9th post
The Summit of Mt. Geran, Eastern Arros Range,
Northern Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autum of 876 ABY)
'Heh!'
Sinking his detached bayonet into an overly-eager raider and leaving it in there, the Pureblood holstered his pistol as the eager one dropped to die there on the ground next to the duellist, answering
,'I don't get paid enough for giving names. You can call me,"Jas", and leave it at that.', seemingly in a bid to keep it from getting personal, as all skilled mercenaries would in the commander's situation. The one-eyed Woad quite liked this answer, as despite all that they were both fighting for, it would only be simple business for people like Jas and Thomas; another fight preparing them for the next one, a vicious Macro's cycle made Micro, one such that made their ilk stronger and more difficult to beat every time. Such a notion would crawl across the forefront of the Bloodhound's mind in these moments, and as Barran himself sheathed his dagger and holstered his pistol in turn, he thought on the potential that could be unlocked by his glaring, golden-eyed opponent.
Can't get any fairer than that, Bloodhound.
Just business, as all good fights ought to be.
There was more to this Jas fellow, and to the extent the Bloodhound could almost smell it, but if he were pressed as to what he was really sensing in his foe in that moment, Thomas would no doubt admit that he could feel the power of Katis' midichlorians emanating through almost every bone in his body, like pulsating heat across the surface of Barran's soul. And yet, the one-eyed Woad would still find himself feeling surprised when the eventual snap-hiss of the Sith-Pureblood's lightsabre highlighted the red of his skin in the most menacing way imaginable, though much to the former's surprise, this new development excited him in ways he never thought were possible in such a situation. For once, the Bloodhound felt a trickle of apprehension creeping in, but Thomas was all the happier for it, taking it as his body's way of reacting to a real threat, as his way of tapping into the adrenal aspects of his psyche.
A means of performing beyond the limits of his own imagination.
'You're gonna need that sword, soldier, I'm not getting paid to fight amateurs today.'
I like this one, I really like this one.
An actual power, an' he's unafraid to throw it around a bit.
Once again making a show of fighting Jas at whatever his own game was chosen every time, looking to match the Pureblood strength for strength every step of the way, Thomas would draw the menacingly-long Aethysian Romphaia in a one-handed, smooth motion; and when the hooked end finally drew free with a high-pitched, soft ring to the Woad's ears, Barran would be grateful for Katis' patience in allowing him to test the sword's true merit against the raw power of Kyber, in allowing a worthy opponent to meet him in the middle in every fighting aspect of the word. Then, with nothing telling of the Pureblood's intent to commence the fight but the creeping grimace across his lips, Jas opened up the duel careening in with a spiralling leap with the lightsabre leading the way, forcing Thomas to leap in with a wide-arcing downward interception that pinned the glowing blade's tip into the muddy ground beneath them
'Wild opener, Jas! Bu-'
But Katis had been banking on this attempt in particular, using the leverage and the momentum alike to flip over the Romphaia, almost barrel-rolling into the perfect posture for a dropkick to the Bloodhound's chest. Anyone else who would've knocked against the one-eyed Woad like that would've put the man on his backside, but the Pureblood could apply a little something extra, though ironically a little something that could generate much more of an impact than anyone else could in Jas' shoes.
The two-heeled blow to his flak-jacket covered abdomen and pectorals, and unlike the projected impetus of lesser foes, the mid-air stomp at the Bloodhound's chest would hit hard enough that it sent Thomas tumbling into a pile of bodies almost twenty paces behind him. The gruesome tower of death would be sent falling in all directions, with some falling on Barran before he could stand properly, unleashing all the sickly smells and sights on the mercenaries who had enough breathing-room to watch the fight unfold, and to such an extent that even the units supporting Jas from uphill would see it in some regard. But neither side could spare any time to register it properly, and especially not when both sides of the battle had much and more on their plates already, seen in the continued desperation of the fighting around them when Thomas eventually got to his feet.
'FINALLY!!!! AN ACTUAL FIGHT!!!!'
