Faction HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (GALIDRAAN III)

[Morgana Sinclair]

RUBIES
CAPTAIN "SKYBREAKER" SINCLAIR
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
"THE WYVERNS"
Liam Docherty DECEASED Erskine Barran Ollis Barran Tyrell Lockhart Willan Tal Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk

The Lord General's approach was most welcome, the humble Captain turning herself after wiping the rather humorous grin off her face at Lindworm's prick comment. Perhaps out of all of them, he was the least socially apt, though the baroness often found herself endeared by the habitual fumbling that required her to swoop in to rescue him before his clumsiness drowned him. Morgana offered Barran a salute, one which was returned, and swiftly her hand outstretched to grasp after his forearm firmly, her ear offered after to catch the words he murmured for her alone.

The pride she felt rose, reflecting in the brilliant light crossing her features, and she nodded in acknowledgment to his statement. A generous laugh passed musically from her lips then, the woman finding their rival clans' malice awfully entertaining for as serious as it actually was. Whether it was her gallows humor or her general disbelief such a thing would come to pass that stoked the mirthful melody, was open to interpretation.

"Hevny they learnt their lessons by noo? Th'bastards," she snickered, "A'll be wastin' away in th'gairden long afore they git their wee mitts 'round my neck. Ur me clansmens' fur that matter." Liam's retort spurred the woman to reach and grasp after the pilot's shoulder, giving him a gentle shake, "Lord Barran, this here's me sharpest shooter, Liam. We call him Lindworm, am sure ye're ken how."

It was then a flash of silver and grey from the corner of her eye earned her focus, though her hand lingered on Liam's shoulder, she turned her head sharply to gaze upon the Iron Imperator and the... youngster in his company. The youngster with a wicked pair of lungs, she considered as he bellowed out his declaration. Kneel?

It was enough to raise her manicured brows, an expression of unenthusiasm at the sudden demand made of her and those gathered. The Iron Imperator's visit was a surprise, to begin with, and waltzing into the gathering and immediately demanding they all kneel seemed about as uncouth as it got. The hush that fell over the gathering was echoed in turn by the brunette who merely tilted her head at the demand, considering briefly where her loyalty actually lay. Sure, the Iron Imperator was their new leader, an emperor of sorts, but she had not shrugged off the demand of one tyrant to willfully accept another so easily.

She refused to kneel, as she expected her clansmen and kin to, rather instead, the captain boldly tucked her lagging leg behind the other and stooped into a deep bow. It was the best they were going to get from her unless the Lord General instructed otherwise.

​

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

4th post
THE-CHIEFTAIN
OBJECTIVE 1: HOSTING FOR HEROES
TAGS: Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk Willan Tal Enedina Tal
Ollis Barran Morgana Sinclair Liam Docherty Tyrell Lockhart

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 6)

CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

"Ungodly though the scent may be, it is not your fate - not yet. Fight your route out from the stench, the fresh air is what warriors fight for when there is none." - Thrast's Sword - Chapter Twelve

Filing out in old armoured vehicles and MBTs, with infantry streaming out behind them in wide, open fighting formations, the fighting forces of Invermelin and Farrington would attempt to mount an uphill assault, but with little or no luck on their side, as they had hundreds of metres of flat ground to cover before they could even reach the bases of the mountains that assailed them. And with the rockets, shells and slugs raining hellfire and death upon their approach, Clans Begg and Farring stood no chance whatsoever, though their suicidal charge for glory was still endeavoured with all the heart and vigour of their kind, with each and every sallying Woad charging to certain death with the hope of Paradise on their lips. Any who survived the initial onslaught were soon surrounded and slaughtered by the Scout-AFVs and the Somerled Clansmen under Captain Brand's frontline leadership, reciting prayers throughout as the local Barran-loyalists cut down every enemy Woad in sight, a harsh but necessary end to the local unrest, and Lord Erskine would accept no merciful outcomes in the slightest.

From there, the reclamation would continue, with the sounds of screams, crumbling walls and thatched roofs roaring ablaze setting the tone for the south-westward charge for glory, completely unaware of the mayhem that was ensuing in other parts of the province as they pushed on to link with the Barran-Loyalists in the south. The Sinclairs were laying siege to Drossan Castle, and the veterans of the Brigade wanted a piece of the action.

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 7)

BARRAN HALL, CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'Lord Barran, this here's me sharpest shooter, Liam. We call him Lindworm, am sure ye're ken how.'

Noted, Sinclair. Ye better keep this one handy in the wars to come.

Erskine liked that kind of attitude in a Woad, and Morgana's subordinate was no exception to this, an attitude that had every makings of carrying the Goidels whenever the dust finally settled on the Galaxy, though the Stormchaser knew he'd be dead for a long time before such an event came to pass. Barran had seen for himself that the perpetual war only changed faces and names every now and again, and that the Imperium had been fighting the same darkness underneath it all, a darkness he was slowly beginning to see waning, much like the glories of the (soon-to-be) Warlord-Yesteryears. Turning to look Docherty in the eye, as was due to a Woad with a fighting heart, Lord-General Barran and his new acquaintance shared a menacing smirk before he responded,'Aye, that would be quite fun t'see, not gawnty lie.... But its eye-for-an-eye this time, Liam. If they want the Royalist executions for us lot, then we want it for their lots. Anyways, lets go get oorsels some swally.', with a kindly handshake and a friendly nod before turning to the small gathering of Blue-Heart non-coms and officers in the Great-Hall.

Missing two main faces from the crowd, the absence of Captains Proost and Brand was noticed almost immediately, though this was on account of the fact that the Stormchaser had his best officers wreaking havoc on the neighbouring valley in the west. All were making merriment quite happily without the latest additions to the crowd, and all were finally settling in somewhere without the immediate worry of being bombed or fired on, but still, another yet was still missing; the Madman himself, the legendary Tyrell Lockhart was expected to be in attendance, as there was much and more in the way of ceremony that awaited him. However, the recognisably coarse Dunwall accent rang out from behind them, putting the Lord-General's concerns to rest as Lockhart exclaimed,'Lord General, always a pleasure. I hear that the Imperator 'imself will be arrivin' shortly.', with the anticipatory excitement that would be expected of one who was about to meet such a figure in the flesh.

'Likewise, Lockhart! An' ye know you've got the right t'call me Erskine aw ye like, man. We've scrapped against enough Mawsworn an' Sithies t'know you've done right by me anyways. Oh, an' as for the matter of the Imperator's arrival, aye! Yer right, Preston confirmed it on the comm-link. Flappin' like a bunch o' dandies-'

'-ALL KNEEL BEFORE YOUR ONE AND SOLE LORD THE IMPERATOR RURIK FEL!'​

Young Harrsk's voice rang echoing off the walls of the Great-Hall, setting a tone very different to that which the Woads were expecting, though none quite so much as Lord Erskine, grinding his back teeth so hard that Sinclair, Docherty and Lockhart alike could hear it with ease. Fortunately for the Lord-General however, everyone was still utterly gobsmacked at the brazen, galling actions of the Iron Sun Youth Group's co-founder; and thus had not acted rashly, giving the Stormchaser all the grounds he needed to keep everyone within the dignified confines of their guiding military-protocols. Taking the opportunity to display absolute fidelity to the Imperium, taking his chance whilst it still hung in the air of uncertainty, Lord Erskine inwardly thanked Dia that all the Woad-born servicemen there had neither knelt unorganised nor had they forgotten their swords, praising the heavens as he marched to the center of the room.

'BLUE-HEARTS, FALL IN!!!! THREE RANKS DEEP!!! YOU KNOW THE DRILL!!!!', the Lord-General began glaring slighted fury deep into the retinae of the Imperator's new acquaintance, but Barran would soften his gaze and relax his jaw when eyes turned to those of Fel's; eyes he'd grown to respect greatly, even with all the internal, crushing struggles that his friends would need to endure before the end. Bowing his head respectfully before continuing, Erskine would then straighten his posture properly to roar,'2ND ARMOURED!!! 2ND ARMOURED - SHUN!!!! BY THE RIGHT, PREESEEEEEEENT - ARMS!!!!', so he could enact the Woads' way of paying homage to the Imperator, shunning the young stranger's demands and allowing the Lord-General of IMPAF to exert jurisdictional powers on what was soon to become IMPAF territory.

