After finally cresting the ridge on their ascent, orders would be sent down the line to completely surround the mining-camp's main defensive compound, and to hold positions that overlooked the makeshift holdfast in the heart of the camp's central, most-heavily fortified layer, though it had already been breached in several places. Standing at a few of the breaches were marauders with PLX-One rocket launchers in hand, with branchlurkers heard braying angrily behind them, the Mawlerites had chosen a fitting place for their last stand, though admittedly with all their last eggs in the one remaining basket that could keep them. Not that these small comforts would do them any lasting favours in the moment the smoothbores were expected to end it all, but the Blue-Hearts appreciated their resolve all the same, gladdened by the fact these marauders would be dying like men; leaving that plane of existence together in strong combative poise, going out with weapons in their hands.
As all true warriors do.
'Proost to AFV One! We have visual on the marauders' last stand, requesting permission to congratulate them in person.'
<"Permission granted, Goliath Four-Two! They've earned their reprieve, let them know they'll be remembered long after their bones decay and scatter to the winds.... Let these heroic raiders die with smiles on their faces, Sergeant! Godpeed! AFV One Out!">
The heroes of the Maw would see a solitary figure stepping out from the surrounding formation, walking quite leisurely towards the largest of the Goliaths' previously-unseen breaches as their strongest warrior stepped out to receive him; these marauders had known of the Blue-Hearts' respect towards them before they'd ever landed on Ilum, as word had travelled of Gowrie's kind treatments towards one he openly declared a future duelling opponent, granting plenty curiosity to the men who'd seen plenty of these Free-State soldiers die for glories not too dissimilar to their own. By the time Proost had met the warrior somewhere in the middle, everyone from both sides of hostilities knew this battle was drawing to it's definitive conclusion, so the courtesies would be exchanged without any sign from either party that one or the other begrudged it, exchanging a handshake and lighting cigarettes together before Proost began.
'You fought well today, and the fact your men still stand to fight against complete envelopment, in the face of certain death, speaks volumes on the mettle of the foes we've just fought tooth-and-nail against. This final stand of yours will be remembered for a long, long time after your passing, and by Woad and Mawlerite alike.... Though I am curious, if I were to give you a means of escape, viable means of evacuation off the planet's surface, how would you and yours respond to this offer?'
Laughing it off as a joke at first, it had taken the warrior a moment to see that his counterpart was deadpanning, with a searching gaze showing his question required a genuine answer from the marauder; the answer seemed obvious, but with the situation at the precipice of conclusion, the bloodied mauler saw no reason to refuse the requests or questions of his executioner. As he weighed his answer over a long, savouring draw of his cigarette, the muscular marauder would smile with the realization it wasn't a trick question after all, responding,
'To put it simply, I and mine would refuse... And all of us with smiles on our faces.', expressing his version of that same smile the others behind him would express in defiance. Though it was partly in defiance, the Archaisian could tell it was mostly the Mawlerite's way of saying his peace was already made with his own mortality, and long before Barran's lot first fired shots in their direction.
Minor differences separate Brand from this lot, but they are surely cut from the same faithful cloth.
'I can see you wouldn't have it any other way, so let me introduce myself properly. I am Sergeant Arman Proost, I'll be your executioner this evening.... And it was an honour to fight your warriors today, bruu. My suggestion is that you make use of this reprieve, and that you let your comrades stare at the stars one last time for the road, heh?'
Concurring with silent, though appreciative nodding in response, the Mawlerite hero extended his hand to be the one who initiated the handshake when they parted ways, a gesture the Archaisian (being happy that the marauder extended his hand first that time) gladly accepted before turning back to the Goliath tanks behind him. With enough distance between them not to be heard speaking on his comm-device, Arman had every opportunity to have them slaughtered easier, saving shells and time in the process, but the wily tactician left it at that, noting the tactic for later, more-deserving foes of such malice; no foe who fights doggedly to the last would ever deserve a cattle-like slaughter, not to a man who'd vouch for their ferocity thereafter, not to a man who'd earned his own restful reprieve in turn. As he looked back to see if the Mawlerites had taken him up on his offer, Proost would be happy to see they would seek some peace before letting the process of war, death and rebirth take them on their journey to the next life, stopping the Goliath commander in his tracks as he pondered on what it all meant to him in turn.
'All remaining units, this is Proost! Load High-Explosive shells, hold fire then take another break. I want their deaths to be as quick and painless as possible, but I also know these warriors earned this chance to stare at the stars for the last time. Disobedience will be rewarded with death by torture. And no exceptions! Cheers! Goliath Four-Two out!'
