink, gold and blue for the small respite of which they'd be pining for it's return before the moon set beyond the western horizon. Even though it was a will-sapping thought, everyone present had been raised to endure such wild and bone-chilling weather, and it was obvious to all present that Chamberlin was no exception, especially in seeing not a single shiver or shudder as everyone continued gazing on the Aurora beyond and above their heads in serene silence.

'E'can feel somethin…'

Stirring from his reverie, Lord Aron turned back towards the huntress after hearing her whisper with clear urgency, like the dangers were still very much real and present for everyone who'd decided to join the hunt as she continued,'Is still'ere…', acting on similar gut-instinct to the monster they were all resolving to pursue together. As Delilah turned to the rest of the hunting party, the look on her face was a story that told a thousand words, but Chamberlin still retained a great strength in her eyes as she said,'I dun'ave time ta f*ck aroun' an sip tea, come on then, les fine this thing.', flicking her cigarette away and turning her focus east towards the threat she was sensing in that moment. Everyone else would follow suit almost immediately after, though Lord Aron would snap his fingers and point to Captain Reed, maintaining his silence as he beckoned the Woad closer, clearly wishing to whisper in his the ear of his second-in-command.

'If it wiz Sith Loyalists afore, might dae well ti investigate this wan, Br'er. Keep me posted.'

'Copy that, Milord. Leave this wan wae me.', Alun replied, gritting his teeth and expressing grim, apprehensive frowning of one who clearly did not want to do this part of the job, though it was indicative of clear preparation for the worst in the intensity of his gaze towards the upper floors of the house that hid the aftermath well despite the carnage he expected to find. Reed was in no mood for horrors that night, having read through a fair amount of them in the days and hours leading up to that moment, but still held enough of his wits to stand to attention, salute, and warn,'Be careful, if this one says it's close - it's obviously close. Good luck, Milord.', before falling out and passing the huntress with a curt, but kindly nod before turning away to open what remained of the front door. What awaited the Commoner-Captain, grim though it most-certainly was, would be nought in comparison to the horror the others would see roaming the dark; and the Captain entering the house knew this for a fact as much as the huntress, seeing both urgency and resolve in her eyes as he passed, such that told him she expected to find more death where the rest were going.

'Lead the way, Delilah. An' we're loaded wae tranquilizers by the way, just in case ye were still wondering if we accord on this matter.... Lets move!'

 

[Bex Tarring]

OBJECTIVE 2

DECEASED Aron Gowrie DECEASED Erskine Barran

BRAMBER FIRST BATTALION
Column en route to the objective.
2 miles south of Leith-North West.

“Are you capturing this?”

The assigned team from the relevant Ministry office pointed their assortment of scanners and devices, rendering the images in a digital form for all to see. It would serve as excellent material for the newscasts and the military record of the early morning's proceedings.

The woodland was thick with pines that had been allowed to grow to impressive heights, topped by a thick blanket of snow, like a speckling of sugared frosting atop a Birthing-Day cake. The sky, a muddy grey, sat overcast like a thick blanket, hiding any source of warmth from the cold faces of the troopers, tucked into the carriers thirty troopers a-piece.

The convoy moved unabated, unchallenged by any interlopers or imminent dangers. Heading the column, a small squadron of the XT-62s, were making a clear cut right through any snow that had settled. The heavy tracks of the troop carriers that followed them made a considerable mush out of the rudimentary pathways that served as roadways in the North-West.

Eagle eyes observed the roadway, scanning for any sign of ambush or assault that might be forthcoming. It wasn’t expected from this region but it was prudent to assume that it might appear at any moment, especially when dark deeds are afoot.

“The universe has a way of decorating the sky with a tinge of humanity’s sorrows, don’t ya fink?”

Lord-Captain Bex Tarring turned to look at the man who had spoken. 2nd Lieutenant Gaden Horsham smiled, his earnest contribution to the otherwise silent ride in the Command Vehicle all but dismissed under the withering stair from his CO.

“It’s true though, sir. Right before a big battle, you often see storms or clouds or rain. How many times have you been deployed and it’s started rainin’ when you’re about to get along to the fightin’? How does it know?”

Bex sighed loudly. His eyes led his head around again, focusing intently on his second officer. He was an astute man, was Horsham. A man who had come up through battlefield commission, not by virtue of his birth or title or rank. That made him world-weary but not necessarily smart enough to read a room. Bex had wondered if he could even read.