This is the only way you'll catch a Woad kneelin', Harrsk. Parade-ground protocol - the only way.

Following the parade-ground orders, all the Blue-Hearts in the room would lunge their right feet forward in a one-kneed kneeling motion, drawing their swords as soon as their left knees touched the ground; from there, their left arms would rise to shoulder level as the blades were placed them to offer up unto their Imperator, and in this moment, Lord Erskine's exile-years despair began to set in once more. Only this time, it was worse, far worse than the quarter of a century he spent as a mercenary-captain of other exiles; whatever path he was headed on from here, Barran knew deep down in his soul that only darkness, death and despair awaited him, a fate he couldn't avoid even if he tried. But would Lord Erskine wilt and cower like a craven Calavaran? Would he march into the abyss with head bowed? The Stormchaser decided in that moment, in that darkest moment of moments, that he would resolve to meet his fate with back straight, with the same aggravating smirk on his face, like a Laird of eras long bygone.

If the Imperium would have brother fight brother, then Galidraan will hold it's end of the Bargain.

'CORUSCANT MANTRAAAAAA!!!!!'

'MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!!! MAW - DELENDA - EST!!!!'​

'POSTURE STRAIGHT - SHEATHE!!!!.... BOW!!!!.... POSTURE STRAIGHT!!!!.... 2ND ARMOURED - FAAAAAALL OUT!!!!'

On Galidraan III, our culture is one of bowing tradition....

As the column of heroes began filing out, the concierge would direct them at the door towards the whiskey bar in the east wing, with all marching out knowing fine and well that their tribal chieftain wanted time alone with the Imperator and the young rising-star. They didn't need to bear witness to Barran's next chunk of lost humanity, they didn't need to see what sort of man the Stormchaser was becoming to keep his tribe (and the Goidels as a whole) safe from the Imperium's internal strife, short-lived though it was certainly fated to be. Whether Morgana, Liam or Tyrell would survive the onslaught, against the hopeless odds that awaited them, the whole ordeal's outcome for all of his comrades, friends and extended family would be in Dia's hands henceforth. And it was slashing and flaying chunks out of the already tortured soul of the Lord-General, but despite the existential despair he was experiencing, Erskine wouldn't let it show in the face of Order's physical embodiment; as despite all that Tal had to say about Fel, Barran would not let that get in the way of his service to the only faction that ever made sense to him. Barran would serve, and serve better than any Galidraani who rose to military-prominence before him.

'Greetings, Imperator - greetings, Mr. Harrsk. Welcome to Galidraan III.... Home, or whatever's going to be left of it by the end of the day. But I dare say we've had enough o' that talk for now, perhaps we could discuss matters in the comfort of what remains of my old study?'

 

[Konrad Harrsk]

D E M O N ' S _ H E A D
MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, 501st LEGION
GALIDRAAN III

A lag. Was it momentary hesitation, was it surprise or was it... secret defiance? It hardly mattered to Konrad as his hand gripped the hilt on his back and began to draw his blade with eyes fixated on a dirty woman blissfully tending to her nails. Sharp enough to dig her own grave, he thought.

The blade never made it an inch past its sheathe when an iron-clad gauntlet moved before his chest, and not a moment later Erskine Barran's voice boomed twice mightier than his own throughout the stone hall. In perfect unison, the Galidraanis followed the Lord-General's order to kneel. Truly, a sight worth seeing and one that clearly represented the elite military traditions of the Galidraani.

He straightened his back and his hand lifted off his hilt. The thundering steps, the sharp whistling of blades and knees striking the ground hard enough that even the hardest masonry in the castle shook. It was all so foreign to Konrad. The loudness. So distant to the quietness, to the grave silence, he had been used to growing up in the Hidden Kasbah on Kandara. He was a Shadow, after all.

"I now recall the matters we ought to discuss." Konrad sourly whispered to the Emperor. Only a blind fool could've not witnessed the flinch, the lag, in a number of those within the hall when beckoned to pay respect to the Empire's sole ruler. "Later, perhaps." he added to Rurik, as Barran offered the hospitality of his old study.

Rurik Fel DECEASED Erskine Barran Liam Docherty Ollis Barran Tyrell Lockhart Morgana Sinclair Fiolette Fortan

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
SOVEREIGN IMPERATOR
GALIDRAAN III
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Konrad Harrsk | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Liam Docherty | Ollis Barran | Willan Tal | Tyrell Lockhart | Fiolette Fortan | Enedina Tal | Morgana Sinclair ​

THE HILLS
​

Each and every time Rurik encounter Barran, he was only more reassured of his choice in Lord General. The man lived and breathed military decorum in a way which eclipsed even Tavlar. Tavlar was never so concerned with drill and ceremony, this likely came from the days it was so meticulously pressed into his mind being the days he bent the knee to Sith. Even with the Imperator himself standing aside, Barran controlled the room. His own home hold it might be indeed but regardless, when he spoke, everyone listened.

He offered a low nod in response to the awe worthy gesture of discipline and drill before gesturing a hand to wave Barran's Blue Hearts and the rest of those whose knee hit the floor in response to Harrsk's bellowing entrance at Rurik's flank a gesture of ease and abeyance to parade decorum.

He waved his hand in front of Konrad as soon as he went to draw his blade. A lesson awaited the young man with what wisdom Fel could spare- but first, he need accept the greeting of the Barran patriarch in his hold.

"The hospitality is most appreciated, Lord General. Your host is at as a peak a form as I ever could've expected Galidraan III is being brought to order in a matter not too dissimilar to Galidraan Prime proper, orchestrated by Joint Chief Tal- with a respect to the very world that it deserves. Though I've not been here long I can already understand the charm of Galidraan IIIEven in all its bloody chaos, there's something of this world more peaceful than many of the Empire's most bustling hubs." Rurik said in response, his voice continuously carrying that strained, ethereal darkness to each word as an otherworldy hand was making his speech as imposing as it was painful to utter.

"Lead the way, Lord General." He said in response to the man before he turned to Harrsk as he seemed to mouth an interest in speaking in depth with the Imperator, as Rurik certainly expected. Without looking in the direction of Barran, his gaze focused on Harrsk, he spoke up once more.

"The Young Harrsk will be joining us as well, Lord General. He has much to learn, an ear to our talks would do him well." He said, an endearing appraisal of Konrad as much as it was also a demeaning statement, as if a faint reprimand to the gesture moments earlier at the entrance of the Hall. As he went to follow Erskine, he spoke in a hushed tone to Konrad.

"As soon as you need to remind anyone of the power you believe yourself to be entitled to...you no longer have any right to it. I don't need anyone in this room to kneel to know that I govern the will of the Empire and its people. When I speak, they listen. When I act, they follow. Just as they did the Lord General. Nothing is yours by right, it is all earned and it is your duty to hold yourself accountable to greater standards than anyone else. That will make you a leader, not demanding they respect you, earning it." Rurik commented to Harrsk in a tone quiet enough to be conversational strictly between the two of them before looking forward toward the Lord General.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

5th post
THE-CHIEFTAIN
OBJECTIVE 1: HOSTING FOR HEROES
TAGS: Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk Ollis Barran Morgana Sinclair
Liam Docherty Tyrell Lockhart

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 8)

CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

"Do your hands shake after your first battle, and worse than they did just moments before you started fighting with sword and shield in your grip?

Stop worrying, boy. Adrenaline, fatigue, relief - once they wear off, the shaking will stop, again, just like they did when the sword started swinging." - Thrast's Sword, Chapter 6

The destruction of the clans in the west wasn't quite finished yet, and though the north-western rebel lands had been laid to waste with ease, their fight wasn't over yet, and the border gore was still to be cleaned up once and for all. Recalling the map projections from the briefing on the way from their staging-post on Galidraan I, Phillip distinctly remembered the disdainful look on Erskine's face as his eyes scanned the top-down of his home-province, understanding this expression's intensity to be something new to the eyes of the Lord-General's former subordinates, a look that Commoner-Captain Brand wanted to rectify in the only way he knew how. As a warfighter, commander and leader in his own right, the affectionately-dubbed,"Chaplain", would bring his former Lord-Commander satisfactory results like never before, and with frighteningly-quick efficiency in comparison to earlier battles.

