Character Thomas Barran

[St. Thomas Barran]

"I will either find a way or make one." - Hannibal Barca

Lord Thomas Barran
"The Flayed Blue Lion"
(829-864 ABY)
(873 ABY-...)

BIOGRAPHY (War)

"Never known a man t'be fearless, Milord. But there is a right, malleable kind of fear that drives me. Easy t'channel, so it is." - Lord-Leftenant Thomas Barran's last known saying, during the events of Ziost 2. (864 ABY)

The Imperial Free-State of Galidraan

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Firstborn son of Lord Erskine Barran's issue, mothered by Lady Carla Thrast-Barran, young Thomas had been destined for succession and greatness alike from the moment he was born; even expressing a will to wield a sword well like his legendary parents at the tender age of six years old, when he was caught chopping at an overturned oak tree with a blunted sparring-sword by a very proud Lady Carla, later becoming a fond moment to remember when every last member of the Barran Clan were forced into exile by Lord Erskine's rather secretive rivals in the Galidraani security-forces officers' clique. Being the older brother, it didn't take long before he fell in with the grunts, non-coms and the staffers of their Noble Exiles PMC, learning the nuts-and-bolts, the do's-and-don'ts, and all the little nuanced of military life at the behest of his father.

Being almost seven years older than Michael, the exiled Lord's rightful successor would see at least a few years of service with the Stormchaser's wandering-PMC before Lord Willan Tal's appeal to rally all exiled Galidraani to the Tiger's banner, and from there, the charismatic Northern-Galidraani warlord would buy out the young Half-Woad's commission soon after. After this, Lord Thomas would go on to serve on Oben, Hoth, in the Second Battle of Bastion; then on Helgard, after serving with exemplary conduct for over a year by then, Barran would be promoted to the rank of Lord-Leftenant whilst they were all en route to Archais. From there, the young Woad would go on to serve on Generis and Ziost, the latter being where it all went wrong for Thomas and many others like him.

A day that would mark the beginning of a truly dark journey - a different tale of war, death and rebirth.

Sent to defend the Lord-Protector's legacy in the making, Thomas Barran would die en route to providing relief efforts for Enedina Tal's Spec-Ops contingent, with his small platoon of riflemen from the Fighting First wiped out completely by the Sith Empire's Orbital Bombardment in their act of defensive desperation. The unfortunate ones, though they had either died quickly or in screaming agony, would never expect the anguish, fear and suffering that awaited their departed souls, souls destined for another afterlife - but ending up in the nightmarish, ultraviolent Netherworld instead. Men who wished for a peaceful death, a peaceful place to go to in the end; denied, and by a Galaxy's eternal who knew not where to send these brave warriors' souls, slighted by fate when such powers were clueless of their underlying faith in the Goidelic Dia, or Galidraan's Alwealda respectively.

BIOGRAPHY (Death)

"McHugh.... Find your real ever-after, its obvious you have no place among my brothers here. I would not slay an old friend, I would not slay a fellow exile." - Thomas Barran's departed soul, speaking with the ghost of Commoner-Captain Bruenn,"Shugg" McHugh. (Roughly 865 ABY)

The Lost Brigade​

Darkness, shadow, and endless bare winter trees in what felt like an endless fog to the dead platoon to begin with, and dying endlessly to the beasts who lurked the fog. Feasting again and again and again on the same soldiers who rematerialized just as often, or at least for as long as the beasts remained hungry for whatever passed for flesh in these regions. But the men of the Firstborn's Platoon would rise to the occasion again, eventually, even after being broken many hundreds of times by the uncertainty of the fog itself; but when the Nether began to snow, the men of the North and Lord Thomas himself would thrive together in the cold where the monsters began to wilt and recoil when struck back by the dead Free-State soldiers. It was in this realisation that the nexus for the Lost Brigade occurred, and in these moments, the true legend of the Flayed Blue Lion would make it's first strides into momentum with equalling catalytic precision.

Finally.... FIIIIIIIIIINAAAAAAAAALLYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!

Feels good to say that one three-syllable word, JUST THREE SYLLABLES IS ALL IT TAKES TO INSTIGATE FULL-BODY RUSHES ACROSS SKIN I KNOW I DON'T POSSESS!!!!

But here, it apparently does exist, and it hurts when the demons feast on it! This sure as kark isn't Sedes Aurea, nor Hell - or the Rift for that matter.... We need answers as to where, but first, WE FIND MORE OF OUR SLAIN IMPERIAL COMRADES!!!! THEN WE FIGHT OUR WAY TO THE ANSWERS WE SEEK!!!!