Bex looked at Gaden Horsham a little more, his voice, grating on Bex's ears. You could take a man out of the countryside but his upbringing was completely butchered. He’d be spotted a mile away in the country homes of Bramber. A common-officer. Distinctly...earthy.

Tarring was the son of a noble in the county of Bramber, south of Thames. He was a shrewd minded individual with loyalty coursing through his veins, blood spilt willingly if the need arose for the cause at hand. He projected an air of steely determination, a callous dismissiveness about him that made him almost unlikeable, save an ineffable quality about him. There was a distinct something he exuded that encouraged a strong sense of calling and fulfilled purpose in those looking for somebody to follow.

He was, however, sick and tired of the sound of Horsham’s voice. Sometimes he had visions of putting a bolt through his forehead, the look of shock plastered on his grimacing face forever in an eternal repose of horror.

“Horsham, I have asked as politely as I might. Now, if you don’t rapidly stem the flow of cobbled-together-chit that passes for sentient thought on its way from your tiny brain to your odious mouth, I will ensure that the second hole that I make in your face, in addition to your rot-ridden mouth, is far larger and far more cauterised. Do we have a frank understanding?”

Horsham swallowed hard. He nodded curtly.

“Have we forgotten all our words today? You had so ma…”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”

Bex sat back, taking in the newfound silence for a moment. He glanced over at 2nd Lieutenant Easwrith who was grinning wildly, peering from underneath his brimmed officer’s cap with a look that said “thank goodness you said it.” Easwrith was far more agreeable, the son of a son of a noble. He was a better man for it, the army no real place for him. He would have made a fine school teacher or a physician. But the Free-State called to who it called.

A short tone emitted followed by a disembodied voice, its origin hidden away in the compartment that held the driver and his team.

“Approaching the settlement now, sir. “

Bex slapped his thighs, standing as he could in the somewhat cramped condition the command vehicle held. It was far better than the troop transports, he was assured but he almost thought somebody was playing a trick on him with it. There had to be a bigger one available. Though a bigger one would prove a bigger target on the battlefield, so he reckoned it was compact enough for the task at hand.

“Do you have your orders, gentlemen?”

Easwrith stood, removing his hat briefly and slicking his blond hair back behind in a gallant fashion.

“Liquidate the settlement, lest we find a reason to permit them to live as loyal citizens?”

Bex smiled.

“ Lord-Colonel Gowrie would prefer it if it were undertaken in exact contrast to how you’ve just put that to me. But I think you know that, Lieutenant.”

The humour had somewhat dissipated from Bex’s voice. It was so often hard to tell what mood he would be in. This tone suggested he was anxious as to what was about to happen. Easwrith and Horsham had at least learned that.

---------
The command vehicle came to a stop in a small town square, cobbled streets stained with slurry and dirty snow from pedestrians and rudimentary carts, no doubt. One of the large Cataphract tanks had taken up residence in the centre of the square, its formidable armaments scouring the scene for anything that might be interpreted as a challenge. The troop transports had entered single file through the brick walls of the town, blocking the roadway so that no traffic, by vehicle or by foot, could make a heading out of the settlement. The trucks began to unload their cargo, well-armed and perfectly capable troopers of the Bramber First, the newly christened battalion to come from the southern regions south of Thames. Their history as a defence force was being re-written one conflict at a time and this new iteration, with its own battalion designation, was the latest chapter to be added. Tarring was the proud commanding officer and the element present today, troopers from the First and Second companies, would no doubt excel in their duties and bring another proud chevron to their Battalion colours.

There was a distinct lack of presence in the town, few bystanders risking a look at the occupying Imperial force. The two-story buildings stood tall and empty of any sign of life, with no curtains twitching nor lights ablaze.

Tarring stepped forward, his black boots making a crisp stud of noise as it tracked across the stone flooring, a slight echo ringing out across the otherwise total silence, save the idle engines of the large sortie of trucks that now sat in the square.

“I am Lord-Captain Tarring of the Bramber First, Officer of the Great Imperial State of Galidraan. I am charged with repurposing the township of Leith so that it may serve better the Imperial State and return it, and its people, to the rightful rulers.”

He watched as various pockets of people materialised out of walkways, doorways and alleyways, some remaining quite hidden by the shadows of the buildings.

“I have here a list of names that belong to groups that are called upon to make better themselves and swear fielty to House Tal and the Galidraani Free-State.”