FORCES OF NATURE VI - LOST IN THE VIOLENCE
It felt utterly incredible to the Lord-Commander, to be fighting against a worthy opponent with every sense of reason tossed to the wind, and in complete disregard of the fading hostilities uphill, everything about this duel felt fated to dazzle everyone directly or indirectly involved in the affair. Win, lose or draw; both factions would be taking notes from their fight, and even more of the entire Ilum affair in general, and both opponents knew it. They were practically slicing at the air of history itself, and both Lord Erskine and the Mongrel were glad of their freedom to fully immerse themselves in it, even moreso of the fact that neither one or the other were inhibiting their ability to test themselves within that life-and-death struggle in the snowy tempest. With parrying daggers, the dynamic of the fight would change completely, though not for any better or worse for one or the other; circling, engaging, lateral escaping each other's attacks in bids to find an opening to capitalise on somewhere, this wouldn't be easy for anyone in their shoes, let alone the duellists themselves.
So this is what Heaven feels like, the Heaven I've sinned too heinously t'see when I die.
The Mongrel truly was acquitting himself formidably in this bout, even going as far as pushing past his own fatigue-wall to show a side of him that was entirely new to the Malwerites in attendance, a side of him that would keep on twisting and turning with the flow of the fight itself, especially in realizing the other benefits of low-guard fighting; as not only would the marauder-champion's strikes be better-concealed in the process, but his center-of-gravity would be greatly improved by the technical choice. To top it all off, the energy-saving intentions would be nullified by the fact the low-guard increased the power of all his offensive options in that stance, and with enough ease that the Mongrel could comfortably let fly without exerting himself as the fight progressed; something that was made all the more obvious in the way the marauder-champion concealed his next unorthodox play, yet another that would change the look of the fight entirely, artistry in action.
My God, if this isn't evidence that we're tapping into the very same state of fighting-flow, I don't know what is!
Half-swording, one of the most infectious of battlefield techniques in Galactic history, though often side-lined by the kyber-wielding arcanists and the techniques that would overshadow them eternally, at least until recent years. In a time when force-users were dropping like flies again, in a time when prevalence was granted only to steeled hearts, methods like the one being used against the Woad would finally get their chance to shine and prove the worth of the classics' implementation. However, Lord Erskine couldn't allow himself any time to be dazzled by the well-placed, well-concealed half-swording attempt, as he had to drop Myles' Fairbairn to grip the flat and edge of his claymore underhand, hoping to block the incoming pommel-and-hilt and stay alert in anticipation of the Mongrel's corresponding reaction. If the Stormchaser could be permitted a chance to make use of his overhand grip with the basket-hilted side of his long, slim makeshift shield, Barran was completely sure he could get enough wiggle-room to pivot in the right direction, though his window of opportunity would be just as slim as the approaching blade that had just become a pommel-hammer grip in concealed overhead motion.
We'll see soon enough if this lower-back surgery did the wonders after all.
Whichever way his body was to pivot, the particular response Barran had in mind would be a great test to the former weak-spot in his physique, the region of his lower-back that was always prone to injury before his new Field-Surgeon put such issues to rest, though that still remained to be seen by the time this particular duel transpired. However, when the initial blunt-force clash between half-swording weapons impacted, it would appear the right-turning pivot would be no issue in the slightest; the flat of Erskine's blade had caught the underside corner of the opposing-blade's wide-set hilt guard, and in the act of flicking the Mongrel's sword away to the marauder's right, the room to pivot and spin on his stationary axis would prove the surgery on his lower-back sinews had been a resounding success. Every part of his parrying counter was timed and executed perfectly, especially in his downward backhand swipe for the side of the marauder's neck, but a hard ducking-kneel with one knee and a sprinting escape would see the claymore biting into nothing but snow on the latter parts of it's rounding arc.
'Phe-NOMENAL!!!', the Brigadier-General started, pausing to pick up and sheathe the dagger he had to drop before. The Mongrel was rotating back to face the fight again just outside the reach of Lord Erskine's sword, setting into as strong a poise as the snowy ground beneath would permit, and Erskine would do the same as the shivers of ecstasy returned to raise ever hair of his arms on end, right down to the grey hairs which sparsely covered his knuckles. Looking back to the eyes of his best opponent yet, Barran would smirk with nodding reverence for one who'd gone from being hated to one who'd live, fight and die with Lord Erskine's everlasting respect, concluding,
'There's nae fighting arenas quite so fitting as those which rest under snowfall, I see that now.... This really is our natural habitat, Mongrel. Always has been, always will be!', as his knees bent his posture lower.
'AGAIN!!!'
Maestus
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Caedis Umbrammor
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Irratar Hemstagon
DECEASED Erskine Barran
