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[Daylight Savings] The Lost Patrol


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The Lost Patrol


 

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The MRA return victorious from their skirmish.

 


 

From The Perspective Of Our Beloved Agents:

 

It was the 11th of the Sun's Smile, 28 SA. 20 MRA agents prepared themselves for the first skirmish of many, many more to come. Rokossovsky’s first plan was put into motion and Petrovich was put in charge of ensuring its success. Trees were cut, sticks were sharpened, weapons ready. Walls were constructed around New Esbec’s entrance, the location of the bloody battle to come.

 

We, The MRA agents, would hunker down inside our quickly constructed fortress, rigging the exterior with punji sticks and other small barricades. However, we kept one thing a secret, our firebomb stash we brought with us. 20 Bottles would be kept in a crate inside our lovely fortress, 20 bottles to change the course of whatever would occur.

 

The lead RO-Agentea Rokossovsky gave the order, he knew the Ministry of Justice would be enroute. Rokossovsky’s head peaked above the wall as he stood up on a random crate they had brought. His white, slick mask looking down to his men before giving a brief few words of encouragement;

"If the ein Ariskiys were here today, I assure you they would be proud of what we have done. They would tell us: ‘Onward Mercatorii! Do not allow the Orenians to hinder us! For the faith, and for the Mercatorii. Onward!’" He would pause to take a well deserved breath in his rapidly changing mind. "My brothers, we stand here today in the name of Godan, In the name of our People, In the name of those we have lost. We stand here to send back the tyrants back to whence they came, back to the Holy See of which we protected when the Pagans took their feeble attempts to take it! Mercatorii, we may be small in numbers, but large in faith.  It is an honor to serve with each and every one of you."

 

He finished his makeshift speech to his men, which all in unison exclaimed "Amen."

10 Minutes had passed since the speech, we considered playing some cards yet the Ministry came forward. Garret Darkwood, The Inspector General, on horseback, leading his men to their unevitable doom. He would shout at us to drop our weapons, to surrender in the name of GOD. Heretics we saw, not the men we served with.

 

The Mercatorii refused the option of surrender. Crossbows were prepped, spears were being prepared to be thrown. We drew back our strings and placing bolts in our crossbow’s chambers, taking careful aim at the so called enforcers of justice. The Ministry of Justice agents would begin to flank, take cover, anything they could to withstand the storm to come. 20 Crossbows peered down the open street to New Esbec, 20 Crossbows peered down upon 60 men and women of the Ministry of Justice. And the order was given.

"Ministry of Justice, Weapons free!" Shouted Garret Darkwood, aggressively firing first at us to which we fired back. We were smarter, quicker with our bolts. We knew who to aim for and when to do it! Our beloved RO-Agentea's bolts would be thrown into the Inspector General’s chest. 

 

As 18 more bolts came raining down on 9 other poor souls protecting their Inspector General they would be incapaciated. All of them. The Inspector General slumped upon his horse, rightfully deserved for the man who lead this suicide charge.

Let it be known that the Mercatorii never fired first. Let it be known that all the casualties to come after this assault were led by a man who was so incapable of seeing straight he permitted himself to be shot not once, but twice into his chest. Let it be known to the Holy Orenian Empire that Inspector General Garret Darkwood continued to push his men forwards into the fire of the Mercatorii. Let it be known the Mercatorii never killed a single soul from the Ministry of Justice.

10 Ministry of Justice agents had been decommissioned not even 30 seconds into the battle. We knew this from the pocket watch of Petrovich, which ticked back and forth.  After the barrage roughly 10 of us brave Mercatorii ran to the crate, drawing our bottles and lighting them in unison. We waited, letting the fuzes draw out slowly by the lantern.  The order was given once more by Rokossovsky and the firebombs were hurled. 10 Ministry of Justice agents appeared to have been burnt alive, only the Ministry of Justice could truly tell if they were.

20 Ministry of  Justice Agents had been decommissioned. The Ministry of Justice Leadership faltered as roughly 10 agents withdrew from the battle out of cowardice. The battle raged on, the 20 Mercatorii held on as long as they could before the Ministry’s mass assault had worked.  Roughly 10 agents, impossible to count from our behalf, had dropped into our fortress from the nearby hill side. Our only exposed flank, the flank we left open on purpose. 

They poured in slowly, trickling in like sand from an hourglass. A scuffle began within the walls of the Mercatorii held fortress. Swords, warhammers, bottles, and daggers all clashed against one another; metal on metal, the sounds of battle had finally erupted. We wanted this, we knew we would out combat them if they trickled in our only flank.

 

3 Mercatorii were incapacitated by now, however over 20 Ministry of Justice agents had been completely decommissioned or worse. It was still impossible to tell as they kept on striving for our demise! The Ministry continued its assault, repeatedly withdrawing and pushing new waves of men into the fortress to their incapacitations. Failing one after another until the well of men dried up.

 

Then he arrived. The RO-Agentea Handia, the drunkard temporary head of all operations, had arrived at the skirmish with a squad of 11 Agents to his side. 
 