He peered down as a datapad was proffered into his hand by a trooper. He held it in his gloved hand, flicking through the list of names below. He gave an ominous and purpose laden pause between each name, spitting them out with a level of contempt that was evident to all that heard him.

“Clan McLean

Clan McLaren

Clan Davidson

Clan McRuraidh

Clan Stoat

Clan Waugh”

“You are called upon in the presence of Imperial Galidraani forces to once again recognise the true ru…”

A blast rang out, catching the trooper next to Bex in the chest. The trooper dropped, a burning pocket of discharge leaving the tell-tail mark of a blaster round. Bex immediately dropped to his knee, grabbing a blaster. The square erupted in some form of action that bordered on panic but remained distinctly assertive. The troopers began calling out, squads taking place at various doorways to buildings that sat around the square, beginning their way to bursting through the doors and clearing the houses to find the rogue gunman.

The troops that had rallied to Bex took a similar position, alternating their pattern to seek out the blast’s origin. Bex motioned ahead of him, signalling that the assailant was to be found that way. Comms chatter was curt and succinct, calling through as squads assailed the houses on the square and began bringing out the occupants, some barely dressed from their nightwear. An early morning raid like this was considered an effective time to catch any unsuspecting partisans off-guard.

As Bex made for the side of the square where the largest group of citizens huddled, a look of distinct terror on their faces as the blasters and rifles were made hideously obvious to them. There would be no doubt in their minds the firepower the soldiers were capable of.

Bex spoke to one of the citizens, an older man with a brown moustache and sideburns, a pair of breeches and a light nightshirt on, hanging loose on his tight frame. He looked him in the eye, his features sunken and his eyes darting in panic. Bex spoke crisply.

“We have just been attacked. I will ask simple questions and the answers should be truthful and clear. Clarity, in this instance, is everything.”

He raised his blaster and discharged it into the forehead of the elderly man, his now lifeless form collapsing against the wall behind him, his family shrieking and screaming in terror. A younger woman rushed to grab him, desperately seeing if there was any hope of surviving.

There was not.

“I am looking for members of the Clan names I have read out loud to you. I am looking for members of the dissident Rose-Lions. That man died to ensure you understood the gravity of this situation. Consider it a reprisal for the trooper murdered by one of your townspeople.”

The assembled families looked in abject fear, shivering in the cold but under the weight of a mania that presented itself in corporeal form; the well-dressed visage of Bex Tarring.

He raised his voice a little louder as he walked away into the centre of the square, a squad of soldiers replacing where he had stood, voices raised in panicked screams as they were silenced by a wall of munitions fire into the families that had stood alive but a moment ago.

“This is very simple. I want the clans that I called out to make themselves known to me. I want the Rose-Lions to make themselves known to me.”

-------

Bex was getting increasingly annoyed at how this was proceeding. The townsfolk were clearly harbouring the Rose-Lions but were not set to give them up to the brave forces that had come to liberate that morning. It was a terrible shame. He watched as the propaganda camera crew filmed the remains of the soldier, lying prostrate on the floor. This would make wonderful footage of the ambush that had befallen the troopers present today. Anybody with a heart would understand the repercussions necessary to protect them from further attack.

Bex waved his finger over at a trooper, who rushed over crisply.

“Level that building.”

He rushed back to the giant form of the Cataphract tank that stood, a hulk of armament and munition that would spew an angry discharge into the brick building ahead. The cannon fired, the building exploding in a rain of mortar, wood and glass. Roof tiles fell hard against the cobbled streets, a melodic pitter-patter filling the air.

Bex Tarring looked around the square.

The bodies of twenty or so citizens lying where they had been slain moments before.

A brick house, now ablaze, a cloud of thick acrid smoke filling the otherwise quiet and chilled morning air.

A voice rang in his ear. It was Horsham.

“We found the gunman, sir. He’s taken his own life.”

Bex huffed in fury. “That’s very inconsiderate of him, Horsham.”

“Sigils found though, sir. Some pamphlets, documentation, sir. He’s one of the Rose-Lions, sir.”

Bex smiled to himself.

Gotcha.

Tarring turned on his heel, walking back to the command truck that now sat like a heavily fortified outpost, all posts filled with crewmen coordinating the fireteams and taking as much information as pertinent. The events here would need to be documented and taken note of, for all manner of purposes.