<"Proost to Blue-Heart Delta! DIs are on the ground, Lockhart's replacement's pushing east by the sounds of it. You know what that means, right?">​

'Brand to Blue-Heart Bravo! Absolutely! We can join the Sinclairs' sieges! This day jus' keeps getting better!'

<"That's right, bruu! Let us accept the clans' offer, and let us take the Western Heartlands once and for all! Blue-Heart Bravo out!">​

'You 'eard 'im, lads! Fire off the blue flare an' play your part in the next phase!', the Chaplain roared out to the vehicles behind him, spreading arms out wide as his skin soaked in the early-afternoon sun. After all that Phillip had been through, after all the crucibles he'd gleefully thrown himself into, the holy man that stood revelling in the breeze atop his armoured-vehicle was no doubt the final, finished article of the man he was always destined to become. Inhaling the fresh air from atop AFV-One, as it rolled along on the smouldering remains of the fields that burned from the hostilities that concluded there just minutes before, it was clear to Brand then why and how such a place could breed such a warlike human race to begin with. Steep, inclining hills that kept them fit at all times, strong traditions that were so deep-set that it spurred such hardy people to fight like wolves to keep them safe and sacred; and lastly, beautiful backdrops that affirmed their need to protect it with every drop of blood they had to give, all elements in what made the Goidels such a vital addition to the Free-State's war efforts.

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 9)

BARRAN HALL, CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'Mr. Harrsk, Imperator.... Please make yourselves at home, this study is quite old but an ideal place to smoke cigars in peace all the same.'

His heart wouldn't stop sinking, even as he took off his sword-belt and put the claymore on his desk, but Erskine's heart was much stronger than the despair that assailed it, though it certainly hadn't felt that way at the time. Even so much as thinking that he'd likely be the one they'd send to fight the Free-State was turning his stomach, and with a perfect understanding of what it meant for the soldiers, officers and nobles who'd served in the revolution with them, the creeping reality of the eventual clash between Barran and Tal was beginning to set deep into the Woad-born's despairing heart. The sacrifices wouldn't end there either, as the last loose end for the Free-State would die in the event of Lord Willan's death, also coinciding with Free-State protocol in the event of absolute defeat or arrest for war-crimes. Committing to Lord Willan's cause in 863 ABY, understanding what was required of them when they returned home eventually, Lord Erskine had long since made his peace with the fact it sealed his fate in some regard or other, but to see it unfold in such a fashion was truly testing the Stormchaser's resolve.

Well, at least I got to see the Heartlands again. It just wasn't meant t'be, ol' boy.

'Saying as you're both new to the Woadish whiskey experience, it only seems pertinent that it be me who poured your first proper drams.', Lord Erskine continued, reaching into the top drawer on his side of the desk and pulling out a very dusty bottle of Cladhan 804-cask, the same one that Barran promised himself he'd come back for someday. And yet, despite the brave face he was putting on, the Lord-General couldn't help but feel genuine happiness in seeing such an untouched rarity, left untouched by the half-hearted ransackings that had transpired in his exiled absence, practically begging to be opened in the presence of such prestigious, esteemed company. Lifting it from it's oakwood box, (the same wood Cladhan used for their company-casks) Erskine would pull three clean glasses from the freshly-washed set on the serving tray by the door, pouring the golden nectar into all three and handing the other two glasses to the guests personally before turning to lift his own for a toast.

'To Fel's Imperium, long may he reign.'

 

[Enedina Tal]

Enedina Tal|New Imperial Order|Galidraan
Tags: Willan Tal

Commander.

That's all he had to say to her, even after all they had been through as a family. Commander was what he called her; she'd of been lying if she didn't admit to stung badly. All Enedina wanted was some sense of normalcy after all that had happened, but it seemed that the war had not only killed the Old Galidraan but the man she knew as her father with it.

"I guess it is."

Enedina sighed, inviting herself to take a seat opposite of her superior, the lord protector of Galidraan and her father. Per instruction, she'd kept tabs on Barran and the new arrival of the bandit Tavlar youth groups that were ignoring the rule of law and inserting themselves on Galidraan.

"With Barran being promoted and removed from the Galidraani general staff, we have reason to believe Fel and his terrorist group, the Tavlar Youth, seek to undermine the Corrective movements strong grip on the homeworld and use it to enforce centralisation and obedience to Bastion."​

 

[Morgana Sinclair]

RUBIES
CAPTAIN "SKYBREAKER" SINCLAIR
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
"THE WYVERNS"
Liam Docherty DECEASED Erskine Barran Ollis Barran Tyrell Lockhart Willan Tal Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk

The called for the rehearsed motion to finally see use saw the woman stiffen and move by the Lord General's command, her own posturing dragging the rest of The Wyverns with her to fall in line. She executed the commands with perfected poise, only rising when given the command to do so. It made her sick, truthfully, to kneel before a man she did not know. Yet, her loyalty lay within the Lord General and his judgment, and if his loyalty was to The Sovereign Imperator, so too was hers by extension. However, the brat accompanying the iron-clad Knight was the victim of a sharp, suspicious glare shot from the corners of her eyes into his back as the trio took their leave to tend to state business elsewhere.

Morgana watched them go, her eyes narrowing into suspect slits, though as soon as they were gone from her sight, her demeanor was brought back to its proper state. The captain huffed curtly, her cheeks puffing, and lifted both gloved hands to tousle the curls that seemed to mirror her mood outwardly. "A'll trust it when a hev reason te." she spoke softly toward the man standing at her side, ever faithful. Hazel eyes fixed upon his, and as much seemed to finalize the return to her typical cheer, "Am parched also." she tittered, pushing off her lagging heel to sway through the crowd, cutting a path toward the bar tucked just opposite of the gathering room.

It was going to take more than a little whiskey to keep her tongue in check, and perhaps even more than that to keep heads from rolling this night.

The pilot greeted the keep busy behind the bar, exchanging courteous introductions and conversation as the man saw to aligning two glasses upon the bar top and generously pouring the amber vice into the crystalline depths with more than a heavy hand. A stool saw itself swiftly dragged out by a skillful flick of her heeled boot and she sat down, brushing the sprawl of her curls over a shoulder. "Lindy, whit do ye think o' it all, eh? Willyn ye tell me?" Lady Sinclair kept her voice low, all but murmuring to him. "Ye ken a cherish yer thoughts."

​

 

[Konrad Harrsk]

D E M O N ' S _ H E A D
MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, 501st LEGION
GALIDRAAN III

"Yes, Lord Fel." Konrad barely uttered, it was the most he could offer in response beyond silence or 'don't patronize me'. It was not that Rurik was not a man worthy to learn from - after all, no random man simply becomes the Emperor, but rather the assassin's caution of drawing a line too deep in the lenient territory. That had been, in part, Tavlar's downfall. While Barran's loyalty seemed genuine, he couldn't help but recall that wench's smug face in the hall's crowd a moment earlier.

What if she wasn't a single case?

What if it was a symptom? An epidemic?

"Thank you, Lord General, but I do not partake. Be it cigars or alcohol." he rejected politely, setting the golden drink to the side, "Long may he reign." he cheered with a nod instead.

Rurik Fel DECEASED Erskine Barran Liam Docherty Ollis Barran Tyrell Lockhart Morgana Sinclair Fiolette Fortan

 

[Willan Tal]

LORD PROTECTOR
GALIDRAANI FREE STATE
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER

Enedina Tal
​

"Oh, I know, the masked demon seeks to renege on our fruitful prior interactions and sic his armed youth on my people, but I have my ways of fighting back."


Those black-shirted hooligans made a fearsome sight, marching down Calavars streets, hurling abuse and implementing their own version of the Imperators rule of law. But they weren't fighters, and Tal had his own underhanded response; his own paramilitaries and militants roamed the streets too without a cause after the liberation of their homeworld. If given a new target and new cause to fight for, he could send them after the Tavlar youth if they grew too big for their presence on Galidraan. Though he'd have to unite the various militant groups, bring them under the direction of the state and unleash them on his enemies. With plausible deniability and a means to indirectly stave off the presence of the Tavlar Youths lawlessness behaviour on Galidraan, Tal's rule would be protected for now until such means would not have the same effect they once did.


