2nd post
Tellan Lake, The Kyber Range Mountains,
5km West of the Hallowed Scar, Ilum (Early-Spring of 877 ABY)
Just Lord Erskine, his sword, and the Black Ice beneath the soles of his boots.
Mongrel, this world is more beautiful than I remembered.
With nought but the fog, the wind, the distant Highlanders' watchtowers, and the sporadic snowfall as his audience.
An' knowing you're not here to see it for yourself.... It vexes me.
Or so he thought.
In a melancholy of his own, though trapped in one such that was eerily different to that which Lord Michael was trapped in, Lord Erskine's grief was contrastingly bittersweet in comparison to the abject, soul-deep agony his second son was dealing with at the time. The son, whilst no doubt being the esotericist, was trapped in matters of material, tangible realism; and all whilst the father, no doubt the staunch adherent to goings-on in present-tense and hindsight alike, had willingly waded himself into meditations of a spiritual nature.
It hurt, but to the Steward of Imperium, chief of all the Empire's shrewdest custodians, it was a hurt his soul had been crying out for; seemingly the only pain that ever made any sense to Lord Erskine in this fashion, seemingly that which made sense of all that muddied the mind in times of war, seemingly the only way the Lord-Regent could feel anything but rage any more. Like parts of his lifelike nature were being chipped away, piece by piece, and by nought but the misfortunes, the deaths and estrangements in his life as time passed, leaving the shell and the innards of an otherwise-broken and dusty soul. His son, his wife and all those closest to him by that point could see it for themselves, no matter how well it was hidden from the public eye, and to the point that not even the Mongrel could miss it near the end; but in typical Erskine fashion, none of it could keep the old man down, forever fated to walk through all of it with that same smirking obstinance - readily walking his bloody, bone-covered path until the last, excited gasp.
Like the basket-hilted wonder itself was the only joy the old man had left to enjoy, and for those observing from the east, it wouldn't be a far cry for them to assume such a thing from the offset, especially in seeing what the old Woad had been doing in the hours before he eventually stepped onto Tellan Lake. Pretty though the sight would have been for any warriors of Goidelic descent, there could have been no doubting the thoughts of such painful circumstances, especially not in observing the Lord-Regent looking out across the lake from the FOB's western wall as the skies slowly darkened above, and especially not in seeing the near-serenading process of moving around with the songsteel blade on the ice. It was all too poetic for the Highlanders to ignore, and perhaps even too poetic for all of Lord Erskine's enemies to disregard in turn, but in the understanding of their leader's ways, (and inwardly of those of the Brotherhood's own) their reverence for the Stormchaser he had been was altogether too great to intervene by the time he finally walked westward to walk across the lake.
'Hello, Erskine.'
He was looking to the skies of yesteryear, with eyes still closed to the skies of the here-and-now in the moments preceding the welcome surprise, silently looking for any trace of memory from that fateful night in 865 ABY, silently sighing in an intoxicating contrast of bliss and grief combined before the voice of his anointed champion snapped the old Woad from his melancholic reverie. But when Barran eventually registered the voice of Krayt, he soon realised that such reveries had also been on his champion's mind of late, as such were the wages of sin for all the great warriors in the Galaxy, something of an unspoken language that both Erskine and Shai understood well.
'...You still move like you're twenty years younger. You look the part too.'
As the old Woad was turning to see for if his ears were telling true or not, and in the process of seeing real eyes where once cybernetics had been, Barran's eyes lit up with lifelike wonder as he replied,
'Thanks, I appreciate that.... An' by the way, they're dialling back the clock at the surface as well, y'know? Honestly, mate.', pointing towards his own eyes for reference with an appreciative smirk in a kindly compliment of his own. However, like the internal struggle Shai could see behind his old, cold eyes, Erskine could see the same inner-conflict behind those new, fiery red contrasts that were staring right back; and in this inner-conflict, the old Woad saw that there was more to his champion's sudden visit than he first perceived, confirmed when the Mandalorian's eyes drifted towards his right hand - still baring naked songsteel in his brief conversational distraction.
'One moment, Shai.... I want no interruptions.'
<"Cairn Two, this is Shield Alpha! Eyes off the lake. I repeat - eyes off the lake.... You've had your wee ganders, now give me some peace an' feth off for a bit.">
<"As long as you're sure.... Copy that. Cairn Two out!">
But instead of adopting defensive or offensive stances, the Lord-Regent remained as aimless as ever in his non-combative posture; easily understanding the bind Shai was in, the sort of employers she was likely braving for a better life in the long run, and lastly, the sorts of sacrifices Maji had endured to find herself in such a deathly gamble in the first place. After all, Barran had made many costly decisions of similar sorts in his life, from his exile for daring to dream of a stronger Galidraani military under Sith rule, to his decision to fight for a better future for his wife, family and friends, and his decision to endeavour the unforgivable so they wouldn't have to. The old man understood, and in more ways than even Lord Erskine would dare give a voice to, and in this realisation, it became all the easier to absolve Shai of any blame in the developing tensions.
'Highlanders, war on Holy planets, an' thermal-optics - catalysts for unwanted heroics.... Besides, we've come too far for games o' that sort. You deserve better than that.'