The 11 brave souls that had arrived proved crucial to our battle, to our cause. These 11 brave men finally would help us finish off the untrained men of the Ministry of Justice. We finally drove back the horde of agents. We drove them back down the mountain, all with nothing but their wounds to speak for themselves.

The MRA left victorious from the skirm and left New Esbec with all the resources they intended to liberate from the town, leaving 60 incapacitated Ministry of Justice agents, most in critical condition, some unscathed. They all are lucky for the generosity we contain, for their lives depended on it.

 

The MRA left with another win on their belt and morale high. This will be the first of many to come. All we wanted was a home, all we wanted was peace. Yet the Inspector-General’s warmongering would wind him up in Hospital. 

 


 

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Portrait of RO-Agentea "Petrovich" alongside some of his men before the skirmish.

 


 

Viva la Mercatorii, Erlojuak Mesede Egiten Digu, Mercatore!

Ro-Agentea Handia "Waltz"

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Ro-Agentea "Rokossovsky"

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Ro-Agentea "Petrovich"

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Edited by Nouveau-Chapeau
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The tactician smiled as he read the missive, knowing that his defences, planning, and well trained soldiers lead to the losses of many MoJ agents.

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The Deputy Attorney General's heart ached for her fallen Ministry of Justice members as she prayed that she'd see some of them alive, though she knew that some of them wouldn't make it out of the hospital.

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Receiving the missive by bird from his bedchambers, Arlo Danker would let out a gleeful, broken rasp - before falling into a fit of coughs. He’d quickly pen a short note for the RO, hoping that he could soon rejoin his Mercatorii companions in the field.

 

”GOD... Save Oren,” he’d sarcastically rasp out to no one, pulling his covers over his head and falling back upon the mattress.

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Chief Commissioner James Madron sighed in disbelief. “They could’ve atleast included where I honorably led the men.”

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George O'Rourke crumples up the note he received to make him aware of this skirmish. "GOD DAMN IT!"  He'd cry out upon hearing of the loss. He'd storm off to the hospital to check on the injured MoJ agents.

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Simon Roberts rose from his bedside, the missive lofted between his callused fingers as he muttered haphazardly beneath his breath. Sighing deeply the older Mercatore shuddered as he read the first descriptions of the battle, rocking slightly before his eyes lit up in shock and surprise.

"By GOD, we are vindicated. Their betrayal repaid, ten fold comrades, ten fold!" He shouted, raising his hand upward in a thrust as he tumbled from the makeshift resting place, and began to search for his MRA uniform. A new fire burning in his soul.

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Amelia Clementine Darkwood’s heart stopped a beat as she read this. “No.. no no.. My love..” She dropped everything she was doing and went to the hospital.

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The Ro-Agentea Rokossovsky would have returned to his singular desk.  Not cheering, not smiling like the rest of his men and Petrovich in the rooms beside.  He'd have taken the missive he had helped write, and edit.  Sliding it beside him, this time he'd pick up the drawing of his brother, Kosomov.  An older, folded piece of parchment to that of which he loved dearly and always kept on his desk.  His voice would lower as he stared to remember the good times they endured, versus the times they now were forced to thrive in. 

"It doesn't feel good to win this battle.  It only furthers the rift between us.  I didn't kill anyone because I didn't have to, I would not kill men who did not want to die on our hill.  It reminded me of us as kids.  I never would've thought to kill you during our fights, but rather to stop it one way or another.  I hope this will turn out the same way, that eventually we can be friends once again." 

He'd take a breath as he'd continue his insane rambling.  Gripping the parchment tighter as he continued to speak more and more.  He would shudder at the fact they had become so well at terrorism now.  That they were so well at injuring, bombing, torturing people.  It haunted him, it was his nightmare that kept him up at night.

"The leadership of the Ministry has faltered, and my disappointment outweighs everything else.  To think I served with these men and women frustrates me in the fact that they all were injured.  Oh how I wish I could see you again, so our plans may once more prosper in these dark times brother.  So that we may finally be at peace with a home we may proclaim our own.  So that we could have the street that could never be built." 

He'd remark to himself finally, with his insane tendencies running through his brain.  He was glad they had won, but not by the means of it.  All the innocent men and women he had to have injured, incapacitated, burnt alive even!  It wouldn't gain him personally anything, but it wasn't his choice to determine that.  He had to follow his orders, he had to continue his attacks.  For the Mercatorii, and for his brother. 
Viva Mercatore.

Edited by KindOfToast
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4E3YrzfhNdglR1EzRZA8CbOleHIJtr1HLDTChOTn

 

TO THE LEADERSHIP OF THE TERRORIST ORGANIZATION M.R.A.:

 

It is true that today you have somehow managed to escape from Agents of the Imperial Constabulary who were arresting you for the crimes that your terrorist organization has committed against the Imperial State, and that our Agents have suffered very serious injuries at your hands.

 

But we are the Imperial Agents of the Law! We do not negotiate with terrorists and we take Our wounds with vigor, and after every of our defeats we come with a stronger and unstoppable blue spirit that shall be your downfall.