"I will send word to the patriotic groups on the street, give them the means to arm themselves, the Parlemian trade route will be a black cauldron... it will be a real bloodbath if that boy Harrsk and his gang of louts take steps further."

​

​

 

[Liam Docherty]

L I N D W O R M
THE WYVERNS
GALIDRAAN
STARRING | Morgana Sinclair | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Willan Tal | Rurik Fel | Konrad Harrsk | Enedina Tal | Ollis Barran | Tyrell Lockhart ​

Galidraan kneeled to the Sith, and now they had to kneel before another?

The former Imperator did not carry himself in that fashion when he was drawing breath. Tavlar was modest before his subjects commanding respect and loyalty, yet never ordered those to kneel before him. It was just bad taste for Liam as he was never accustomed to comply to something as such. It was rather humiliating, and humiliation bred defiance within him. Did they bow out of fear or out of loyalty? Had it not been General Barran’s willingness to bow, Liam doubted everyone would’ve on their own accord

It certainly frustrated Morgana as the woman returned to her warm, cheerful attitude. The pair moved to the bar, pushing through the crowd until they could place their hands on the countertop.

“I hated it,” he answered to his captain as the Baroness brought the topic of the whole lot kneeling to the man of iron. “We’ve already bowed to Sith against our will, now to another? And that kid is such the boot licker, trying to appease to rise up the ladder. Much like spineless bureaucrats.”

A sigh escaped from him, his hands wrapped around the glass of liquor that was poured. “Hell, I don’t think you’ve ever demanded us to kneel before you or something pompous, even though you could.”

“But you’re not too posh to tell us so,” a small jest with a chuckle. “Shall we?” and raised his glass towards Lady Sinclair.

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
SOVEREIGN IMPERATOR
GALIDRAAN III
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Konrad Harrsk | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Liam Docherty | Ollis Barran | Willan Tal | Tyrell Lockhart | Fiolette Fortan | Enedina Tal | Morgana Sinclair ​

​

He followed along with the two to Erskine's study, carrying himself with the heavy cadence and foot falls fit for the Man of Iron himself, even if he roamed free of the burdensome plate that normally donned his tortured form. He sat opposite of Erskine, breathing a concealed breath of ease as he lowered himself into the chair.

"Normally water would do me just fine but- I'll not be one to deviate from tradition." A not for future visits, but a sip or two would hardly tarnish his senses or judgement. He'd not indulged in liquor since he'd been confined to this Iron Skin, since his body underwent the tortuous gaze into the vantablack twilight which left the once mere Rurik Wymar at the brink of death. At the offer of a toast, it seemed a bit indulgent for him to raise his glass in his own name- but he did so regardless.

"I will only reign as long as I can serve the interests of our Empire, thank you once more, Lord General." He said, eventually letting the burn of the liquor pass his lips. Now secluded to a private space of discussion, he unclasped the iron visage from his tortured face before setting it down unto the surface of the desk before him, revealing his true face in an occasion that, as far as he might recall, was the first either of them had seen his true face. As much as the mask of metal felt more ingrained in his ego, his sense of self at this point.

"I trust your appointment to the rank hasn't been too difficult of an adjustment to you, Barran. I am most patient with the growing pains that alteration in responsibilities might bring so need not hold anxiety over it, the position of Lord General will be no different. You have proven yourself as a leader of men and strategic commander that only one prior could ever be mentioned in the same league. Irveric Tavlar. He was certainly one of the few men who could've engineered and executed the Braxant Campaign. I am no stranger to command but...your skills, knowledge and instinct far surpass my own. The apparatus of our ground forces is in good hands but need know- do not hesitate in acquiring assistance should the matter arise. The Empire works so long as it is unbroken in its unity." He remarks, glancing the way of Harrsk before looking back to Barran.

 

[Tyrell Lockhart]

1st Dunwall Irregulars (The Devils of Dunwall)

Tags: Willan Tal , Enedina Tal , DECEASED Erskine Barran , Morgana Sinclair , Fiolette Fortan, Konrad Harrsk , Rurik Fel , Liam Docherty

The air in the room upon hearing the thundering call of the young Harrsk lad had shifted slightly, almost as if a musician had skipped a beat. The loyal sons and daughters of Galidraan had fought tooth and nail to free themselves of the yoke of the Sith, and after all of the fighting, many seemed to suddenly be rather stiff in the knees. Tyrell himself didn't even think to kneel at first, originally intending on settling for a proper bow. Nevertheless, the Lord-General got things back on track in his usual timely fashion, coordinating an effort that showed the discipline of the Galidraani in the room. It was only then that Tyrell found his knee able to bend, and he joined the rest as the Iron Imperator made his way through the room. Despite the kneeling, Tyrell's eyes never looked away from Harrsk.

Just who are we kneelin' to... the Imperator, or that lil chite's rhetoric?

His thoughts went about as quickly as they came, as the Galidraani stood in unison once again. Just before the Imperator and his young companion approached, Tyrell leaned in toward Erskine.

"Yer a good man, Erskine. Do me a favor. Don't let the bores of the fancy folk get to ya too much."

With those words, he stepped away, pressing his way back into the crowd and away from the prying eyes of the Tavlar Youth. He knew that there would be plenty of time for politics in the coming days. His own promotions within the Free-State would see to that. For now, he wished to avoid dealing with those that didn't share that deep connection with the soil beneath their feet. For now, he would settle for a drink.

As he pulled the flask of trusty Dunwall rye, he took a moment to survey the room. The dense crowd was filled with many that had given everything for their home, in some fashion or another. The thought gave Tyrell some comfort as he took a swig from the flask. The coming months would indeed be interesting for Galidraan, to say the least. Though the Madman didn't know how things would end, he knew that he would have to remain vigilant. It would be likely that the DI would once again be called to served, and without Tyrell as their commander, he would have to find a suitable replacement. Thankfully, he already had the perfect man for the job...

 

[Gabriel Taggart]

1st Dunwall Irregulars (The Devils of Dunwall)

Call Sign: Menace Actual

Tags: Willan Tal , Enedina Tal , DECEASED Erskine Barran , Morgana Sinclair , Fiolette Fortan, Konrad Harrsk , Rurik Fel , Liam Docherty

Two weeks ago...

A resounding crack rang out against the darkness of the dimly lit room, followed by the cries of pain from a physically broken man. The man was tied to a chair, and had been for roughly a week now. He had been kept there, with nothing more than a small light hanging above; just enough to light the immediate area around him. He had been a high priority target for the DI for quite some time, having had his hand in the Sith Loyalist movement as a propaganda artist. The artwork was enough to earn him the broken legs, but what the DI were truly searching for, was information. All that the poor bastard could see through his swollen eyelids was the faint image of a man, standing just far enough in the shadow to keep his face obscured. He struggled to catch his breath as the man motioned for one of the present DI guards to hold his face up.

"Please... I swear I've told you everything I know. You have the locations of the remaining holdouts, just let me go!"

The stranger remained silent, causing the Sith loyalist's pleas to grow more desperate.

"Say something, you damn coward!"

Finally, after a few more choice words and several insults, Gabriel Taggart stepped out from the shadows, crouching down so that his cold gaze would meet the man that they had tortured over the past few days.

"Ya know, it isn't wise to be throwin' such choice words around. Might give a man the idea that yer lookin' for a fight."

The loyalist's words faded as soon as he the words left the Priest's mouth, his face becoming pale with fear, creating a stark contrast to the crimson blood that flood from his split cheek.

"I... I'm sorry... I just... I-"

A single finger rose, signaling for the man to hold his tongue.

"I know that ya have nothin' else to tell us, lad. We just got word that yer intel is good. Ya see, we are still left with in a bit of a quandary... we can't very well be lettin' ya go, after all. Now I was willing to keep ya here under good ol' lock and key until we figured out what to do with ya. Unfortunately, you've gone and fethed that right up for yerself."

Gabriel's iconic switchblade could now be seen, the glint of its blade reflecting the light as it stabbed forth into the man's chest.

"Guess that's the last time you'll be callin' me a coward."

As the light slowly faded from the man's eyes, Gabriel could hear a slow clap from behind him. He quickly yanked the blade from the man's chest, spinning around to be met by the familiar slimy man that the DI simply knew as Zed.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, for ya gracin' us with yer presence, Zed?"

