4th Post
MARNEFORT, SOUTHERN FRONT,
CAMPUS DISTRICT OUTSKIRTS, YINCHORR ACADEMY (901 ABY)
<"Breathing-room earned, but I know we need to move forward. Can do, or...?">
<"No idea, sire. How brave are you feeling?">
<"Quite, perhaps even greatly.... So, is it possible or not?">
A short pause, a fleeting few seconds of silence stood between the Tattered Regent and the realm's first grand-scale engagement of the century, though the Lord Regent knew this was but a moment taken to scan the backdrop ahead. Only honesty could follow, and for this - Barran could not begrudge Maric a single second of it.
Not for as long as Lord Michael continued to reward intuitive cunning.
<"Honestly? Anything's possible with a Barran at the helm, that much we can guarantee.">
<"Alright then, we enact a reorg to advance again.">
<"Good man! Leave it with me, sire. Sabretooth One - out!">
Nodding appreciatively to himself, the lord Imperator was more than content with the willingness of his newly-established chain of command, even looking to niece and ward alike with the same fondness as he ordered,
'Tancred, Silya - right-gloves off, please. That goes for both o' you by the way.... Heavy urban-fighting ahead.', growing increasingly curious of the progress the youths had been making in his absence. Lockhart's Irregulars
(along with Lord Argilac) would be in dire need of Force-Wielding officers before long, this Barran knew with tangible readings from the holomap projections already, and for as long as there were Carlac-aligned forces in the area, more would be expected to join and pile on the pressure accordingly.
'You're putting in some work on this one - an' its time to see how your Click-Waves are progressing anyway. Youse seen this test comin' from a mile aff.'
~=Come, Tsilor. Let us earn you an active Marshal's baton.=~
~=Maric is assured, I just want the newbloods to know you.=~
~=As my father did.... Lets go.=~
With a quick, northward glance across the backdrop, and another to the skies above them, Barran lined up the first of his own long-distance shots, setting a point of reference for L'lerim and Thrast as they began to adopt similar postures beside their mentor. However, this point of reference would become two-fold for the conventional warfighters in attendance, giving the Sabretooth Marshals more than estimate enough to zero-in for their own barrages in turn, judging by all the landmarks the judging eye would factor into their scrawl for effective coordinates. An idea from which only Maric would remain slightly sceptical, though this would change almost immediately, misgivings of which only a downpour could change, a rain that could wash away the mists and the smoky, sooty haze around them.
'Alright, eyes north.'
But then, just as the Tattered Regent raised his right hand from from his side, just as his index and middle finger began to press across the thumb, those dark, clouded skies unleashed all that Lord Michael suspected would occur. A wonder for the warriors of convention, but a limitation factor for the Knights of the Chanting Mask, shortening the timespan of the technique's effectiveness, though the old Woad was still confident their short-spanning efforts would work well enough for Sabretooth artillery adjustment. Or at least, well enough that Barran's next intended objective would be levelled by the time they arrived, and in the grander scheme of the Lord Imperator's rescue-attempt, this short window of opportunity would suffice enough.
Click
WOOOOOOooooooosh.....
BOOOOM
'Get as close as ye can to that, Maric.'
~=See where that landed, Tsilor? Thats where you an' I are headed next.=~
~=The halfway point between here an' the Academy, with all oor guns in tow.=~
'Will do, sire.... As I know exactly where that landed.', the old Marshal replied quickly, grinning to near-malevolent extremes beneath the masking of his helmet as he saluted and marched off towards the 1st Battalion outpost. Only the wicked chuckle remained to reveal excitement as Maric descended to ground-level, and by then, there would be no High-Marshal around to get in the way of a strong, indulgantly-excessive salvo. Even though the Tattered Regent would hear the rogueish Mantellskan accent from a distance, bellowing
,'FIRST BATTALION, READY BATTERIES FOR DIRECT FIRE!!!! LOOK ALIVE, YOU LAZY KARKERS!!!!', there would be nothing stopping Branko's creeping-barrages with the wheels already in motion.
'Alright, you two.... Show me what you've learned.'
Click - Click
WOOOOOOOooooooosh
BOOOOM
BOOOOOM
'Not bad! Gimme more! As much as the weather permits!'
The raindrops would intensify, but despite the difficulties this had presented the fingertips of the Chanting Masks, a respectable number of Click Waves were sent out across the newly-established Grey Zone all the same, sent cascading across the embattled town as each rushing wave sent the rain bursting outward on contact. Shimmering, cylindrical slipstreams of explosive pressure flying across the air like rockets dragged them in their wake, all catalysed by tonal, audiological clicks of the finger, soundwaves of the likes no regular soldier could articulate before that fateful day. Small wonders for an otherwise-dark day for defiant Imperium, but in the eyes of the Tattered Regent, it was always the small wonders that tallied up to something greater.
Not that the weather
(nor the impending Sabretooth barrages for that matter) would permit the quaint prettiness for long, though there was much and more to endeavour yet, making the impermissable of all that could become complacencies of shortlived appreciation. After all, the time for standstills and hesitation had passed with the first blaster-trail of aggression, and in light of increasing clashes of Imperial factions, thoughts on the minds of all Imperials would consist almost-solely of escalation, wrath and every possible accelerationist thought their minds could conjure. Felt most-acutely within the ranks of those who were still, in the deepest depths of their souls, Felist to the grandest extremes of loyalism, those like the Sabretooth Troopers in particular.
Imperials of whom, and much like their Anaxsi, Arkanian and Goidelic brethren, bore the greatest of resentments to all
,"Imperials", who idly, apathetically stood by as true, defiant Imperium perished. Viewing the denizens of Carlac, Lianna, and of Jutrand as pretenders - seen by all in the Protectorate as impostors of realms they were all much too young or ill-informed to understand.
<"Coordinates locked, sire.">
<"Send it for two minutes.... First shot marks commencement.">
<"Copy that, sire.... Enjoy the fireworks. Sabretooth One - out!">
'Lets have it then-'
Parting the rain in much the same fashion as the preceding Click-Waves, the batteries' cascading, staggered succession of shots behind the advancing formation sent shells and plasma trails alike downrange, dragging enough force behind each projectile to visibly replicate all that the transluscent displayed in milder prelude. Resulting in a display much that was prettier than that which preceded it, enough that it caused the Lord Regent to make the same mistake twice, even drawling,
'Oh, my.... I really should be getting ready t'move, but this - this is incredible.', before his niece applied a customary punch to his pauldron, a familial shock to the system for the sake of the attack Lord Michael himself was on the verge of attempting.
'Alright, we'll get ready to move.... We push forward here an' now - an' make use of the chaos while we still can! LETS GO!!!!'