The chief one of import was the one he was about to utilise.

<"Tarring to Wildcat One. Leith is confirmed as compromised, forces bearing Rose-Lion colours are in play. Cooperation plan isn't viable, not in this town anyway. Proceed as discussed in the alternate plan, Milord?">

He would wait. The final arbitration was at hand and it was always good to have a reassuring pat on the shoulder before committing a town and its citizens to dust.

Such was life.

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
SOVEREIGN IMPERATOR
GALIDRAAN III
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Konrad Harrsk | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Liam Docherty | Ollis Barran | Willan Tal | Tyrell Lockhart | Fiolette Fortan | Enedina Tal | Morgana Sinclair ​

​

Nothing had ever made Rurik feel truly humbled, not since he'd forsaken the Jedi Code and was beholden to their ceremonies and traditions. The Woad before him and in fact the very homeland that Barran welcomed Fel into was an experience as humbling the day his Padawan braid was severed from over his shoulder and he was made a Knight of the Jedi Order. By the time he was made Master, it was hardly from the pride the elders of the Jedi held in Rurik but more so out of the necessity of a crumbling Galactic Alliance, before the combined forces of the First Order and the Sith Empire scattered the Jedi across the Galaxy.

The purpose was renewed only in the Empire and the Empire rewarded Fel in vindication. Each time he turned his sights from the next battle to plan, the next war to win and the next edict to enact, it was hard to humanize the visage of the Empire in his mind beyond the grand swathes and numbers he knew it by.

"I appreciate the vote of trust and confidence, Erskine. I am but a vessel for the interests of the Empire and nothing more. My duty is The Empire and its people, little more. Who I am as a mortal man is insignificant to the greater interests. The Iron is as much a vessel that keeps me alive as much as it is the very image of the Emperor. The Iron Skin heals and sustains me, it is inseparable from my being so long as I live. The suffering, the wounds inflicted upon me by the darkness will never fade, never heal. But I endure, like the Empire, like its people...I endure." Rurik stated outright.

"I'm grateful for the hospitality however, Barran. It is seldom I am ever grounded in the mortal coil of what it means to simply 'be', the way of man detached from the burden of obligation." He remarks.

 

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

1st post
THE_TUATH
WILDCAT BATTALION

TAGS: Bex Tarring

FORTANISTS AND ROSE-LIONS: GOWRIE'S FINAL ORDER - PART 1

Riordan Cottage,
Tuatha, Galidraan III (868 ABY)

The hallway outside the bathroom would keep Lord Aron's comm-device company as the married couple's bathroom itself let out wisps of steam through the door that sat slightly ajar, and resonating, echoing pleasure resonating from the same place as the comm-device continually pinged its sole notification. Laughter, ecstasy and pleasure shared between a couple that had been married almost thirty years, natural as the day they decided to conceive children together, like the memo of,"You've had your kids, settle down.", hadn't even been sent their way, let alone being yet to arrive after all those amorous years spent in each other's arms. A message from Lord-Captain Tarring, the latest arrival to the Free-State forces' officer clique, and though it seemed like it couldn't be any further from Aron and Helen's minds, they eventually stopped what they were doing so Aron could step out and deal with the one distraction he didn't want impeding his downtime that day.

<"Tarring to Wildcat One. Leith is confirmed as compromised, forces bearing Rose-Lion colours are in play. Cooperation plan isn't viable, not in this town anyway. Proceed as discussed in the alternate plan, Milord?">​

'AaaaahahahahahaHAHAHAHAAAAAH! AND SO IT BEGINS!!!! THE FORTANISTS CHOOSE TO STOP HIDING THEN!!!!'

'I suppose it's a good thing those deviants are getting the what-for, but did you not want the Free-State to wait for something before-', Lady Helen piped up from within the bathroom as Lord Aron tightened the towel at his hips, making sure it would stay on as he replied. Despite the fact the bathroom was warm, there were no illusions as to how breezy the rest of the house could get by the time autumn showed face, and yet he could still feel the warmth from the bathroom as the breeze caught the back of his neck, and though the goose-bumps were yielded in the process, not a single shiver or shudder was felt in the process. Stepping a little closer to the door so his wife could hear the transmission a little easy, Lord Aron would make a point of quickly answering his wife's question before he listened to the first message properly, enjoy the warmth on his face a little as he framed his response to make it as clear and concise as possible.