His words were filled with distaste as he spoke. Gabriel had worked with the mysterious man for entirely too many years at this point, and each time he somehow found his presence increasingly annoying. Zed offered his usual chit-eating grin as he spoke.

"I'm sure you heard of the upcoming move on Galidraan III."

Gabriel wiped his blade clean, making sure that Zed could see the blood as he did so.

"Aye, what of it?"

"Well, it appears that there may be more moving parts than anticipated. An increased presence of the DI has been requested by the Lord-General himself."

"And why would ya be comin' to me for that, Zed? Seems like Lockhart's the man to be 'avin' this chat with."

"Tyrell has been promoted, and will no longer be the direct commander of the DI. It appears that he had seen fit to allow that position to fall to you. You are to prep your men for immediate deployment. I will provide further information upon your departure."

Gabriel took a moment to take it all in. He was aware that the higher-ups within the Free-State had taken notice of the DI's leader, though he didn't anticipate this day would come for quite some time. Nevertheless, he did know that it eventually would.

"Very well. Please inform whoever ya need to inform that we will be there. And Zed... if we're gonna keep meetin' like this, I need you to remember one thing..."

He gave the man one last good look at the switchblade before closing and sheathing it.

"I am not Tyrell Lockhart."

 

[Fiolette Fortan]

The party's attention finally lingered elsewhere.​

​

Fiolette waved toward the staff and utilizing the same path into the venue, she used to exit. Her lady, and significant other in tow as they departed the hosting of Barran and Galidraan III. Grateful to have gone unnoticed. The retired Lord Admiral of the Sith Empire sat in the back of her shuttle as it proceeded to lift off from the venue's landing pad. "I thank you for indulging me, my dear." She remarked to Lady Kassandra, "my being here allowed me to observe briefly what is at play."​

​

Galidraan truly was throwing itself away to another despot.​

​

"Remind me to arrange a meeting with this new... Imperator," she said aloud as she held Kassandra's hand and took a curious glance out the window as Galidraan III's beautiful flora faded away into the distance. "After all, I'm sure, with how Carlac was handled they'll be eager to have all the Warlords in line." If not to do away with them outright - it would mean however either falling into line with the NIO now or as Fiolette thought about it. Appointing someone to represent her with the Moffs for the New Imperial Order.​

​

Whatever the chances were of her utilizing her daughter Ariel for the position, were gone - especially when Djorn attempted to murder the mother of his children. No, now Ariel had relocated herself to an unknown part of the Galaxy. Thankfully, Fiolette had enough pull to dissuade her daughter from moving to the Galactic South. Or, perhaps Ariel would be even more suited to the position. Either Ariel, or Fiolette would have to lean on another family member and with the Branneths busy babysitting Dosuun... It only meant that Fiolette had one other option left. Leaning on the Reliquarist line of the family, a risky move. One that would have to be considered if Fiolette were to truly focus her attentions on reminding Galidraan that bowing to a tyrant of their own making - will ultimately be their undoing, as their own history showed them.​

​

​

Konrad Harrsk | Rurik Fel | Ollis Barran | Tyrell Lockhart | Enedina Tal | Morgana Sinclair | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Willan Tal | Liam Docherty

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

6th post
THE-CHIEFTAIN
OBJECTIVE 1: HOSTING FOR HEROES
TAGS: Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk Ollis Barran Morgana Sinclair
Liam Docherty Tyrell Lockhart

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 10)

CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

"You can't make allies of everyone, as rivalries aplenty are made between the ones who befriend you, and resentments carried towards you for befriending their rivals in turn.

This is the knife's edge of diplomacy itself, and you've been dancing it far longer than you think." - Trast's Sword, Chapter Two

With help from Carwood McGechin's overly-extensive knowledge of the Somerled mountain range, the closest western threat to Barran Hall would find it's northern walls breached by nought but incendiary-shell pressure from Proost's XT-62s, a welcome quickening to the combined efforts of the Imperials and the Barran loyalist clansmen laying siege to the Fraser Hold. If ever the sound of destruction to the region's storied history sounded like music to the Archaisian's ears, that moment would've been it, as it meant that only two more Sith-Loyalist strongholds would remain by the time the armed coordination sacked the Fraser Hold, being shown in turn that they were actually picking up momentum as they went. This was the same sort of momentum he felt when the Blue-Hearts pushed up the Kyber mountain trenchlines on Ilum, but the ease in their push had occurred far quicker in the harsh, mountainous hills of Galidraan III, something that may have shown in the contrast of the confidence the 2nd Armoured-Infantry Brigade had in themselves at the time also.

'Arman! ARMAN!!!! LAST - TWO - CASTLES!!!! WE EITHER SPLIT, OR WE PICK - AN' - CHOOSE THE NEXT KEEP WE DESTROY THE-GITHER!!!'

'NO - SPLITTING - UP, CARWOOD!!!! WE MAKE GOOD MOMENTUM TOGETHER, AGREED?!?!?!', the Imperial retorted, exclaiming as the other was in speaking at a lengthy (though lessening) distance in the spirit of quickness. McGechin was walking out from within the broken keep, trying to distance himself from the hellish cacophonies within before he could catch Proost's attention, but the Archaisian tank-commander had noticed his approach when he turned around to spark up and smoke a cigarette in peace for moment; walking towards the castle itself from the lowest plateau with eyes curiously scanning the destruction his subordinates had wrought on the castle below, Captain Proost would see his new acquaintance climbing out over the rubble from within, wiping his brow and sheathing his sword before shouting up for the Imperial's thoughts on the matter. This was the type of run they'd been praying for, and it looked to Arman that that Carwood's cunning ways were very much geared to facilitating such a run of successful castle-assaults, almost as if the man had spent his entire life preparing, recruiting and training solely for that day.

'AGREED!!!! WE ROLL OUT - IN TEN MINUTES EXACTLY!!!! BRING THE TANKS DOUN!!!!'

HOME, OR WHATEVER'S LEFT OF IT (PART 11)

BARRAN HALL, CRIDHEACHAN PROVINCE,
AN-WOAD GALLDACHD,
GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

'Normally water would do me just fine but- I'll not be one to deviate from tradition.'

He was seated comfortably, and looking to be partaking in the strong, throat-catching power of the finest Woadish whiskey with patient; even kind adherence to local traditions, though Harrsk was kindly brought a fine-china teacup, datapad transferring orders to the kitchen for hot tea. With the kitchen staff and the facilities directly downstairs from the study itself, it wouldn't be long before young Konrad was swapping out icy citrus-water for something that would've stood a better chance of warming Harrsk's bones, especially against the biting winds of Galidraan III's harsh, but gloriously-clean environment; this was an atmosphere built for training, tempering and toughening everyone who walked across it's surface for more than a day or so, especially at altitude, the Highlander's bread and butter for survival against the elements, the other beasts that roamed the rough terrain, and any and all who would call themselves warriors walking the Goidels' trails.

'I will only reign as long as I can serve the interests of our Empire, thank you once more, Lord General.'

With all three glasses raised, (one with water and the other two with whiskey as their means of toasting to good Imperial fortune) Erskine would nod his thanks before being the first to drink to a long reign, with Konrad and Rurik joining soon after, and yet, somehow there was no sign of protest to be seen in the Imperator's taste-buds, his throat, chest or gut. A sign of a hardy anatomy, as most would usually go so far as to vocalise the difficulty in what it would've taken to ingest such a strong beverage, but Rurik, as immensely powerful as he was, (in strength, influence and raw Force-power alike) braved his first dram quite admirably, further rising in the Lord-General's merit-driven estimations of his character and relatability. Harsh man though the new Imperator was supposed to be, the former Stormchaser knew that harsh times gave rise to necessarily-harsh equalizers, that Rurik Fel was the strongest possible unifier that the Imperium could've prayed for, and on these grounds, Lord Erskine knew he was better off in Imperial hands either way.

If we want to win our wars against the Maw, Fel's the one who'll achieve it!

'I trust your appointment to the rank hasn't been too difficult of an adjustment to you, Barran. I am most patient with the growing pains that alteration in responsibilities might bring so need not hold anxiety over it, the position of Lord General will be no different. You have proven yourself as a leader of men and strategic commander that only one prior could ever be mentioned in the same league. Irveric Tavlar. He was certainly one of the few men who could've engineered and executed the Braxant Campaign. I am no stranger to command but...your skills, knowledge and instinct far surpass my own. The apparatus of our ground forces is in good hands but need know- do not hesitate in acquiring assistance should the matter arise. The Empire works so long as it is unbroken in its unity.'

