2nd post
Command Tent, Southern Kalesh Plains,
Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
'Haw, Martin! Any personal targets the-day?'
Gathered at the windswept command tent by Lake Kalesh's rocky western shoreline, all the section-commanders and officers serving with the Imperials that day would gather to spend their time in quiet peace before the fight ahead, calmly readying their hearts for the impending fight as they all chatted and drank together, almost as if it were just a regular training exercise. The only things distinguishing such ease from the underlying pre-fight tension and jitters alike consisted of gazes darting back and forth, with wide-eyed intensity poorly hidden behind their otherwise confident demeanours, the occasional crushing silences, and the fact that not many among them had much of an appetite for sustenance in these moments either. However, Knight-Captain Wyll had been breaking his fast quite contently by the time Lord-Major McGechin tossed his question across the map-holographic table, displaying an altogether different philosophy as he replied
,'Anything that speaks, moves, fights and looks like a Shi'iDo.... For Gorman!', tucking into his meal almost immediately after.
You'll be lucky t'find one this time. But fair play aw the same, Br'er.
Chomping into what he expected to be his last meal, giving the sick-stomachs a show to fuel their rage, but also doing so as a statement - gesturing with absolute confidence that no warrior should die on an empty stomach.
'You fight for Lieutenant Gorman, I'll fight for Captain Massoud. Beatified Imperials, sainted warriors both.... Sound like a plan?'
Wyll chuckled under breath, though the comment was well-received by most in the room, though when both the human IMPAF-knights looked up to see what Rosk'Aiar's point of view would be, the simple sign-language left no confusion as to whom the Grave-Tusken was referring.
"All-Heart", was a simple hand-sign for the NIO's first Tusken Captain to express, and at the same time a simple sign for all the others to understand, easily given validation by a ragged cheer of approval from everyone as soon as they saw it. The story of the Embers' last stand, along with that of the other upstanding members of the 117th, had become something of a legend in their demise; though many of the tale-tellings were being confirmed as true already, and despite the information blackout on most of the events that transpired on Noris, legends (both true and unconfirmed alike) on the matter of Captain Remmel Karsh in particular had obviously lit a rather fierce, infuriating fire in the Grave-Tusken's gut since.
'Looks like we're all set, lads. Well, we definitely have the Saints on our shoulders anyways.', Sir Martin smiled to start, trailing off to make eye-contact with the Chiss-born commander of the 501st, stood near the entrance with helmet on the table next to her. However, before Wyll could put forth any questions to Dorce, the armoured form of Annor E-059 drew in to view and watched on as her colleague took another moment to reframe his question slightly, swallowing the last of the pastry he'd been chewing on as the scar-faced Lieutenant pondered on all that the two women had endured just to make it as far as Tython. Casting the plate to one side with a casual, inoffensive clunk, Sir Martin's eyes would then dart back and forth between them before inquiring,
'So, in hearing, and in Rosk'Aiar's case, seeing what we've been discussing, I politely ask - do you fight for any dead heroes in particular? And if so, will you fight tooth-and-nail for them today?', in a calm, conversationally-receptive tone for the sake of a grief that everyone understood by then.
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 3
The Lonely Isle, Lake Kaleth,
Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
'Doctor.'
The perfect shadow was she, but of late, the commitment to perfection had forged something altogether more impressive than the Elite-Trooper had been before, and it looked to Erskine that nothing would stand in Annor's way henceforth, and almost to near-obvious, glaringly-easy results the Lord-General could make reference to. Reports from her recent efforts on Dubrillion chilled the blood, but in the darkness of the operation itself shined a light of incredible soldiering prowess. None would be able to know at that point, but fate had great plans for Annor in particular, plans that elevated the Elite Program to heights that not even Lord Erskine could predict at the time; plans that would soon see the perfection of the super-soldier, and right down to the very conceptual form that guided the research and development of the Elite program's many intricacies, striking the deepest dread into the weak hearts of the Empire's enemies for years after that day if Annor could survive it.
Moves silent like the shadows. Bets aw the Elite-Troopers are deadly that way an'aw.
An' bets oor Annor's wilder than ay' last wan o' them.