'Aye, word came doun the line that the remaining Fortans left again. They are, once again, resigned to living out their lives on Dosuun. Just means we can't watch 'er seethe before she leaves though, as it would've been quite poetic to see the look on Fiolette's face as her own Southern-Galidraani peoples laid waste to her last beleaguered bulwark on Galidraan III.... Shame, as I would've really liked to see that. But it would seem that's how reality works for Goidels anyway.'

<"Proceed, Bramber One. But be sure to search every building before you burn them all down, as the evidence you've sent has caught the Office of the Free-State's attention so far. Keep up the good work, Tarring. Wildcat One out!">​

Dropping his personal comm-device by his watch on the wall-side bannister next to a vase that held an assortment of local wildflowers, Lord Aron would look down and find the family's tabby-cat walking past him before stepping forward to walk into the bathroom again, letting,"Alastair", make his way out to the front garden to chase mice for a while as the Kellas embraced the steam that slightly obscured his wife's visage. However, not a single steam-room existed in the Galaxy that could fully hide Helen's hourglass curves, the hips that Lord-Colonel Gowrie could never forget, not even when he was in the Crucible of war, curves of the likes any man in his shoes would fight like a monster to see again. For as long as Helen remained, and for as long as Helen was his, recalling moments like this would light fires under the Lord-Colonel in whatever the Galaxy had to throw at him.

'Ah, there you are....'

 

[Bex Tarring]

DECEASED Aron Gowrie DECEASED Erskine Barran
BRAMBER FIRST BATTALION
Occupying Leith

He waited with an expectation that sat in his stomach like a lead weight.

The sound of burning timber, the crackle and sputter that filled the air as the dry wood caught on the ever-growing pyre was an electric sound. It spoke to Bex of trips to the woodlands near Leonard when he was a young boy, his father taking him hunting for game and for watching birds. It evoked sadder memories yet, of his mother's funeral, the convocation vast, the assembled throng in mourning for such a beautiful loss.

He felt little remorse now.

In the bitter cold of the morning, he stood, idly playing with the receiver of the comm in his hand, watching as the second floor of a large townhouse collapsed into the square, a loud clattering noise like a rushing wave sweeping over him. The adjutant next to him gave a small smile, a nervous response no doubt as he stood in silence with the Lord-Captain. Bex did the unexpected and returned the smile, a little more promptly. After all, war was fought so that peace would endure, no?

<"Proceed, Bramber One. But be sure to search every building before you burn them all down, as the evidence you've sent has caught the Office of the Free-State's attention so far. Keep up the good work, Tarring. Wildcat One out!">

The voice came through quickly and crisply, Tarring almost losing the first few words as he had allowed his mind to wander. He nodded, returning the received to the adjutant. He turned away from the command vehicle, wringing his hands and walking with intensity; he had his purpose.

He summoned the two subordinates, Horsham and Easwrith. Horsham had made his back from the house where they had found the gunman, some Rose-Lion paraphernalia now held in his right hand. He showed it to Bex.

"Some pin of sorts, Captain."

Bex took the proffered item from Horsham's hand, half expecting it to burn his fingertips, a piece so laden with defect and embued with a crassness that almost caused Bex to heave in his own mouth. It was a disgusting item, in its simplicity.

But what it stood for.

"Have this and any item taken for analysis. The Lord will want a full appraisal of the events here, alongside any contraband confiscated by our forces."

Bex watched in the far distance, a small family group laden with bags as they made out of their townhouse, an older man accompanied by two children, aged between five and eight perhaps, as well as two women of middling age.

"Easwrith."

The Lieutenant gave a crisp salute.

"I want this town destroyed. Anything you discover that is of use to us, I want to keep. Anybody with information regarding the names I cited has run out of time. I am a patient man but there is no sanity in holding out for anything else from this dreary place."

He didn't look as Easwrith walked over to the platoon of troopers assembled, their weapons ready as they would move house to house. They made a swift approach to the nearest house, kicking the wooden door in. After a few moments, the sounds of screaming and shouting were heard deep within the house, cut off by the sound of rapid blaster fire.

Bex walked slowly, almost in a trance as he surveyed the scene. Groups of families, thrown out of their houses, were executed in the streets. One young boy tried to run as far as he could from the horror that befell the citizenry of Leith, a decisive and final discharge from a trooper's rifle ending his ambitions of making good his escape with his life. He pulled tighter his greatcoat, nervously fiddling with the Rose-Lion pin he had been handed.