'I feel that unity, truly. However, that unity is only felt at it's purest, most intense - on the battlefield, with Imperials manning each flank.', the Woad began, pausing to access his archive to Bastion's Great Imperial Library from the datapad on his desk, soon interrupted by a knock at the door. Knowing it was service-staff, Barran called out,'You can come in! An' thanks for the speedy service, so thanks to the others down there as well.', to which a waitress from the kitchens entered with the teapot and more cups on a four-wheeled serving tray as the Laird spoke, given a kindly tip and exiting soon after with a polite curtsy and a smile. After the waitress closed the door behind her, Erskine turned back to the others and handed his recent reading-list to the Imperator, with one book in particular highlighted for Rurik's (and if the Imperator was to hand it over - Konrad's also) attention, marked,"Tavlar's Battles: From Muunilinst to Vjun", in fluorescent, backlit bold as having been rented out four times in total.

'And that unity was felt most intensely when Irveric reigned supreme on the battlefield, I felt it during Bastion 2 - on Helgard, Serenno, Generis and most-profoundly, during Ziost 2. The lattermost is an episode I find difficult to recount, but just know that Tavlar kept a lot o' bad things from happening that day; and all it takes is one comm-link transmission to turn the tide for Imperialism, even when it seems that all hope is lost.... That, right there, was the very gem of wisdom that I learned from the previous Imperator. An' thusfar, this little gem of wisdom has proven quite vital.'

'An' as far as adjusting to IMPAF's helm goes, whatever I learned in the Cresh exercise will be put to the test in our next proper fight.', Barran then continued, forcing introspection on himself as he considered Darth Solipsis' message to the galaxy. Nirauan, where it all started for many of the growing Imperium's best and brightest rising-stars, and the Maw were striking at the rebellion's greatest symbol of legitimacy, the Hand of Thrawn fortress itself. New Carannia was expected to be subject to an onslaught also, with the Mongrel expected to stage an assault whenever the Maw were ready, as to mount their most-difficult planetary attack yet would require throwing everything they had behind their advances; a challenge more threatening than any offered by all the other factions who dared to hold the line against them, a challenge so strong it would give the Maw cause to prepare like never before. Looking between the two esteemed guests, the Lord-General smirked as he calmly framed the conclusion of his response, leaning back to inhale before drawling,'With direction, IMPAF can do wonders, I can feel it already. Special-Forces are a true credit to the Imperium though, no doubts there.... Yet still, the array will improve - and I will make it so after Nirauan, Imperator.'

'The Imperial banner will fly over Coruscant again. This our armies can give you - an' more.'

 

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

FIRST POST
THE_TUATH
OBJECTIVE THREE: BEAST OF GALIDRAAN
TAGS: Morgana Sinclair Michael Barran

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PROLOGUE

CAMP RIORDAN, THE HIGHLAND MARCHES,
TUATHA, GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

As Lord Aron was sitting by the hearth in the lounge of his frontier-cottage, reading in the most comfortable silence with Lady Helen lounging in his embrace with a book of her own in her grasp, the serenity of his recuperation between deployments had never felt so heavenly. As all their sons and daughters had grown into adulthood and flocked the nest just a few years beforehand, both Gowrie abodes had become blessedly-quiet in the years since the youngest son left to find his own purpose in life. There were times to feel sentimental about such things, but this wasn't one of those times, so the empty-house feeling was most-certainly welcome for as long as they could sustain such serene calm; though like many things in the Galaxy, such serenity would never last for as long as there were happenings both on home soil and way out into the vast array of worlds both known and unknown to people like Lord Aron, and that calm, chilly early-winter evening would be no exception.

'Aron, look out the window. It appears we have an uninvited guest- who could it- oh.... Oh, it's Lord Byron. Again.'

'Feth's sake, man! Canni get nae peace these days, like - at all!', Gowrie replied, venting to his wife but being stopped in his rambling with nothing by a calming caress of his face and a loving kiss on the lips. Standing up, Lord Aron would sweep Lady Helen up in his arms before making the fluid motion from the couch onto their feet together, returning her kiss but in more-amorous fervour as a promise he'd return to the bliss of the quiet household, the very household he constantly thought about whenever he was away on deployment. The Kellas' face would resume in expressing a blissful resting smile once more, staring deep into Helen's eyes as he whispered,'Ah'm sayin',"Naw", if it's off-planet again. Guard-Captain Scott should be on duty in Milton anyway, so I'm hoping it's a local issue.', kissing his loving wife on the head in silent, though brief farewell.

'Stay safe out there, its that time o' year after all. An' if these,"Wolf-Sightings", is anything more than just,"A bunch o' maulings committed by the same pack.", you'll be wantin' t'keep yer wits about ye.'

You an' yer faerie-stories, Helen. Wouldn't be you without them though.​

Putting on a plaid-pattern scarf, a dark-blue overcoat and flat-cap, Lord Aron would cast one last look to the doting Lady Helen to let her know he'd be safe and sound - no matter where it was the Imperium sent him next. With the smile returned in kind, the mother of the Laird's children widened her eyes with a slight tilt of the head, as if to warn him against misbehaviour of any sort as the Lord-Colonel threw on his hiking-boots and driving-gloves, seeing the love of her life raising his hands in acquiescent surrender before snatching up his hillwalking staff to meet the lesser-Laird by the speeder-bike garage. However, despite the fact he was furious to be anywhere but with Lady Helen, Lord Aron couldn't help but feel glad to be out and about with purpose in his step once more, happy to be doing something at least, though the Kellas still was somewhat curious as to what had brought Lord Byron out to the cottage again.

'Good evening, Aron.... And not to worry, no off-planet matters to deal with this time either.'

'Well, that's a karking relief! So whit ye sayin' tae it then?', the Kellas responded, finally curious as to what could've brought the politely-spoken Guard-Captain so far away from the continental west coast. However, the suppressed sigh he received in response told Lord Aron everything he needed to know, and that he'd be chasing leads like a lowly justiciar; something Colonel Gowrie detested, but also on account of the fact he knew he couldn't leave this task to anyone else for the potential dangers it presented, for wolves in general had never been laughing matter on Galidraan III at any point in it's long, storied history. The Chieftain of the Tuaths then rolled his eyes and shook his head in clear and visible disapproval, grumbling,'You're an absolute ersehole at times, Byron. You know that? Ah, for feth's sake! Let's just get moving already, seems we'll have to meet oor Alun in Saintston efter aw.', then slamming on the garage door for the in-house mechanic to open up from inside.

THE GREAT MANHUNT: LORD ARON'S NEW MISSION - PART 1

GILPHEAD LIBRARY, SAINTSTON,
AN-CRIDHEACHAN, GALIDRAAN III (868 ABY)

With head buried in the books in the spirit of getting his head around the lore, the recent accounts, and every shred of evidence he could find, Commoner-Captain Reed would find himself feeling quite irritable in the process, and would remain in such a state until the arrival of his Lord-Colonel. Surrounded by books, printouts and sticky-notes like he'd been bested by the wildest of conspiracies, it was fair to assume that none of this was helping the flame-haired Woad in any way, shape or form, but Reed's ever-persistent nature wouldn't let up unless he had to eat, to deal with showering and or bathroom-related matters, or to sleep so he could retain all the information he was taking on through each reading spree. And though he was in a mildly-maddened state, Alun Reed was still making a good job of appearing as approachable as possible to the locals, refraining from the easily-irritable habits he was known for around the Saintston locals of all ages,"Especially the auld-dears.", as was the custom for Woads of every generation.

'Mr. Reed, there's been another mauling! Crichton this time, in the southern Highlands.'

