4TH POST
OLD-TOWN DISTRICT, DRASTARRA,
BATTLEFRONT: EAST, NESHTAB (SPRING 878 ABY)
Its just a lightsabre, an' you're more than the threads o' your own fate.
But if so, why the kark does it hurt so fethin' much?
It was all so much in these moments, and all so much that the Wanderer was beginning to understand the anguish of a grief-struck Stormchaser, the one he knew and loved before the loss of the Firstborn, the one he still respected and revered despite the old man's many faults in those days. Life around him was truly beginning to make Lord Michael feel like like he was cursed, almost as if Donn was still following his Druid everywhere his feet flitted, feeling like it had been his purpose to leave death and destruction in his wake all along, but unlike many Force-Wielding powers who found themselves standing at the very same gateway to villainy in life - Barran was resolved to step back from it's sheer, cliff-like precipice.
Be strong! You know you're better than this!
Resolving to spit in the faces of the very shadows that beset the Druid more intensely than ever before.
'I know the pain of an older brother's death.'
But in situations like these, such things were always easier said than done, as such was the way of the modern warrior by then.
But to be reminded of all that soured his soul to near-irreparable degrees, by a Jedi Master who appeared as an angel in the snow, (and perhaps the sweetest-natured angel of death he could've possibly faced in these moments) that there had been a shaven-headed, military-regulated time in the Woad's life when even the King of Serenno had doubts in abundance for his future, a time when all things rage and spite ruled the Druid's heart above all others. The grief was taken badly and was transforming into something much worse by the time Lord Erskine and King Lucien agreed to send Lord Michael to Serenno, affecting his health and life-expectancy along with the souring of his demeanour until Serenno's rightful ruler stepped in to change his ways for the better, and as the blue of Dooku's lightsabre illuminated the snowdrops and the space between them, the nature of these reminders cast a strange hue on the trial-like nature of his latest tribulations.
There was more than an ounce of truth in Jedi Master's response, that which the former Knight-Commander understood and empathized with, and in hearing just the slightest flutter of emotion the latter knew the former was stifling a bitter recall as he was; and though Michael's eyes were growing dewier by the minute, he knew not if there wear heartstrings of Ishida's that were being tugged at also, quickly going on to doubt it's likelihood on account of the renowned, Jedi-trained emotional control. And yet, in the truth, and in the slight flutter told of griefs that were once supremely difficult for Ashina to suppress, and of those circumstances in particular, Barran knew he could hold no doubts, though he sensed there had been little and less in the way of time for his opponent to grieve her loss also.
And yet, as with all things in a wartime Force-Wielders' existence, such moments of solidarity, beautiful those all their like were in the past before them - those specific sorts of serene, peaceful moments were always heart-achingly brief at best.
And it would only get worse for the Wanderer beyond that point.
'Just as I know the confusion that comes with learning I was wrong.'
From grief, to confusion, to wrath, and each within moments of it's former, Lord Michael's dismay then mutated into something altogether more furious, as if his own memories and findings had all been falling deaf, disbelieving ears. But the dewy-eyed troubles were only serving to pave the way for tears the Imperial could not keep at bay, completely incapable of hiding the internal conflict from the Jedi, not even in the thickening snowfall. After all, to give hope of life to the grief-stricken, and over a decade after the fact, it could only cause a gut-wrenching conflict of emotions in one as strong-willed as the Druid always had been, as it was in an already-troubled mind by then.
'Moved on too soon,'
It couldn't be true, not after standing in the rain and watching as it's droplets splattered all across the top of the submerged casket, not after feeling the firstborn's soul-particles on the ashes in the air; but the words of Ashina were clearly truthful, no matter how badly Barran wished to believe they were, holding his gaze in the rising intensity of the snowstorm with no deception sensed emanating from any part of Ishida's soul. This alone was enough to tear away at the Goidel's walls of emotional control, winning the psychological advantage with every cut and tear that opened the way to his deepest despairs, driving him deeper into trouble as the Atrisian maintained her statue-like stillness in cautious, hilt-holding silence. By then, not much stood between the Druid and a wrath he so desperately wished to avert, but as a creature of duty, much like the wielder of Ashla's Arbiter, the aching Woad would fight on against all hope.
Against all the pain, all the loss of cohesion, and all the loss of self semblance - even if it seemed pointless to try.
'If we cross blades, I won't be so kind to you as I was your brother only a few months ago.'
