Private Fate of the Realm

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

He Always believed he would return to Fort Imperator.

But in the belief it would be his casket instead of Fel's, Barran would return to a planet that felt somewhat empty without it's Iron Emperor. However, much to the old man's dismay, Lord Erskine would return with the greatest burden of all, weighed down with the most difficult of decisions to make.

Ascertaining the fate of the Empire, deciding which direction to lead it henceforth.

Ravelin, Bastion (Early-Winter of 876 ABY)

Making his choice in the dead of night as Rurik's Empire was still in the process of grieving, the de facto ruler of Fel's domains would have the souls of many planetary populations hanging on he success of the old Woad's leadership, and perhaps even the souls of all who rested beyond the Empire's reach. None could know, for none could predict what the former Lord-General would do next, none could know exactly what was boiling over in Lord Erskine's mind at the time, and none could even venture a guess as to what the Empire would look like under his leadership.

"We march to victory, or we march to defeat. But we go forward - only forward."
​

Words that once spurred Lord Erskine on in battle, but now, the words of Irveric Tavlar feel more like an order than it ever had like a rallying-cry before, yet this has since been recognised as a tell-tale sign of rulership's heavy-weighing burden coming into play. Of this, Erskine Barran will always know, much like his conditioned urge to spur himself forward, but to what forward will the Woad go? Toward where will the former Lord-General's feet tread?

The answer to this, obscure as it would seem now, has still piqued the interest of one individual in particular. One with a heavy-weighing burden of his own to bear.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

1st post

FATE OF THE REALM
-PRELUDE TO AN AGE OF STRIFE-

THE_WOAD

Former Lord-General of IMPAF

Tag: Lucien Dooku

AN OLD WOAD: HIGH-FIDELITY IN A DISLOYAL GALAXY - PART 1

Throne Room, Fort Imperator,
Ravelin, Bastion (Early-Winter of 876 ABY)

'Good evening, Emp-'

Shooting the guard an unimpressed look, Lord Erskine looked back to the double-doors the individual was guarding at the time, muttering,'Don't.... Please don't.', with posture slouched and chin dropping dejectedly. The other guard would put a warning hand on the talkative one's shoulder, seeing the look in Lord Erskine's eye and feeling some of the pain in noticing for himself, and in the maintained silence after that, the second guard then proceeded to open the doors and let Barran enter, assuming he old Woad would be wishing for time alone for many obvious reasons that none were willing to verbalise in the open. After the kindly compliance, Lord Erskine allowed them to stand aside and return to their station before nodding his appreciation, only then did the old Woad enter, letting the guards close the door behind him on his way in.

Stepping in with a stern marching rhythm, looking forth in the hopes he would find at least someone waiting within, but none could be detected, leaving Barran quite unsure of whether to feel relieved or vexed in the quiet, low-electric hum of the lighting. The former Lord-General continued to march past the former reaches of his authority, continued past the benches of Moffdom with shoulders kept back, continuing on with pride for what it took to make it so far, but those boots had to come to a halt somewhere.

'Rurik.... I cannot rule as an Emperor, old friend. I haven't the blood, the surname or the lasting authority to become such a man.... "Emperor Erskine", just sounds horrid to say, at least to my ears anyway.'

Halting just three paces away from the throne itself, the old Woad would try to make peace with his ultimate decision, as the concept of what he was on the verge of attempting, though still half-committed by then - still had every chance of being interpreted in a frighteningly large variety of ways.

'To be a Goidel now is to serve faithfully, and though the fate of my people is that of our own now, I understand that it would be wrong of me to shoot beyond the limits of my means.'

Nobody answered, for there was no Fel there to answer Barran's statements, no Tavlar to assure him of his merit in loyalty either.

Not even their spectral shades remained to watch, but the Steward of Imperium cared not for secular, lifeless scepticism in these moments, as in Lord Erskine's heart of hearts, he knew they were watching from somewhere, observing from the other side of the existential veil between realms of existence. And in his first undeniable act of high-fidelity, Barran also wanted his predecessors to know the conviction he would apply to his role regardless of the succession issue, and there was no better way than to do so in the same drilled presentation of arms that amazed the Emperor on Galidraan III. For a Woad to offer up his sword in such a way could have been assumed as a gesture of offering up his soul in the eyes of other Woads, and in this instance, there was every chance Lord Erskine was meaning exactly that in his own gesture.

*'Romhanaich! Cluinn mi a-nis!'
**"Predecessors! Hear me now!"
​

With a quiet, inoffensive rasping of metal on wood, the protective, perfect-fit scabbard gave little resistance as the old Woad started drawing the glorious basket-hilted broadsword in anticipation, timing with his internalised sense of rhythmic parade-square cadence.

Preseeeeent - arms!​

Then, with the singing scream of songsteel perfection, the broadsword gleamed in the moonlight of the ceiling windows as it flew from the scabbard to the cold air of the throne room, casting a little light on the throne his eyes dared not look upon in his moment of sincerity. Followed by the deep, heavy thump of cloth-covered bone on marble, Barran had put front foot forward and knelt as according to the specifics of Galidraani custom, with eyes shut in the trust of solemnities. Finishing the last step and physically offering the blade to the throne, Lord Erskine laid the flat across his sleeve-covered cybernetic arm, inhaling deep through his nostrils in preparation for the implications of what happened next - a harsh fate no matter what way he turned.

But regardless one the old Woad would embrace as he had before as a soldier.

'I, Erskine Barran, Lord-General of the Imperial Armed Forces, hereby announce my retirement from military service.... And in the absence of my old rank, title, and duties - I will assume the title of Lord-Regent henceforth.'

Kneeling a Lord-General, and rising a Lord-Regent, Erskine would pace forth until he reached the throne he was rejecting, removing the sword's scabbard and sheathing it there and then, so he could lay it's glory upon that of the seat of Emperors - balancing it across the arms before slowly backpedalling with a gracious bow.

One he would maintain for almost a minute before rising to attention once more.

'I have seen the Imperial Writ of Succession, and in light of this, I have a multitude of reasons to merit my final say on the matter.... An Emperor - I most-certainly am not, but the one you have named still could be.'