*MARBH GED A DH'FHAODADH SINN A BHITH, DIATHAN THIG SINN!!!!
**DEAD THOUGH WE MAY BE, GODS WE WILL BECOME!!!!​

A rallying cry his men misunderstood until what felt like decades later, when their ranks began to swell with Goidels who were killed in action on Serenno, translating the phrase and giving context through the original saying the phrase had been lent from,"Truaghan ged a dh'fhaodadh sinn a bhith, Rìghrean bidh sinn.", which roughly translated to,"Paupers though we may be, Kings we will become.", a saying from recent Goidelic centuries, times when the Fortans conscripted Woad, Highlander and Tuath alike into Galactic military service. Rephrased to suit their predicament in death, and to state his intent, like any Barran would; regardless of whether they were living, comatose or dead for that matter, that Woad blood in them would never take the next phases of their souls' journeys lying down, not even when there's no chance of winning in the early stages of their struggle.

The Bloodline of Chieftains would rail against their tormentors in death like it was any other menace in the living, tangible Galaxy that killed them, and it appeared more and more over time as if Lord Erskine's deceased firstborn was to be no exception to this. However, something else began to intensify this, but it had to occur under the conditions of severe duress, and yield all the resolve necessary to fuel this rebellious will to a contrastingly-intensified extent - greatly contrasting the calmly contrarian, nobly dignified revolts of his ancestral majority in particular.

"Like wintry gale-force winds - they swept through the bare beech and oak we earned through toil, agony and a multitude of repeated deaths. The real menace of the Nether easily swept us aside, scattered across the forest with ease.... Like coastal autumn leaves, all of us were at the mercy of a hurricane!" - Guard-Sergeant Denny Rhone, formerly of Blue-Heart Brigade, referring to the first stages of the Lost Brigade's,"Second War of the Dead". (Roughly 868 ABY)​

What none knew at the time, not in the moments when the giants tore them limb from limb, and ate them like ripe apples in a well-tended orchard, like oranges in the most tempting of groves, gleefully feasting on the heads, torsos and limbs, crunching down on dead Imperial bones with nothing but satisfaction felt towards their victims - their prey.

BIOGRAPHY (Rebirth)

"All I know, all I remember of my afterlife? Agony, painted Red-Deer skulls, the stewed flesh of wicked men, giants an' monsters alike.... A Dark place is that which I only remember in nightmares, an' only one thing has been remembered of it since - my epithet." - Thomas Barran, in conversation with the Mongrel and his best Scar Hounds. (874 ABY)

The Brotherhood of the Maw

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The fight for the Nether would continue on, even in Thomas' absence if the need for it arose, for cracks and collective agreements to take their opportunities to escape if the openings were there to be exploited in the Lost Brigade's favour; and even after making headway in their fight for a reprieve from the giants, it was obvious to all serving the brigade, new and veteran presences alike, that there would be no winning the fight in the long run. With the intent to divide and conquer so they could scatter and feast on Barran's subordinates more easily, all the nearest realms in the Nether were beginning to rally against what they considered the new menace by then. And yet, the brigade had other plans for the Flayed Blue Lion, deciding soon after that they would use their biggest opening yet to hurl Thomas into one of the singularity-rifts first, tarnishing many chances of escape with just a single collective act of self-sacrifice. Fighting like dogs to keep a horde of monsters from hindering the Woad's escape, the Lost would make sure to endeavour a truly worthy last stand to endeavour, a task that would both ensure a safe exit and close the rift behind Thomas before any could reach it to chase him through time and space.

From there, it would seem the magic of the universe couldn't answer how the immaterial managed to find itself climbing out of the mud, and after being dead for almost ten years at that. Thomas has since taken steps to rediscovering who he was before, and (though with much less luck) who he was in the Nether - and whether time permits him enough leeway to learn it all hangs on how long the Flayed Blue Lion can survive in the living realms.

After all, the firstborn's previous run of luck against the Galaxy's odds haven't exactly helped his chances in this life either.

Barran remembers nothing from the first two stages of his soul's journey, nothing of his childhood or service with the Fighting First, not even his own name escaped the amnesiac effects of reanimation, so the Woad must rediscover at least some of what was lost in order to thrive in battle once more. Falling in with the Mongrel's very own tribe of Scar Hounds, it won't be long before Thomas is given a means of putting all the fractured puzzle-pieces together, a means of knowing what has become unknowable; and despite becoming a likely target for other Mawsworn warriors almost as soon as he remembers everything, there are still others within the Brotherhood who are keen to learn the truth as the Flayed Blue Lion's learning-process develops, including certain leadership-entities sitting atop the Maw's ultraviolent hierarchy. If the Lord-Commander of the Imperial Dead could survive threats both official and hidden alike, along with all the Maw's many enemies in the Galaxy, then perhaps the truth and Barran's thoughts on the matter might be brought out into the open for everyone's sake.

