5TH POST
MARKWOOD MARSHES, SPIREWATCH FOREST,
CANTHAR PROVINCE, PANATHA (EARLY-SPRING 877 ABY)
'Fething HELLIONS AT IT AGAIN, AYE?!?!?!'
Reeks o' Merc, so it does.... But ye need to cool the feth down, Thomas.
Greater gambles at stake to consider here.
The first round of bombardments had been enough to threaten loss of self-control again, bearing face on the odds he was up against by then, but in the mind of the Bloodhound, the urge to prove his worth to Rebirth once more was stronger than it had ever been before Panatha. The deep, pulsating thuds on the ground beneath his boots were impacting both near and distant spots in the marshes in what seemed to be an overall-indiscriminate arc of fire, happy to be hitting a general area with the safe assurance that the only ones suffering would be Scar Hounds at the other end.
The battle of conventional nature was finally underway, but the fight of it's spiritual counterpart was still yet to show it's ugly face - though not for long.
'SHRIVEN!!!! SHOW YOURSELF!!!!'
An epithet the Bloodhound had not heard in a few years at least, for the Shriven One, and all that represented such repentance in his heart, had been transcended as the Mongrel intended from the very beginning. Not only had the Lost Brigade escaped from the Nether, but the very warriors who fought tooth and nail for the tribe's first Warlord in the first salvos against the Galaxy, and not only the originals, but the wildest and strongest zealots of all the Scar Hounds in the Maw's history. These weren't just Technobarbarian cyborgs, these were the ones who dreamt of exacting the will of the Avatars, dreamt of their Mongrel pulling them up to heights they never thought were possible before - and the very same marauders who dreamt the Omen of Durace's resurrection.
'HERE I AM, OUT IN THE OPEN!!!!'
These were the greats, these were the champions of Mar'Zambul, to each a marauder. But the new Warlord had a demand of his own in turn.
'SO TELL ME, BROTHER - WHERE IS THE MONGREL?!?!?! I DESIRE VERY MUCH TO SPEAK WITH MY MENTOR!!!!'
Within seconds, thousands of slow-moving warriors walked like spectres through the smoky fog of the marshes around him, all moving without laughter, growling or muttered wordings, though all but one; the viciously loud voice of one who no doubt would have been one of the legendary first marauders who struck out at Chiss space in the previous decade, warriors who were striking out at the Galaxy in life whilst Thomas struck out at the monsters of the dark in death, legends of whom the Bloodhound had heard much and more about in his formative, Shriven years after the fact. If anyone could turn the tide against the onslaught, Barran was sure this lot could step up and show the new breed how to terrify their enemies properly, a lesson of which Thomas knew the Scar Hounds needed to learn again, no matter how painful the process was expected to be.
Agony forged the tribe's warrior spirit in torture and reindoctrination, and had done so since the beginning, but the methods of radicalisation had evolved much more towards the spiritually-driven than their methods had ever included before, though at least the newfound zealotry in the Scar Hounds' hearts could (at the very least) accord with that of the old guard, even if both differing elements awakened that same frenzied wrath from vastly contrasting catalyst-fundamentals.
'AS RUMOUR WOULD HAVE IT - HIS SOUL WALKS A DIFFERENT DOMAIN!!!! WHAT YOU DESIRE WILL NOT BE SO!!!!'
Like a swarm, Thomas was met with a surrounding mass of warriors at several different stages of their cybernetic journeys, and to each a juggernaut in their own right, but the Bloodhound stood firm, proud and ready to sway a crowd that were still very much on the verge of killing one who either wasn't known to them or was viewed as an unworthy successor by those who had before they died. Some among them would see the Warlord's brief disappointment too, but in their silence, they listened to whatever the loud successor had to say for himself, ready to behead a perceived charlatan at a moment's notice. Ready as ever to spill blood, but there was something new in their eyes, and with dried blood still resting within the confines of eyelids and nostrils alike, the Scar Hounds of old would be shocked to find a wide smirk staring back at them.
They expected fear, remorse, expecting gratitude for not killing him already, but the Bloodhound's belief in Rebirth's power had grown fiercer in seeing that the same process had become his former comrades, resurrected by the self-same entity who dragged him from the tunnel between realms of existence.
'Greetings, brothers.... The man you see standing before you is one you know as the Shriven One, yes? Successor of our great Warlord, yes?'
Some nodded, others sniggered as if it were the most obvious of observations, but the rest remained as still as statues in their process of continuing to hang on Barran's every word, sensing change in the new Warlord already. The Bloodhound's energy, demeanour, and even the look in his eye was changing by then, standing proudly with naked Beskar still remaining unsheathed despite the danger he was in, it was clear to all the silent ones that much had changed in the tribe in their absence. And yet, even with the chuckles and snorts of derision ringing out on all side around him, the mass of silent ones was too large to consider the ambience anything other than serenely quiet, like the very sounds of the battle itself were folding away for the moments they were living once more; it was intoxicating, both for Barran and for his former brethren alike, showing already that there was nothing stopping the momentum of reconciliation beyond that point.