'Ah, for feth's sake! Just when ah thought they could be tracked ti the Heartlands, an ye bring me that kick ti the nuts?', Captain Reed responded, dejectedly sinking his head into his hands and growling audibly at nobody in particular, already having been explained to Mr. Gardner (in his own commoner's way with words) that it was an aimless, untargeted exertion of suppressed futility. Lifting his head up from a hardback copy of,"Myths of the Clans: by Kevan Somerville.", Alun then beckoned Mr. Gardner closer to take the other seat at the wall-facing reading desk, muttering,'Again, sorry aboot that. This jus' really isn't mah strong-suit in the slightest. I only just got up t'standard with written Galactic Basic last year, an' readin' in Goidelic is even worse because I forgot everything fae the Public School system. Canni - be - ersed wae it, no even slightly.', receiving kindly, infectiously funny laughter in return.

'Auch, ye jus' need t'grind is aw. Grind an' grind an' grind - like so'jurrs dae! You ken whit a mean-'

<"Gowrie to Wildcat Two! I'm on the way, an' Lord Byron's hopping along for the banter! This better no be a Ghillie's kark-up, elsewise yer driving a drunk Lord-Colonel back t'the Marches.">

<"Reed to Wildcat One! Settle yersel, it's pretty karking serious this time around. Nae singular hunting-rifle's gotten the job done so far, same goes for the - the uuuhh - the fething plural form an'aw!">

<"Understood, we'll be in Saintston by nightfall! Be ready, sharp an' please have something of substance for us when we arrive. No sleep if all the attacks occur at night, not negotiable either.... You'll probably wanty call in for help on Holonet, an' make it public. Wildcat One out!">​

Sniggering under his breath, but in a rueful manner that almost let the irritation give way to aggravation, but the discipline of the young Captain would snap out of that frame of mind with ease as he stood to go to the soundproofed Holonet room. Mr. Gardner was very much understanding of the situation, having admitted to former military service with Galidraan's old Security Forces before, even going so far as to show off his land-army service medals in the days before Gowrie decided to grace the Heartlands with his presence, arriving in a place that may have been a great risk to his life-expectancy until just five years beforehand. The peace-pacts between Chieftains were holding, and the peoples were warming to each other finally, but even Reed and Gardner knew that the Laird of Tuatha was travelling farther into Woad territory than any of his Tuath compatriates ever had before, knowing it wouldn't be possible without the peace between tribes; knowing that, historically, Clan Barran always intercepted invading Tuaths in the Highland buffer-zone.

'I'll just go an' fire up the stove for us aw. Nightshift saps yer energies like any other time o' day, but the only time o' day when it does so silently. The softest, most-relaxing of sleepy-headed exertions so they are.'

 

[Lachlan Sinclair]

BLOOD MOON
THE BEAST OF GALIDRAAN
KILL COUNT: 4

​

The quivering breaths passed through Seth's trembling lips, the boy doing everything in his power to tuck himself beneath his bed, as far from the door as he could manage. In the far corner, against the frigid baseboards, the fair-haired boy hugged his knees to his chest, staring with the eyes of fear toward the cracked door. Every slam, every scream, every visceral splatter of liquid he didn't want to think about striking the floor just beyond sent a jolt of terror through his body, forcing him to start. The drumming crash of his heart into his ribs was the sole sound beyond the horrors that happened elsewhere in the estate, the likes of which his mother had demanded he hide away from. He wondered where his mother was, where his father was, and where his brothers had run off to. He wondered what was happening, what all the shouting and clatter was about.

He recalled the ghostly white which had claimed the peachy warmth of his mother's face the moment the family dinner had been disturbed by the shatter of the upstairs balcony doors. She urged his father to go investigate while gathering up the boys like they were mere children again, ushering them into their rooms away from the family dining room. His father, the last he had seen, trekked up the stairs with the house attendants in tow, each of them clutching the ol' reliable slugthrowers and rifles of the estate, the same used to put down particularly nasty predators who often preyed upon the family's business, killing their sheep out in the sprawling fields.

And now, the commotion had died down.

Shaking in the darkness, the boy of thirteen held his breath, listening to the floorboards he knew were just spiteful enough to creak and groan beneath the faintest weight. Any moment now, he would hear his father's stoic steps down the hallway, his door would creak open, and he would be told to come out of hiding, and that everything was okay. Any moment now.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. CREEEEEEEEAK!
​

His breath caught in his throat. Those steps, those awful, thunderous steps, were entirely unfamiliar to him. They were slow, calculated as if the weight behind them was being measured for each count. Then he didn't have to hold his breath, the very air in his lungs lodged tightly, constricted by frantic airways denying passage of any sound which may have revealed his position. Muffled by the wall separating him from the hallway, the grinding drag of something sharp against the floors scratched, and then, there was silence once more. Yet this silence was temporary and fleeting, lasting even shorter than the last. Deep, growling breaths huffed, drawn sharply from the hall just over. They almost sounded... doglike. Had a wild animal gotten into the house? Was that it? Where were his parents? The house attendants? His manservant? He was confused briefly, a reprieve from the terror, as these rapid questions raced through his skull.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. CREEEEEEAK!
​

There it was again, and this time, it stopped just outside of his door. The narrow stream of light from the hall cast between the cracked mahogany door and the wall vanished, plunging the room into the darkness. The animal was just outside. Seth gulped, a new chill washing over him with the stench of blood slowly pouring from the shadow. His eyes focused on that beam of light, what was left of it on the far wall. 'Move on, move on, I'm not here...' he whispered in his thoughts, screaming for his muscles to fire and to run for the window, but his body was paralyzed, frozen in a fear he had never experienced in his short years. What was happening? What manner of beast was this?

The door slowly groaned open, pushed by the creature's nose, and at last, the scratching weight of burdened pace carried its monstrous form far closer than he had ever wished. The smell of copper punched his senses, overwhelming in its sharp stench, he could barely avoid gagging. He was unsure how, but somewhere, something inside of him told him it was the smell of blood. A lot of blood. Beyond the edge of his wardrobe, a paw struck the floor. Seth stared in shock.

Four clawed fingers pressed against the floor, their heavily padded underbellies scraping roughly at the board, and behind them flexed a thumb in support. Too human to be a wolf's paw, yet... thick fur covered it, what hue he could not tell, for the paw and arm connected to it were both so ripe with blood it trickled and dripped onto the floor. A second paw followed, then a third, and a fourth. The lagging two much resembled the paws of the wolves he had seen when the family hunts had been successful and he was allowed to see the trophies collected, but they were stretched to an abnormal degree, and the beast only seemed to be putting weight on its toes. More rapid breaths echoed in the open room, the beast sniffing at the cold air. It paused in its stride.

'No no no, please no...' his heart threatened to burst from his chest and splatter out across the floor.

The creature turned in his direction, pacing over slowly. Hot tears bubbled from the boy's eyes, swelling rapidly to spew down his face. 'Please please no... please...' It could not hear his pleas, and even if it did, it wouldn't listen. Another deep, growling breath escaped it. And slowly, its shadow darkened with the ripple of muscle beneath thick furred flesh. Lower and lower its head came closer. Blood splattered the floor, splashing the boy's boots and clothes. The heat of its breath grazed his skin, unsettling his frazzled hair. Glistening canine teeth painted in overwhelming crimson stain greeted him, each one longer than the length of a hand. A black nose then, whiskers trailing blood from their flickering edges around the sullied lips of the beast.

This was no wolf, not a regular one. Scrambling for reasoning, for logic, for anything, he briefly recalled the tales his manservant had told him when he was much younger. The verses of an old song from the clan wars ancient. This was no natural creature... Eyes illuminated by the radiance of the moonlight filtering from the window distant glared at him. He stared back. The bed above him squealed with the press of weight against its belly, lifting it off the floor.

"T-Th' B-B-Beast o' G-Galidraan..." at last his voice found him, "Y-Y-"

The bed flew away, flung aside by the raw might of The Beast, and smashed into the wall opposite. Seth pressed himself into the corner further, his neck craning to track the rise of the creature to its full height; towering on its hind legs. Cast in its shadow, there was nothing he could do. Nowhere for him to go. The dread stabbing his heart screamed that the blood painting the monster from head to toe was his family's. That the house had gone silent after the commotion because he was the sole survivor. The same voice told him it wouldn't be a permanent position.

Before he could scream, the creature lunged.

And after, the house was plunged into silence once more.