Time,
Time will be the real teller of this tale.

Time will dictate if Thomas Barran succeeds or not.

Thomas' Loadout
Protection/Equipment
Durasteel Brodie-Helm
Free-State Surplus Gas-Mask
2nd-Gen Galidraani SF Combat Webbing
Free-State Surplus Flak Jacket

Weaponry/Explosives
SA-35 Heavy Blaster Rifle
AP-25i "SIMP" Particle-Beam Blaster Pistol
Venom-Infused Durasteel Falx
Durasteel Fairbairn Dagger
X3 Incendiary Grenades
X2 Flashbangs

Traits
Hereditary Social-Magnetism
Practiced Intellect
Expert Fiorist Swordsman
Hidden, Untapped Power
Hereditary Apathy Towards Weakness
Unnerving Presence
Painful Flashbacks
Raging Alcoholic/Drug-Addict

Attributes
Height: 195.5cm (6'4")
Weight: 202 lbs (91.6kg)
Eyes: Grey-Blue Irises
Hair: Greying Auburn
Age: 45 (Including Years Trapped in the Nether)
Midichlorian Count: Unknown​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

"You pick out the big men! I'll make them brave!"
Pyrrhus of Epirus

THOMAS I BARRAN
The Bloodhound (Nokhoi Khan)
Heathen Saint of Rogues and Outlaws
Dynastic Ruler of the Mawsworn Tribes
Scourge of Civilisations
(829-864 ABY)
(873-... ABY)

PHASE-2 BIOGRAPHY
1
(EMBODYING WAR)

"Go an' fight! If not for me, or for the Avatars, nor former masters for that matter - then go an' fight for the sake of the good fight itself.... SHOW THEM THE TRUE MEANING OF HORROR!!!! SHOW THEM THE WILL OF MAR'ZAMBUL!!!!"
St. Thomas Barran
Addressing reanimated comrades from bygone battles
Panatha (877 ABY)

THE SHRIVEN ONE
PROLOGUE

873 ABY​

The mind of the man that was Thomas before, for all that it was meant to be in these moments, was nought but that of a terrified, scared little boy, all over again. Powerful though his short-lived showing was, and as quick to violence as all had hoped he would be, the Omen of Durace's greatest barrier was the sudden terror of - everything.

Barran's first steps into resurrection were the farthest thing from graceful, from the dirt, to the coughing and spluttering when he finally made it above ground, to the blood-curdling screams of teary-eyed confusion as his eyes stared to the cloudy night skies above. The first one to find Thomas were able to pinpoint his exact location more easily this way, but nothing else would be simple about this encounter, not for the two young Marauders who made first contact, as they would encounter more than just the Omen of Durace when something else awoke within his mind. Fortunately saved at the last second by stronger, more-powerful members of their expedition, (and at the last second too) the calming, commanding influence of The Mongrel would aid the resurrected one in his fight to reclaim his own autonomy, a fight of which the Omen fortunately won after a great struggle.

However, after uncovering complications for every revelation of power, it would come as no surprise when cluelessness met their request for self-identification. This powerful, frightening emotional wreck of a man, for all his quick, vicious fighting prowess, was an amnesiac - reverted to a base, childlike state.

To those who had waited to prove the truth of a dream prophecy, (one of which they all shared to no coincidence at all) the revelation of Barran's amnesia would disconcert all who immediately recognized his face, his name and lineage alike, but the one who led the expedition would take sudden, wise control of the situation, dubbing the steadily-calming Woad,"The Shriven One", so as to give the man at least something to which he could cling as his own. This, at least, would provide Thomas with something solid as a foundation, though none but the Mongrel knew that this would start a long, and still-running trend of collecting accolades and epithets alike, as the great Warlord of the Scar Hounds could see it all so clearly - even as early as that first search-expedition.

Climbing out from the gravelly, wet clay on Durace, without a single clue of who or what he was in those moments, the man that was Thomas before did not know a single thing when he met the faces of his Mawsworn brethren for the first time; nothing but traumatic flashbacks of the Nether, along with certain segments of the Riftwalk the Woad had only just completed minutes before, but this is where the trouble truly began for the Woad reborn. Beginning with the first of Barran's many, nose-bleeding migraines, knock-on affectation from recollections of his previous life, such that did not make sense in the beginning, but in these moments, it seemed not to matter to a man who felt as though his brain was being scratched out from within, sending a searing sensation to the eyes as the pain of recollection brought otherworldly shrieks to the ears of the Mongrel's expedition.