Flipping open his datapad, Lord Erskine would feel confident enough in his own safety that he could rely on Julian as a protector for as long as the fight lasted, searching for Annor's tag whilst the good doctor was still in the process of wading his way through the trees and the bushes beyond. A small matter to deal with before he could properly calm himself for battle, one matter among many but with all the others cast aside, revealing a glaring necessity to focus; as great as his bodyguard was, even the Lord-General couldn't help but admit she was better suited in areas where greater damage could be inflicted on her part, grumbling at himself under-breath at how silly he felt he was being at the time. Understanding that the best only ever got that way through achieving feats beyond the means of one's own perception, a small Datapade DM-chain would be opened with no further complaints on the matter, wishing that his predictions came true on their own, but letting go on the premise that he had to help a little in keeping the dream on track.
[To: Annor E-059]
[From: Lance One]
[[this island must be boring the living daylights out of you. i know it would irritate me in your shoes.
better off going where the action is.
in any case, the good doctor should be sufficient for this encounter.
go give the maw a headache, but be sure to let lord carwood provide your proverbial springboard.
go show these freaks what untethered elites can achieve on their own.
good luck.]]
Yet another with more at stake than the mere illusion of victory in the Galaxy, another with a future of their own to fight for, yet such spines, such hands that wielded the rifles of the Empire with ease, would remain straight, steady and resolute beyond wary reasoning. If Erskine were to request it of her, the old Woad knew fine and well that mountains would be moved to achieve even the most difficult of successes, much like the good doctor in a way, especially in consideration of Dr. Qar's deeds on Ziost, Csilla and on many more embattled planets across the war-torn Galaxy.
A man who'd seen Lord Erskine through most of the highs and lows in the Empire's wars and peacetimes alike, a man who'd seen all the suffering, the scars and the agonies the old Woad had put himself through to achieve victory. Julian had seen enough to become a Goidelic historian in his own right, but despite it all, the Stormchaser's cyberneticist had stuck through every last part of it in absolute loyalty to a man who considered him a brother by then. Barran had long believed Qar to be one of the very few in the Empire truly deserving of a good sunset, with many of the same sentiments expressed towards Noel Strasza in turn, a woman Lord Erskine considered a hero in every sense of the word, a valorous cyborg of whom had saved the Woad's life on more occasions than he was ever comfortable admitting. The only thing that could realistically distract the old Woad from thoughts that tested his emotions more than enough before, as stupidly simple as it was to achieve at the time, would be a simple mix-up in communication from a friendly Imperial contingent the Lord-General had strategically coordinated before, ill-informed though it was.
<"Banshee-Actual to Lance-One: everythin' will be ready in one hour. All our men have been dropped from the ships. We'll be waitin' fo' your orders, sir. Banshee-Actual, over.">
<"Sadly I'm not the one you need to comm-link with, Banshee-Actual. The one you need goes by the callsign,"Lance Two", but if ya want any advice from me - I suggest you hold your high-ground. Safe ground is scant and depleting fast down here.... Unprecedented, truly. But it is what it is, lad. Lance One out!">
'Sorry 'bout that, Julian.', Erskine said as Julian finally drew into his aging focus, standing to bow his head respectfully for a friend he revered for showing at such an uncertain time, then pointing to his earpiece to make a silent, though showy explanation for the muttered ramblings. Then, with more showy silent expressions, Barran kindly invited Qar to enjoy the warmth of the campfire for as long as the tentative calm lasted. The one they waited for, as calm and collected as he was in comparison to a vast majority of Mawites, would surely be there soon, especially with the matter of their final fight considered. Leaning back in acceptance of this, Erskine reached into his coat pocket, thinking of nothing but home by the time he brought his famed, though-dented hipflask out to share; and by the time the screw-top lid had been freed of it's grooved restraints, the Cladhan's smell brought forth memories of the An-Cridheachan hills from his youth, bringing a sweet smirk to the Lord-General's lips as he drank a couple generous gulps - enjoying the moment for the comfort it provided.
'That's the stuff.... Here, drink some o' this.'
Small though the comfort was, Barran still kindly screwed the top back on and passed the flask to his old friend, lightly tossing it with enough loftiness to keep it well clear of the flames as it sailed towards the good doctor's catching reach. As soon as the hipflask was caught, the Stormchaser leaned back, looking up at the morning sky until he muttered,
'Glad, though it's been a while. I can only assume this to be - what, good news for once?', in the tone of friendly curiosity, laced with hope that Lord Erskine's only remaining friend in the Empire was faring better than he was.