'I have since ascended that title, dear brothers.... As the tribe's new Warlord, I have since become THE BLOODHOUND - REBIRTH'S SECOND CHAMPION!!!!'
The low-chuckles, the cackles, the muttered condemnations; all of it, every last shred of negativity and disdain that Thomas could see, hear and feel in his soul, would then evaporate like the moisture in the mists that hid them all before. Silenced by the sheer strength of his voice and the words it carried across the jungle beyond. This was no mere lesser successor, no simple charlatan holding onto the legacy until a worthy hand ascended it, this one-eyed warrior was a leader of tribe in the truest sense of the word, and more powerful than anyone among them could have predicted in death. Making it all the more surreal was the fact all the latest arrivals to the Nether were speaking spiritual madnesses of things both fantastical and horrifying alike, with some madnesses in particular seemingly occurring as a direct result of the Tython event.
'The ones who live, agents of a legacy's continuation, the ones we can sense all around us - those heartbeats you hear in the distance.... THEY STILL REVERE THE MONGREL'S MEMORY!!!! THEY STILL FIGHT TO SEE WHAT HE SAW IN HIS DREAMS!!!! THE PROPHECY BEYOND THAT WHICH THEY ALL DREAMED TOGETHER!!!!'
There was no way their departed souls could make sense of the insanity of the living realms, in a weird twist of fate from beyond the grave, experiencing the curiosity and fearfulness of the unknown as the living normally had in place of the dead; roles were never made to be reversed in such a fashion, and on the divine path of the Great Cycle's perpetuation, common-sense and reason had been rendered useless to the departed ones since their new brethren's ramblings first started flaring up in the Nether. And with nought but speculation to make sense of the weirdness within and without the dead realms they roamed, all they had was the bombast and the truth of their Warlord's trusted successor.
'My dear brothers an' sisters, the Scar Hounds of today are still every part the same tribe you remember! Still the same Marauders who wish death on the Galaxy.... Only difference between you an' the new breed is this - we take such statements far more seriously in comparison! OATHBOUND BY BLOOD AND CEREMONY!!!! SWORN IN SIGHT OF THE DARK THREE - SWORN TO WREAK HAVOC ON ALL WHO STAND IN OUR WAY!!!!'
Masks were pulled away to gaze on the wonder with their own eyes, sneers and snarls had begun to look on in shock, and in a mystic stroke of irony, all were seemingly struck mute by the very words that swayed each and every last one of them. The very veneer of menace was becoming a monk-like reverence in unified respect for the new Warlord, and as Thomas continued to speak his mind, the Marauders of yesteryear began to understand exactly what it was that the Mongrel saw in the Omen of Durace from the offset, what their former leader risked death (and by way of feral Starweirds no less) to uncover in his proverbial and constant leaps into the unknown. This Bloodhound, the one the Shriven One had become in their absence, clearly embodied that pioneering spirit that magnetised Marauders to the cause like moths to the flame, but the intensity of the successor seemed something altogether more wild and untameable than he ever was before.
'In our Marauders, the dedication one sees seems different to before, this I cannot deny, but this new breed - they'll climb out a trench to fight again with half their face torn clean off! They're all more attuned to their purpose in martyrdom than they ever were with raider mindsets, differing in zealotry, and in ways none of you can articulate yet.... BUT IN YOUR OWN RESURRECTION, YOU AT LEAST UNDERSTAND THE REWARD OF YOUR FUFILMENT AS WARRIORS!!!!'
This was the defining, pivotal moment to sway the crowd.
That one moment that would either turn them into zealots or back into the same savages they were with their time in Nether, as Thomas himself once was.
'You are all remembered, and were before this day. Your sacrifice was never in vain, nor shall it be today, nor any day for that matter.... AN' NOW, YOU HAVE FREE REIGN TO MAKE US UNDERSTAND THAT REMEMBRANCE!!!!'
And as unlikely as it was to sway such savagery, to bind it to his will, Barran had somehow achieved it, and by the merit of his words alone, achieving with wit what others would have needed to fight for. This was no ordinary product of the afterlife's many imperfection, nor of the many weird exploits found and utilised therein; and for the first time in any of the mob's existences, they finally believed that the Avatar of Rebirth had brought back the Shriven One specifically, and with particular reasons in mind. On this merit alone, they had no other option but to organise, no choice but to fight as one or to ruin the chance of another great meat-grinder, and the latter was quickly beginning to seem like sacrilege by then.
'Go an' fight! If not for me, or for the Avatars, nor the Mongrel for that matter - then go an' fight for the sake of the good fight itself.... SHOW THEM THE TRUE MEANING OF HORROR!!!! SHOW THEM THE POWER OF MAR'ZAMBUL!!!!'
Dodhorn Harert
; Dar'manda; Sith