Recollections of a life that had concluded nine years before that night.

The mind had taken on too much at once, and for a first few minutes of the sort in Realspace, all in attendance had known they were wise to assume the short showing alone was miraculous, anything more would have been a mischief to their newly-arrived Omen of Durace. As it was then that the amnesiac found himself unable to bear any more strain on his soul, and in a near-instant, the legs of the Shriven One would buckle beneath him as his vision blurred it's entry into a stupor. Though as for the two Marauders he had (and only just moments before) tried to murder in the midst of delirium, these would be assigned to this weapon against their New-Imperial foes, completely unaware at the time that this obligation would end up being a lifelong pursuit, especially not after seeing the resurrected Woad lying slumped on the ground before them.

From there, the Shriven One would be taken to Mar'Zambul, left in the charge of the two Marauders who found him, and along the way, the resurrected Woad would learn the names they were given by the Mongrel. One was a young Arkanian of the name Rook, a brash, but brilliant Marauder already, and the other, a Chiss who answered to the name Dreamer, an unorthodox thinker of just-about every possible metric. A handy duo to watch over the Omen, but when he began to gravitate toward the forge in their Warlord's growing planetary compound, the Woad soon began to intrigue the young Marauders, even impressing them when his inherent knack for metalworking was seen bearing fruit in the first week. The first of many signs of transferable earnest in the first weeks of his second lifetime, giving way to increases in responsibility for the forming trio, the latest of which, by then, would go on to pave the way for their deployment to Rhigar.

THE SHRIVEN ONE
I

874 ABY​

The Clique of Three would embark for the surface of Rhigar, almost a year after the Clique itself was formed, dispatched to take down unwelcome occupants in the Mongrel's backyard - by any means necessary.

Already taking to calling their targets,"Squatters", by then, the Marauders dispatched to assist the unlikely trio were already lusting for the blood of people who were never permitted to land on the Warlord's territory, and in the eyes of those within the Scar Hounds tribe, trespassers deserved death from the moment their boots touched base on ground that was blessed by the Mongrel's presence. Against the Scar Hounds, there was no greater crime as yet, thus the punitive measures were already expected to be torturous; there were examples to be made, though as for what would happen in the midst of the trio's first action together, history (and all who would bear witness to the Shriven One's actions) would remember the rest, and quite vividly at that.

Everything truly commenced when the Marauder contingent landed in the midst of a harsh blizzard, bringing the attending warriors to correctly presume it was strong enough to render all their tracking equipment useless, or at least, until the storm finally subsided. But for all the time it would take for such technological issues to pass, even the Shriven One could tell that the Marauders would be done by then, but not after all that transpired next; and within hours, the trio's group would come across their trespassers, revelling around with a violent abandon that marked them all for the most-horrible deaths imaginable. But it was not until they found the Squatters' lecherous leader that they realised the true extent of the brutality these fiends deserved, thus the order to subject that leader to a Blood Eagle execution was decided, a true offering to the Dark Three.

None would know at the time, and none had known ahead of time until the stormclouds parted overhead, revealing a triple lunar eclipse - three moons drawing into alignment before the system's sun.

In the eyes of the blood-soaked trio, this sudden revelation of the world itself was a sign from the Avatars, their way of saying,"Offering accepted!", and all in attendance (along with all those who dared to hear of the encounter afterward) would assume it was thus. The Shriven One, as far as everyone else perceived it, had achieved things that only the Heathen Church could learn to master, and without so much as a moment of formal training to rationalize what they saw, the otherwise-secular hearts of the Scar Hounds tribe steadily began to believe in Avatar-given miracles. The Clique of Three would then be given a proper name (and consequently, purpose-) for their little group, and from that, their group would grow around,"The Trilunar Clique", with ease, this they knew, from the moment the idea was first floated in the wake of the execution.

The "876" Emblem of the Trilunar Clique
The third and final article, the complete insignia that would remain as such forevermore.​

Soon, and against all explanation, the wisdom of seeking out the Flayed Blue-Lion would be acclaimed, and with that momentum, the foresighted Mongrel would, once again, relish the chance to prepare for the greatest raid of all. But not without pulling his protégé to one side first, as there was more than mere congratulations to offer, especially with a very particular offer in mind; word had reached the Mongrel about the Shriven One's attachment to the forge, and after learning much and more of the Woad's inherent knack for high-quality smithing, the Warlord had quickly decided that his most-powerful weapon should forge a weapon of a conventional sort. Thinking on a blade, one such that he could wield against the Galaxy's heroes, and not just for any and all of the best and brightest, but mostly for one man in particular.