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 4
Northern Dunes, Flesh Raider Frontier,
Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876-ABY)
'Well, well, well.... It would seem the Galidraani have no intention of letting up on their service-hours, as they've only gone and shown face again.'
Looking through the scope of his rifle, the commander of 3rd Battalion chuckled with delight, muttering,
'The ol' faithful, and it's the lads from Bramber again.', with an appreciative smirk given as the rifle's barrel lowered in accordance with weapon-safety regulations and personal soldiering standards considered. knew that Hassan would take heart from this, especially in understanding the soldiering friendship between Galidraani and Kandarans from a history that began between them in the Second Battle of Bastion, though the actions of the Bramber Battalion on Csaus had rung closer to Samir's heart than he was ever comfortable admitting; among other matters, namely the matter of the sainted Captain Massoud in particular.
'Our Qidiys wills it, brother. I can sense his hand in this.... He wants us fighting together again, he wants us to feel that power like we did on the walls of Citadel Caelitus.'
'You know what, Samir? I think you're onto something there.', Branko responded as he jumped off the side of their Battalion's ACV, wiping sandy dust off his gloves as he started pacing in the other direction for a slightly higher vantage-point. Within moments, Major Marić was atop a small, but steep rise, seeing exactly how far southwards the Free-State armoured column stretched, estimating roughly fifty Cataphract tanks among other vehicles providing the vicious flanking mobility, granting more relief in moments that seemed almost completely devoid of it. The southern segments of the temple valley were kicking up dust from an array of Imperial and other anti-Mawite elements, giving the native of the Mantellian-born human no reason to worry about what was transpiring in that direction, but when Branko turned to see how things were faring to the north, the newfound sense of relief evaporated like bottled water on hot desert sand.
'Ah, great.... Looks like that's going to be put to the test sooner than planned, Samir. We've got company, and they're bringing serious troop-numbers to the party!'
If they hadn't set a solid north-facing defensive line before, much would've been considered hopeless in the moment of discovery, so the giddy, excited understanding of the Sabretooth caste's capabilities against greater numbers was certainly an added comfort in these moments, though Branko still had no delusions or hubristic thoughts that things would get easier as the day progressed. The overlooking mountains to their northeast were already heavily embattled, and looking to be spreading outwards as the ensuing set-pieces battle progressed, so the Mantellskan Sabretooth-Major was left with no other option but to push forward in the attempt to divert their own problem backwards in a north-westerly direction to achieve the completion of their first orders. To link with the main sabretooth battle-line wouldn't be easy by any means, but with the help of the Free-State's tanks, perhaps enough heavy forward momentum could be found from the offset, but there was still something making the Major nervous.
Though he was at a loss for what it might have been at the time.
'They're troopers of the Final Dawn, Branko. We can take them, I know we can take them! We have declared a Fatwa, our people's holy struggle, on much worse than this! Cannibal troopers of the Crimson Hand make this lot appear like puppies, my friend.... This lot are lacking that sense of savagery, and as for the ones who aren't - they haven't even deployed yet.'
'So be it! We run with the Nazke-doctrine, but first-', Marić replied, trailing off in search for his comm-receiver as he stepped into the passenger-bay and slid the door shut behind him. Hassan then made sure to drop down through the turret-hatch to hear the rest, constantly keeping time with his mentor in the hopes he could sponge and internalise every last piece of advice, wisdom and experience he could, and though the early commission wasn't expected, Samir would remain within the means of his learning throughout the process. Seen especially in the way he remained silent when required, as not even a single
,"Uh-huh", or
,"Yup", would be uttered at any point of these instructional sprees, consistently silent like a mute until it was pertinent to ask for further explanation and the likes. And like usual, as soon as Hassan's boots clunked on the durasteel mesh-wiring floor beneath, silence was once again resumed for the sake of Branko as he concluded,
'We need to patch-through to Lord Bex, for I have an idea.', with a cursory nod to pay further attention as soon as he was done talking.
<"Marić to Bramber One! Glad to have you back on board.... But it's straight to business this time sadly, but with that being said - the opposition are infantry-heavy, roughly 2-Klicks out. Easy pickings if you can get beyond the incline of the hillocks in front of you. I think incendiaries might do the trick as an opener, if you catch my drift.">