Stepping out onto no-man's-land again, Barran decided to let his high-grav training come into play, and not only in bringing incredible baseline strength-levels into the duel, but in letting speed and stamina take more of a priority in his chosen strategy also. The Bloodhound consciously considered this self-adjustment as his own heels dug into the bloody mud beneath his boots, leaning forward with bended knees before pushing off with an unnaturally quick start, and to the extent that it would have been considered a leap if his feet weren't seen in full sprint throughout the attempt to close the distance. But the Pureblood was ready for the Woad's oncoming attack, (extraordinarily quick though it was) and when their blades eventually clashed again, Thomas would push his weight behind his blade to lean in closer, letting Jas see his eye-wound through the goggles of his gasmask.
Stare well, Pureblood.
For the eye of an Avatar rests where mine was before.
'I'm glad. No, seriously! We can go all out here now, an' without anything holding us back either.... SO GIVE US YOUR WORST, JAS!!!! I'M HERE FOR EVERY LAST SECOND OF IT!!!!'
NEXUS OF THE BLOOD-HOUND: SHRIVEN NO MORE - PART SEVENTEEN
Mt. Firthwatch, West of the Akar Kesh,
Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
Your minds are a wonder to me, teaching me patience.
Not as foolish or as clueless as I first assumed.
What the tanks and mobile artillery had unleashed was nothing short of slaughter, and though there were many more yet awaiting a horrible end in the confusion, the Flesh Raider grounds beyond had incurred destruction of the likes the Tri-Lunars had never seen before. With little regard given to the feasting Branchlurkers below, the High-Explosive shells from the repurposed XT-62s would tear through the monsters and all who were trying their hardest to keep the beasts at bay, leaving shockwaves and gigantic billowing plumes of smoke in their wake and leaving nothing of the misfortunate souls trapped within the blast radius of each impact-detonation, with nothing stepping forth from the destruction but the blue-glowing ghosts of the past. But it wouldn't end there, as there were still pockets of resistance below, though none would be of any consequence to the Tri-Lunars under the Entity's protection, and certainly not with the shroud of obscurity protecting them from the madness unfolding on all sides when they eventually reached the valley floor.
'Us three? Ah, I'll be honest in admitting we're still plenty foolish, and especially so in our current forms. But I thank you for kind words regardless, as we didn't know if our plan would work or not in the end.... Though I'm still glad to say we did after all.'
Your honesty is a credit to your folk, but one should learn to take a complement.
'Noted.... So, where to?'
Turning towards a melee between multiple opposing sides, all fighting with blunt or sharp weaponry in the absence of ammunition or replacement-weapons, the Entity led the way as she strolled with head slightly cocked towards her right shoulder, caring and disdaining nothing for the onslaught of noise, profanity, anguish and gore alike. Rook in particular, scanning the distant riot with his detached sniper scope, would scour the scene from one periphery to the next, seeing several differing insignias in the process as the bloodshed continued. With Scar Hounds leaping into the fray with near-gleeful abandon throughout the process, Rook would take note of badges from armed elements of the Galactic Alliance, the Elysium Empire, the Silver Jedi Concord and lastly, elements from Fel's Imperial war-machine - setting the tone for the confusion as the only organised factors capitalised the Maw's advantage on the fearful mass in the distance.
'More of a slaughter than a fight for our lot.... But its all experience in the end. I'm happy with that.'
As you rightly should be, Quiet One.
The finality of Dreamer's statement was not lost on the Entity, and definitely not when she considered what she had been reading in the eyes of her acquaintances, and so, in consideration of their need to return to the dropships on Mt. Sintarin, the faceless deity would see it in her power to spirit the powerless trio away from the glories of their design. It was obvious that they had achieved all they had set out to achieve, and in seeing their satisfaction with ease, the Entity thought to add the nice touch that was a short-distance teleportation as the trio's reward, deciding there and then that they had spent enough time in her astral veil-between-realities. And though it seemed unlikely that they would ever meet again, the faceless one would still hope that such apocalyptic circumstances would bring them together, as Tython had on that occasion; for if it could happen once, fate could very well have lined up a second encounter on the horizon, though the Entity (despite her eternal soul) would never possess enough power to make it so with definitive certainty.
'Wait, why did you bring us back to the Rowanwood Grove? You did not need to do that for us, we stifled that urge for your sake.'
I know, but your futures may yet stray across my path someday.
Hope for that, and we will meet in the Eclipse once more.
This I promise you now.
Hal Vaiken
| Lily Stevens 
Gaaraddik