 

[Morgana Sinclair]

RUBIES
CAPTAIN "SKYBREAKER" SINCLAIR
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
"THE WYVERNS"
Liam Docherty DECEASED Erskine Barran Ollis Barran Tyrell Lockhart Willan Tal Rurik Fel Konrad Harrsk

His words, as usual, reflected his opinion on her more than the subject she asked of him, though his saccharine words earned a smile nonetheless. The crystalline edge of her glass collided with his gently, the resounding 'plink!' serving as the testament to their toast, and at once, did the Baroness down the whiskey she was poured with a grand display of enthusiasm. Her nerves still frazzled, Morgana drained the glass stoutly, and placed it down for another, beckoning for the tender to be so kind as to grace her once more.

"Shuid ken b'noo Lindy, am no' in th'business o' such things." Her pearly smile was offered toward the bartender in gratitude with the refill provided, and rather than kill this one as she had its predecessor, she nursed it with delicate sips that stained its edge with the ox blood lipstick she wore, "All 'at kneelin' 's a load o' shite, if'n ye ask me. Dunnae care fer all th' fermalities, but oor newfound friends do, so's we hev te mind it." The woman languidly leaned forward to rest her elbows on the bar, nestling her chin into the palm of a propped hand and turned her face in his direction to give him undivided attention. For a moment, she said nothing to him, merely, she studied the features of his face, searching for the subtleties she had come to expect. His ticks, the little mannerisms that always betrayed his thoughts.

"Where's th'first place ye're gunna go, now 'at we earned oor freedom, hm?" She offered this question to him with a curious tilt of her head, knowing the answer she would give if she was asked.

​

 

[Liam Docherty]

L I N D W O R M
THE WYVERNS
GALIDRAAN
STARRING | Morgana Sinclair | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Willan Tal | Rurik Fel | Konrad Harrsk | Enedina Tal | Ollis Barran | Tyrell Lockhart ​

He was at a loss of words when the Baroness, who he swore absolute fealty to, began to just stare at him and concentrated her focus on him. He, too, stared back, but was dumbfounded at the moment. Liam did, however, gave a small smile to Morgana, but felt awkward and foolish in doing so. The liquor certainly wasn’t influencing her thoughts, not this early on; besides, he knew she could drown most a bottle of whiskey and remain somewhat conscious.

Her stare did provoke spots of red on his cheeks, at that point he ruined the connection between their eyes as he drank the whiskey in his hands and motioned for the bartender to fill up the crystal glass. Drown out any awkward feelings he had, different emotions stirred in a pot.

He was thankfully she broke the silence with a question she asked him. A simple question.

“Well, there’sa plenty I want te see on Galidron, places I nev'r imagined seein',” she knew quite well his history before coming to her service. A commoner with filth on his clothes, but always had a charming face to shine from all that. Odd jobs here and there to make ends meet, and finding fights that were common in straggling alleyways.

“Guess I’d like ta see the ol' hangar. Y’know, when we did 'at small heist and got away with those ships. Make an end to da circle of our wild a'venchur,” though there were more adventures to come.

“'n you,” his hands fidgeting with the gall of whiskey in his hands, spinning it around on the table as he looked towards Morgana. “Sure dere's a special place ya’d like ta see.”

 

[Delilah Chamberlin]

C E R B E R U S
x x x
hounds: Ire, Bo, Rex

​

Nightfall had arrived on swift heels, faster than she had hoped but that would not stop the huntmaster...nothing would. Into the hollow she crept, followed by the beasts of myth at her side, separated only by biology but together they held the line at hell's gate, never allowing mists or spirits to cower through and disappear. She was not fearful, for this hunt was just like the other, a routine, a cover up a conspiracy.

“Steh’ee….” murmured the voice held close to her chest, never rising above a whisper their ears would only hear. She crept through wood, matching the stillness of trees with her subtle movements. This time her planning would not be undone, for this hunt, she took personal above all else. Delilah clutched the modified blaster rifle to her chest, turning her sights upward as she took a strong whiff of the deathly air. She couldn’t smell the shift above the scent of earth and misty wood though the three at her side could sense otherwise. Ire had stopped in his tracks, pressing an ebony snout firmly into a pile of snap twigs and crushed leaves. The slow sway of his pendulum-like tail could only mean one thing, they were soon to approach a mark.

They had followed a crimson trail for miles now, stopping only to capture heavy prints in the mud, from time to time heat had radiated from the earth suggesting they were near but the monster's swiftness seemed to always outmatch her and the hounds. Even as she approached an estate with flicking lights, something about this suggested futile. Though she would press on, her focus now on collecting clues to aid her in her next venture.

Three clicks followed a low command to the eldest, “Zone..” She whispered, glancing over as Ire pressed up against her shin tightly, acting as a guard while the other two perched outside the home like makeshift gargoyles. She moved on them, taking calculated steps over stone as that familiar stillness made her stomach uneasy. She murmured words to herself, be it prayer or reciting each movement mapped out for the hunt ahead. Delilah crept into the darkness as it waved away her breath, she was prepared for this.

The gentle howl of windswept platinum locks from her face, had her focus not been locked perhaps she would turn to address the mess but she pressed on. Creeping steadily over steps on tiptoes as the eldest kept the pace, glued to her side and never shifting. The further she ascended the lower her body got to the ground, and the less her lungs received air. Further, still, she walked, reaching the shattered door as she pressed her back against the mangled wood. “Find…” She whispered, three clicks and the animal was first to enter.

She had heard the stories of the beast from her childhood, thinking it was only that...a story. In her mind, this was just another failed experiment masquerading as folklore to cover up their tracks. She didn’t question the bounty, nor the sum of credits at the end. Her focus was on terminating the pest, collecting and fixing up her family home...until the smell of death overwhelmed her senses. “Heel…” She whispered as pattering paws return to her side, mirroring her steps as she pulled her rifle at the ready.

“Mmmrr….uff...ffff….ffff…”​

A sound perked both their ears, etching a trail from her position to the dining room. She hunkered down, nearly crawling beside Ire as the noise became louder and more distressed. She carefully pushed the dining room door open, a silhouette lay slumped at the edge, illuminated by the azure light creeping through the window. The form continued to gurgle, and jerk upon its seat. Delilah flipped the switch on her rifle, shining a small ray over the form. From behind all she could see was a body pantied in crimson, wearing a dress of slithering viscera that moved and jostled as death continued its unnerving pull upon her chest. “F*ck…” she groaned, lifting a hand up to cover her mouth to stop the smell from triggering her gag reflex. Only for it to fail. The figure had been torn in multiple places though its head lay to the side from an imperfect severing. She flicked two fingers at the hound, commanding it to stay at the threshold of the dining room as she got as close as possible to the woman's body. She wasted no time, pulling her blade from the pouch at her hip and bringing its tip to the woman’s brain stem. Sending her to the beyond with one merciful jab.

This was no mutated beast, not from the way it tore flesh from its victims, leaving behind puncture and claw marks. And bodies. She saw so many bodies, mangled and broken, but still left behind. An animal would have devoured pieces of its prey, to satiate an unending hunger but this...this was no animal, this was something more.

Delilah pressed on, wading through pools of vibrant crimson and gore, adding layers to her boots and clothing. Ire’s ebony fur had begun to dual tone from the amount of carnage left behind on the ground. She had started to believe that there were no living, not after this creature had made sure the ground burned of its story. She had considered not venturing to the second story of the house. The winds had whispered death with every lick upon her ears, but she only proved that her stubbornness would be unmatched as well. She kept on, pushing tattered doors until the freshness of this kill made her eyes widen.

At her feet lay an arm, a cracked bone penetrated from the end as marrow clung onto it for dear life. She pushed it to the side, holding her rifle upright, “Mark…” sending the animal to sniff at the ground in search of the mythical being. Only for him to gnash teeth and make clicking sounds with his jaw. And then a whimper snapped her focus towards a body...or rather pile of organs to the right. Intestines had been pulled out like lute strings, a heart lay nested between half chewed lungs. She saw his face...it did not belong to a man...no, this body belonged to a child. Its expression held in terror, as if he were watching his demise unfold for all of eternity. “Nine…” she had murmured to herself, backpedaling to the threshold, clicking three times at Ire to follow.

“Nine…” She whispered once more, making her slow descend out of the home and to a shower of illumination. Her hands shot up in surrender instantly dropping her rifle. “Dun shoot! M’afta it too!” She called out to the party.


// Lachlan Sinclair // DECEASED Aron Gowrie