Then the tears became a torrent, calling back memories from the very day the Wanderer bore the lightest of coffins and lowered it into the ground, and with a similarly torrential storm appearing in his eyes then as well; but in the snow, it was storm for storm and the cold, flaky droplets were winning with ease against the rain. Understanding by then that the Jedi's words were doubtlessly true, the thought of hoping for a warm-hearted outcome seemed to be asking too much, especially in hearing the tone that was implied in the way she mentioned kindness in the latest of references to the Imperial's brother. It was a near-token funeral, but in that same regard, the Druid could still remember the sound the bones made as they rattled around within the coffin itself, but it was not this memory which haunted Barran's mind, but rather, the fact it was forcing him to recall recent memories from which he was still desperately trying to put behind him.
Even whilst the artillery shells whistled overhead, even as the distant sounds of thudding explosions vibrated forcefully in the ground beneath the snow, the Druid seemed to care little and less in light of the revelation, for none with hearts and souls could care about such things in light of bombshells of the revelatory sort.
'Perspective I guess.... When you sense tiny, dust-like fragments of your sibling's soul on the falling ashes of Ziost, it subconsciously becomes a location-method down the line.... An' the very same method I used to find the bones of the brother I've always known - is the same method I've been relying on recently, utilised in a fruitless search for the brother I met along the way.... Its all just - dark at the moment, so it is.'
Then after turning his gaze away from the silvery-haired Atrisian, the Goidel closed his eyelids, inhaled deep through his nostrils and reopened his eyes to the world around him, exhaling with a slow, shuddering breath before he continued,
'This is how I knew I hadn't moved on too soon then, an' this is how I know that something dark is at work here now.... Has to be - its the only way any of this makes sense.', correctly assuming the worst in anticipation as he lowered his line of sight as far as the snow gathering on his boots. Leaving himself wide open to a dangerous, guard-dropping extent, and seemingly caring little and less about his predicament, but beneath that veneer of hopelessness lay an eerily-celestial awareness of the way the revelation was going, a coherence that subconsciously prepared for news of the most tragic sort.
Whatever the Woad was ready to ask next, and though he hoped more than anything that his big brother was alive, well and uncorrupted, he knew the answer would hurt as he inquired,
'An' as for when you crossed blades with my brother, I clearly must ask; to which - ah, feth.... To which - banner was my brother adhering at the time?', bracing for the worst news of all. If the Atrisian told him it was the doing of the Sith, the fight would be lost with lasting finality, but what the Goidel hadn't known and would never have expected was the answer that was fated to befall him in the following moments; but in turn, what Ishida didn't know and would never expect, and in all it's unlikeliness, was the sudden surge in ferocity that awaited the harsh, gut-wrenching truth.
For none could console the concurrent reaction, not after eleven years of recovery from the worst grief he ever knew.
LINK>
<LINK
<"Ahan-Kaskim to Sabretooth One! Just patching in to offer my help, and also patching in to let you know this may be our last conversation.... Cairn Two is bringing a hundred men west to provide cover against infantry manoeuvre, with a hundred-and-one staying in Drastarra - and I'll be taking nine-nine out east to the Eastern Burus mountains.">
<"Shazzeke to Warmask Red! Thanks, we appreciate the help.... And as for your task - good luck out there.">
<"Thanks, you too.... And if I don't make it, may the Ancients guide you to the end instead.... Fight well, Sabretooth One! Warmask Red out!">
It had been almost an hour since McBain heard the transmission, and in all that time the Highlander was struck by thoughts on the matter.
Never once even remotely desiring to change his one biggest flaw, the biggest heart of the Brotherhood's armed wing was struck by the fleeting possibility that another good friend in his life would be dead before sunrise, gone before Randall could ever get the chance to protect Varim from the brutalities of war, and to ward off the killer intent of their enemies. Even if it was only time enough to joke and converse with this one a while longer, even if only for as long as he had with those he lost, it was still enough for the Gallowglass, as even the shortest-lived glories were precious in the eyes of all Highland-born soldiers - and especially those of McBain's sort.
All of McBain's contingent were just in the process of taking up mountaintop positions at the time he finally spoke up to himself about the greatest of concerns by then, keeping their speeder-bikes facing eastward in the understanding they would be on the move before long, and as with most things about the Gallowglass, the rest would do so taking their cues from the reactions of their steadfast, reliable Captain. Some would take up in twofold sniper/spotter teams, but others would set up as small fireteams for automatic-fire, mortar and rocket-launcher support, with others going solo or in larger groups still to harry the GADF and Pariahs respectively; though as for McBain, he knew a spotter would be handier, coincidentally having the right individual for the job already there with him by the time the orders had filtered through the comm-link.
'Damnit, Varim!'