It was all very necessary. For the good of the Imperial State. For the good of the Empire. For the good of the Order.

Two troopers appeared, holding in their hands the figure of an older woman, her hair greying and matted as it clung to her face, stained by blood from a blow to the head causing it to be sticky and intrusive. They paused in front of him, allowing him to inspect her. She was overweight and breathed heavily, yet she did not seem frightened. She did not cower.

"Ah wull nae hulp ye. Ye'r a swine 'n' ah dinnae care wha kens it."

Bex grimaced. Her spoken tongue was guttural and dirty, an accent that he found to be distinctly ugly.

"We found this with her, sir."

One of the troopers passed him a pamphlet. It was embossed and gilded with Rose-Lion imagery.

It read:

"Rise up 'n' tak' whit's yers"

Bex turned it over, looking to see if anything could be further discerned from the material. It was rudimentary but effective. A picture of a clansman stood, holding a large saber in his hand, defiant in the face of a wall of enemy soldiers.

"See how defiant they are when we burn down their houses, trooper."

The woman spat at Bex. He turned from her, walking away, the pamphlet added to his collection. The troopers dragged her off, her feet catching on the cobbles as she struggled to maintain her balance against their forceful handling. She dropped, her hands just about thrown in front of her face to protect it from the cobbles below. She let out a whimpering cry. The trooper pulled out his pistol and emptied two rounds into the back of her head, her body now slumped face-first into the ground.

He walked a little further, the globulet of spit wiped from his woollen coat. He stopped, taking in the window of a street shop, hanging meats in the window, small loaves of bread sat, unpurchased and uneaten. A sickly rabbit-like creature hung from a small array of hooks, clearly enticing to the casual passerby.

There would be no more.

He walked on further still, nearing the command vehicle once again. Another platoon of troopers was heading out into the small town, the constant noise of blaster fire and rifle discharge now faded into the background. Once they were all dead, they would be searched for answers.

They had been given time to cooperate.

 

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

2nd post
THE_TUATH
WILDCAT BATTALION

TAGS: Bex Tarring

FORTANISTS AND ROSE-LIONS: GOWRIE'S FINAL ORDER - PART 2

Riordan Cottage,
Tuatha, Galidraan III (868 ABY)

'Heh! Good afternoon, Milord!'

Passing by the local store, Lord Aron would make his way further into the small town of Riordan Glen, complete with the spring in his step, the likes that told a very happy story to the locals who passed him by. Some would give knowing, smirking nods of jesting congratulations for doing what locally would've been considered as a man's long-term marital duties, others would chuckle or smile to themselves as they left the famed Chieftain of the Tuaths to himself, and it was those that Lord Aron naturally appreciated most of all. As much as he respected everyone in town, no man in his position ever wanted to be so transparent to the common masses, lest they knew the next most-famous person in town, and started to imagine his good fortunes, visualising things for which they would otherwise have been hanged in previous centuries. Impure thoughts about another commoner's woman would've seen such members of the peasantry flogged heavily, but impure thoughts about a noblewoman (especially the wife of a chieftain like Lord Aron) would've seen the same offending hypothetical commoner publicly hanged after trial.

'Gledd somebody's havin' a gidd day anyway.'

Much had changed since the Constitutional Era, and in that same respect, much had been changed by Galidraan's Constitutional Era as a result of the edicts set in place by the likes of House Fortan and the government who drafted every last writ, but it still wouldn't stop fidelity's adherence from feeling disgust and disdain over such matters, no matter how mild such ethics might've become by modern times. Such thoughts would break the spring in Lord Aron's step, as they brought on thoughts of House Fortan in particular as a result, thoughts of what and who the Goidels might have become without Royalist influence meddling, subverting and murdering everything that defined the tribes of Carrack, Highlander Woad and Tuath origin from their neighbours in the star-system. All the so-called civilised laws from recent years, though seemingly ironclad at the time, were all being revised, accepted and rejected accordingly, much to Lord Aron's relief.