A foe with prowess enough to match that of the Woad's mentor, and to such an extent that many were beginning to believe they were evenly-matched, skill for skill, strength for strength, feat for feat; and for that, Shriven would need a particular metal, and a suitable place to work the chosen slabs. Fortunately for all with short patience, and fortunately for the one in need of a sword to hold out against them all, the resurrected Woad had already picked out the perfect place, from where, all his weaponry would be forged. This as-yet unnamed, undescribed foe, for all his prowess, had sealed his own fate, and the resolve woven into the very essence of the sword had all but assured it already, regardless of whether it pieced foe's heart sooner or later, Shriven's next project would certainly become the tool for the job eventually.

THE SHRIVEN ONE
II

875 ABY​

Devoting all his time to fanning flames in the forge, hammering the ideal sword in shape, the resurrected Woad was unintentionally returning his old strength to limbs that were clinging on for dear life before - made all the more transferable to his training.

Thus the Beskar-forged Greatsword was born, and before the year passed onto the next, her form would begin to take shape for all to see, but it was not until Shriven began honing to razor-sharp perfection that the true form and shape was revealed. In all the time it would take to craft a perfect weapon, however, both Shriven and the Mongrel alike would be glad that time was spent sparring through his off-hours, even cooking and eating right there on the chosen ground, even in the midst of Rhigar's many snowstorms. All the amnesiac Goidel would know in these months would be of toil and devotion to the forge, as there were very few memory-migraines to note by then, marking a steady recovery toward the living realms of Realspace, and with a lasting sense of finality that assured the other Trilunars they were on the right path.

Shaky though Shriven's recovery had been thusfar, ringing true for all-things before and after the Eclipse, there was always hope that the gift would resume giving at some point in the near-future, bringing endless relief to the other Trilunars when it ended up being sooner than expected after all. Both Rook and Dreamer had known it would be a difficult process, (and from the very first moment, at that) and knew that difficulties of even-greater magnitude awaited, but it was enough to feel at least a little comfort taking a relatively-competent ward to find their Warlord, aiding Shriven in his attempt to gift the Greatsword to his mentor on Empress Teta.

It would not be a simple deployment, as they had been tracked by IMPAF on their approach to Cinnegar's suburban outskirts, though these scouts were no match for men who would soon join the Clique through the strength of their warfighting merits; and with their path freed up, the journey to find the Mongrel would end much easier than it began, even conversing along the way without a single stray shot of resistance fired in their direction after that. Thus the Clique's link was established with Nail and Ghoul, late but vital additions to Shriven's inner-circle, (and both with their own story to tell) and after just one showing of supreme violence under fire, the resurrected Woad had shown wisdom in deciding he had seen enough to justify bringing them into the fold.

Both were human, though it was clear that Ghoul was an Atrisian of a sort he had not claimed to know yet, and Nail, a native of Coruscant's undercity, was proud of his little hovel from the moment he first met Rook and Dreamer some years before that day. Much had changed for the undercity dweller since, and in seeing that there was a respite from grief there, Shriven knew not to inquire what happened at that point in time, sensing there was more heartache in this cyborg than he cared to mention. After all, there was a greater task to complete, and with Nail as their guide, the sword would be delivered into the waiting hands of the Mongrel before long, met with even-greater approval when the form was seen in a better, clearer light.

Promise made, promise kept - Promise named.

"The Promise" - the last, and greatest of the Mongrel's duelling swords.
Laid to rest in her original wielder's tomb in 903 ABY.
​

Standing across the way, bearing witness to the gifting ceremony from almost ten paces away, studying the blade's form for herself was none other than Ishida Ashina , one of (if not-) the strongest Jedi of the era. Shriven, however, would be ordered to return to Rhigar, dispatched to prepare for the next, and grandest battle of Second Hyperspace War, as even then, in the mobilisation phase for their deployment to Tython, everyone knew this was the fight that all other battles had been preceding, to which, all roads were leading. The outcome of the duel, along with that of the assault on Empress Teta, would need to remain a mystery, though the end-result would be learned easily enough, as it would be there to see in the smirks and laughter of thode Marauders returning from the Core in the following weeks.

THE SHRIVEN ONE
III

876 ABY​

The Warlord had seen it coming, and long before the Dark Voice had revealed his plans for Tython, making preparations that much easier for the Scar Hounds' part in the impending battle.

​

Deployment would be simple this time, but due to the fact Shriven and his Trilunars were left in charge of their Warlord's army (and in it's entirety at that) for the endeavour, the pressure would be mounting in demand to succeed, and all the Trilunars knew it.

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