The Gallowglass was right to be concerned, as it seemed like splitting off was the worst thing the Brotherhood could have done, as not only were the troop-numbers troubling enough on arrival, but it had become threefold intense on account of the three-way split in question. The Novanians' unprompted acts of esotericism, effective as they had proven to be in the past, (and to near-unquestionable merit) were still just as likely to cost them dearly as any other over-favoured weapon in the Galaxy, and making it worse was the fact the Brotherhood's esoteric chapters knew the true, far-reaching cost of shamanistic blunders in combat. The Priest-King's lessons of his own blunders on Lao-Mon were more than lesson enough, nearly killing Lord Michael from an exploding-Drengir's blast radius alone, along with overturned tanks and uprooting trees adding to the risks in the infantry matters as well, so there was no reason in the slightest to be none the wiser on Neshtab.
'Sir, just got word from Drastarra.... Merrian's going mental on enemy comms apparently, though folks are already saying it could be Mother Melarria - an actual Ancient.... On Neshtab!'
Starting with a growl, though only that which devolved into rueful laughter through gritted teeth, Randall calmed himself eventually to respond
,'Ah, feth! Yer jokin', man.... Things are only gonnae get weirder, aren't they?', to which an entirely different sort of laughter rang out in reply. Though in understanding of the scepticism, Sarisan kept his comments to himself and switched on his comm-link and turned the volume up to it's loudest setting, taking a moment of reverent silence as he considered what the Novanian Ancients would have to say on the predicament of their greatest warriors, and only then did he switch over to Merrian's comm-channel - holding to his wordlessness throughout the duration of the automated, repeating message.
<"The Forests, rivers, plains of Novania - sacred though they are and always have been - were once blighted by the Dark forces of the Sith.... And yet, their putrid shadow somehow eventually learned to hold sway.... Over the Jedi? Over the light, even? On a world that was adherent to neither until this very night no less, but now adherent to both as one and the same thing somehow.... What devilry is this?">
'Well.... Wasn't expecting a big, daft deity hingmy to make sense anyways. Bring that speaker a bit closer.'
<"Is nothing sacred to the Jedi any more? Is there nothing of Coruscantine allegiance worth saving now? Or have you become so venomous that your latest heroes are nothing more than Shadow - MASQUERADING IN THE GUISE OF THE LIGHT?!?!?!">
Oh, my.... Wherever Merrian's mind is now, I can only hope she's safe for now.
<"WHAT ARE YOU, JEDI?!?!?! WHAT ARE YOU, IF NOT DARTHS IN MONKS' CLOTHING?!?!?! Desecrators - This is what you are.... DESECRATORS!!!!">
By then, it seemed that all the comm-channels for the Novanian element went quiet, all slowly but surely patching in to the Warseer's transmission to the GADF command-centre's most active comm-link frequencies, and Randall was beginning to understand why. Through the dangers and the fighting all around, it was clear that all of the Arkanians under Varim's command were more comfortable hearing words from the pantheon of Archais first before daring to endeavour the impossible, ringing every part as true for the Western and Drastarra warfronts as it was for those veering out eastward instead. After all, the greatest fight of their lives was transpiring before their very eyes, that which dwarfed anything of it's like in 869 ABY, and all the white-eyed warriors knew that every extra morsel of resolve would be needed to prevail by the end of it.
<"Akin to grave-robbers, mausoleum-looters of the very heroes you lost along the way, more vile than the Sith ever were.... YOUR SOULS ARE AS GOOD AS CURSED ALREADY, CONDEMNED BY THE LIVING AND THE DEAD ALIKE!!!! YOU WILL FIND NO MERCY HERE!!!!">
'Damn right.... Damn - fething - right!'
Then without any warning whatsoever, an uproar of wild ululations and raucous outcries of the
,"Ea!", chants rang out across the the nearest blizzard-blanketed valleys around them, with Sarisan joining in to Randall's sudden shock; but for the first time, the Gallowglass welcomed these ethno-centric showings of high-morale and aggression, joining with those of his own that were almost immediately met with a wave of replying Goidelic battlecries. Joining adjacently wild with another wild of it's sort as the hills amplified the voices, almost as if there was nothing more natural to do in such an instance, and in this moment McBain knew he wouldn't forget, he quickly realised this was a little sign from his ancestors that there was no harm in dropping wooden procedure for the fluid inventiveness the Goidels were always known for.
This was the way forward, and though his professional instincts were desperately trying to deny his choice, those of genetic nature were already taking deep precedence.
'Aw'right then, Sarisan.... Lets get to work!'
<"Ahan-Brezarn to Battlegroup West! Weapons-free, I repeat - WEAPONS FREE!!!! Lets give these Pariahs a fethin' wake-up call! CHA BHI SINN UILE!!!!">
'CHA BHI SINN UILE!!!! LETS FETHING GO!!!!!'
Dionus Bharro