If the Lord-Protector corrects course with same level of prejudice as he says, then I am in absolute favour of it.​

It wasn't all just enjoying the nice autumn daylight on a regular stroll this time though, as there was a big screen that was showing all the events in An-Cridheachan as the reconquest progressed, and it just so happened to be at the local pub, where many of the Wildcats' off-duty soldiers were gathering together in anticipation of the victory celebrations that all knew were impending one way or another. Despite the cultural divides, all the Tuaths in attendance would have faith that Lord Erskine's greatly-renowned brigade of heroes would prevail against the odds, against the sheer weight of local fury and Sith-Loyalist trickery, such that Laird Carwood McGechin (to his own and everyone else's horror) would encounter in his rampage later that day. Commoner-Captain Reed was already at the Riordan Den with his wife, who also happened to be the Wildcats' new Field-Surgeon, but they both wished to see the Laird there so they could spend time with their good friend instead of spending that quality time alone with each other.

'Good to have ye with us, Milord! For a moment there, I was beginning to wonder if you were showing up or not.', Annie piped up as soon as the Kellas walked through the front entrance, to which the entire pub stood up and cheered his arrival for a moment before leaving the Laird alone to socialise properly. Annie would then stand up to greet him properly, walking over and hugging her old friend from bygone school years and leading him to a table that had been well-chosen, for it offered a clear view of the broadcast screen that would've required others to step back a few paces to achieve for themselves. Captain Reed would rise to shake the hand of the best-man for his wedding-day just two years beforehand, marrying Woad and Tuath together after the events of Serenno and Csilla, bringing the Wildcats' would-be second-in-command together with their renowned would-be Chief-Surgeon in matrimony with the uncertainty of home still weighing deep on everyone's hearts.

Hope, rekindled for some at least by the days of the Sith Empire's final death throes, rekindled anew for the consequent reconquest of their homeworld - and Lord Aron knew that the Goidels would find strength anew through the chance meeting of souls alone.

'Ah know, ah know! A little later than normal for me, but even then - wouldnae miss this for the world. Hows the Brigade gettin' oan anyway? In fact, how's the new guy gettin' oan? Heh! Looks like my eyes are gawnty be glued t'this screen for the rest o' the day noo.... Oh, as for the latest addition to the officer-clique. It would seem the south has finally risen in the Lord-Protector's favour on Galidraan I. Nice slice o' the planet in aw honesty, Bramber Battalion appears t'come fae gidd, folkish stock for sure.'

Nodding agreement, Alun would take a few healthy swigs of lager before answering,'Aye, just efter the victory parade. Couldn't quite get back t'Galidraan III just yet at that point, even wae the bairns an' war-orphans aw seemingly sproutin' up aroon' oor feet at the time. Couldn't not go south o' Calavar at that point - everyone was curious, we aw needed a rest an' it aw finally belonged to our Lord-Protector.', exhibiting a fondness in his gaze as his thousand-yard stare gazed through the broadcast itself and beyond with a contented smirk on his face. But something, in that blissful recollection of the southern coastal regions on Lord-Protector Tal's homeworld, snapped the Commoner-Captain out from his reverie, curious with the Lord-Colonel's latest, most-expensive commission to date, and supremely curious with the Kellas' estimation of Bramber Battalion in particular.

'Speakin' o' which, have the lads fae Bramber Battalion made it tae Leith yet by chance? We haven't heard anything fae the northwest since is aw started.... Just Rose-Lion banners, that's about it on the Fortanist front.'

Receiving a stout and a Cladhan on the house, Gowrie would turn to meet the gaze of his best captain, nodding emphatically in confirmation before responding,'Aye, an' by the sounds of it - Lord-Captain Tarring's got his first crucible, nice an' early an'aw.... We'll see if those rolling, lush coastlines yield a hardy breed soon enough though, eh? Ah've been naughty in bringin' work tae social outings this time, but ah'm sure you'll understand why. As soon as the Bramber tanks get busy, this wee fether's gawnty light up like a late-night Cantina.', as his eyes steadily began to drift back towards the shifting feed on the large broadcast screen. Then, without any warning or prompt, Lord Aron snatched up the comm-device and patched through to another receiver, looking back to the happy couple as he concluded,'But first, I need to get in touch with a Wanderer. I have plans that being a Tuath obstructs, plans that can be alleviated with.... Highlanders.', with a calmly and confident demeanour that assured them he was working well within the boundaries of his newfound authority.

<"Haw, Michael.... Ye sober enough t'send a few Highlanders in t'help Bramber Battalion? Send 'em Argyll Company if ye can see straight enough t'call it in, an' dinnae be a baw-jaws aboot it! Time's a-wastin'!">

<"Aye, whitever choochter! Consider it done, but yer STINKIIIIIN'!">​