 

This blue and indomitable spirit of our organization descends directly from the legacy of the Order of the White Rose, founded by His Imperial Majesty Peter I of Kaedrin, our Patron Saint, and just like him, we shall defeat all our enemies, including your petty terrorist organization which has sadly caused a lot of harm, death and destruction in Our Country and in other nations.

 

Finally, and just as His Imperial Majesty Peter III said once to the Nordlings: We shall meet you again on the field of battle, again, and again, for Ours is one great spirit, and yours many disparate plots.

 

Signed,

 

HIS EXCELLENCY, Sir Charles Galbraith KM, Solicitor-General of the Holy Orenian Empire.

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10 minutes ago, sergisala said:

To the Leadership of the terrorist organization M.R.A.:

 

It is true that today you have somehow managed to escape from Agents of the Imperial Constabulary who were arresting you for the crimes that your criminal organization has committed against the Imperial State, and that our Agents have suffered very serious injuries at your hands.

 

But we are the Imperial Agents of the Law! We do not negotiate with terrorists and we take Our wounds with vigor, and after every of our defeats we come with a stronger and unstoppable blue spirit that shall be your downfall.

 

This blue and indomitable spirit of our organization descends directly from the legacy of the Order of the White Rose, founded by His Imperial Majesty Peter I of Kaedrin, our Patron Saint, and just like him, we shall defeat all our enemies, including your petty terrorist organization which has sadly caused a lot of harm, death and destruction in Our Country and in other nations.

 

Finally, and just as His Imperial Majesty Peter III said once to the Nordlings: We shall meet you again on the field of battle, again, and again, for Ours is one great spirit, and yours many disparate plots.

 

Signed,

 

HIS EXCELLENCY, Sir Charles Galbraith KM, Solicitor-General of the Holy Orenian Empire

 

TO HIS EXCELLENCY, Sir Charles Galbraith KM, Solicitor-General of the Holy Orenian Empire

 

[!] A drawing is attached.

 

image0.png

 

Viva la Mercatorii, Erlojuak Mesede Egiten Digu, Mercatore!

RO-Agentea Handia "Waltz"

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Edited by Nouveau-Chapeau
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*reads the article "Wow they didn't include where I heroically flanked them and drew the fighters away to protect the wounded MoJ agents."

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 Garret Darkwood spends the night at the hospital, after having lost so much blood passing in and out of consciousness, he remembered weakly diverting doctors to other injured Ministry of Justice agents, "The--...them Not me" Was the last thing Garret remembered before losing all grasp on reality. The next day when he came to, he saw the hospital floor surrounding him covered in blood, and the stack of papers of the wounded, and the dead next to him. Garret then asks a passing nurse "How many did we lose last night?" The nurse promptly replied "Four more sir" The news hit Garret Darkwood like a weight of a thousand bolts, pieced through his chest. "I was given my first command, I led my men strait into a massacre, I witnessed their deaths first hand, I made every mistake, and felt the shame rise in me. And even now I lay awake, I survived my mistakes though others have not. Does history have it's eyes on me? What made me live, and them die?" Garret them winces in pain as he pulls up a lap table, and begins writing condolence letters to families of fallen Ministry of Justice agents. 

Edited by bugbytes21
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8 minutes ago, bugbytes21 said:

 Garret Darkwood spends the night at the hospital, after having lost so much blood passing in and out of consciousness, he remembered weakly diverting doctors to other injured Ministry of Justice agents, "The--...them Not me" Was the last thing Garret remembered before losing all grasp on reality. The next day when he came to, he saw the hospital floor surrounding him covered in blood, and the stack of papers of the wounded, and the dead next to him. Garret then asks a passing nurse "How many did we lose last night?" The nurse promptly replied "Four more sir" The news hit Garret Darkwood like a weight of a thousand bolts, pieced through his chest. "I was given my first command, I led my men strait into a massacre, I witnessed their deaths first hand, I made every mistake, and felt the shame rise in me. And even now I lay awake, I survived my mistakes though others have not. Does history have it's eyes on me? What made me live, and them die?" Garret them winces in pain as he pulls up a lap table, and begins writing condolence letters to families of fallen Ministry of Justice agents. 

 

[!]

The Doors to the Providence hospital slowly swing open as footsteps erupt, clearly someone storming inside.

 

Shortly, the figure came into Garret's view. It's Charles, his firstborn son. Charles Darkwood froze for a moment, his boots holding him from advancing further from the doorway. His visage begins to form a sizeable frown as he briefly pondered. Still, he manages to sputter out a few words in desperation and fearfulness, "Father!" The boy exclaimed, losing all grip on himself, almost tossing his form at Garret's bed. After quiet words are exchanged between the father and his son. Charles dedicates an hour or so to assisting his father in his letter-writing, given his skills are lackluster but, they're skills nonetheless.

 

 

Luka Bishop, on the other hand. Celebrates with his Mercatorii comrades, a victorious battle they had just won!

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