[Daylight Savings] No Way Out

[chacmul 276]

No Way Out

 

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A distinguished pikeman of the MRA standing valiantly on Dobrovs’s steps.

 

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It was the 1st of the Amber Cold, 30 SA.  The massacre was being prepared, soon to be underway from our valiant 40 Mercatorii. The light drizzle of afternoon rain cleared up, the light grey clouds parted as the Ministry of Justice and ISA troops marched up to the MRA held Dobrov castle. A man named Ernest Colbert demanded our immediate surrender, A man we very well respected even if that may seem hard to believe.  We denied, We weren’t here to be pushed around again by the Orenians.  We were here to show them our true strength!

We had roughly five men alongside our beloved Ro-Agenta Rokossovsky stationed in the tower overlooking the bridge, the rest of the five men on the walls. Nothing was heard other than the soft clicking of the crossbow strings being pulled back, the bolts being placed inside the crossbow’s chambers. The Ministry of Justice agents only suspected Rokossovsky and his men holding it down! How foolish! Ro-Agentea Petrovich and Ro-Agentea Handia Brick were near the wooden barricade with roughly 25 men, lighting molotovs preparing to throw.

“Los!” Rokossovsky shouted to his men lining the walls and towers.  And a hail of arrows came tumbling from the walls.  But wait, they weren’t arrows.. But javelins.  Boomsteel javelins!  They flew elegantly through the air, as they plunged into the agents below.  The sight was horrible to witness, yet something that had to be done.  The explosives detonated, releasing shrapnel that tore into the lines below. 

We noticed something however, our dear friend Ernest had walked back!  He had gotten closer to the explosions, and he was promptly executed by the blistering metal shards!  Not only him, but what we sought to be about 40 others downed!  We couldn’t tell who was alive, and who was dead.  Who was clinging on to their life, who’s soul had been released.  It was a massacre for all we knew.

Bodies laid wounded in the streets, and we changed from the mass of injured. Men cried for their mothers, others dragged the critically incapacitated from the street. Some even dared to fire back at us. Yet we allowed them to be treated, as we are not monsters to those who’ve fallen in combat.  We are people too, no matter what is said.  We are people just like everyone else, and when placed in a desperate situation we act out of desperation. 

And those who still stood defiant to our wishes however, drew our attention.  A smaller battle ensued, roughly a 40 on 40 as about 11 reinforcements from the hills arrived to our aid.  The battle raged on, firebombs were thrown, crossbows were launched, some brave souls engaged in melee warfare. Face to face with their mortal enemies. 

Silence fell.  The raging ceased, from a lion to lamb.  The Ministry’s mass wounded were evacuated to Providence where they most likely reside within its hospital.  Their dead, left abundant in the streets for the rats to nip.  The Mercatore wouldn’t permit this, as they and some bystanders took the Ministry’s fallen and gave them their proper burial.  The Mercatorii’s dead also buried, and the wounded treated to a full recovery. We thank our men inside of the Ministry of Justice for their aid in the Mercatorii campaign against the Orenians. 

 

Viva la Mercatorii, Erlojuak Mesede Egiten Digu, Mercatore!

 

RO-Agentea “Rokossovsky”

 

Ro-Agentea “Petrovich”

 

Ro-Agentea “Brick”

 

 

[Nouveau_Chateau 244]

Rokossovsky would be woken by the missive being placed on his desk, his eyes slowly opened to peer down at the page.  He wiped his eyes awake, raising the page near his lantern shakily.  Slowly reading it over completely, nodding as he realized it wasn't a dream.  This had now pushed his personal kill count of Ministry Agents to about 24 now in total.  His mind raced with the thought of all the agent's faces, all the people he had killed, all the people who couldn't go home to their families. 

Their faces, their last words and their voices.  It haunted him, that he single-handedly was such a danger to these people.  That he had wanted peace, and now was being forced into such desperation he had to begin blowing people up and ruining lives.  The sight of Ernest collapsing specifically drifted across his mind, his friend had died at his hands.  And it was his fault, he fired that round.  Yet he was able to reconcile with the fact this is what he had to live with.  That he would eventually atone, whether it be in his death or future actions to come.

"For the greater good of my people.. I must wear the burden of us all..  All these actions become heavier and heavier, and yet here I stand continuing on.  For the Faith, And for the Mercatorii.  Viva Mercatore."  The Ro-Agentea would remark to himself, for once he hadn't seen something from his sleep deprivation!  Rokossovsky's hands would slide the missive on top of the treaty from prior, adding to the stack of papers.  The veteran leaned back in his seat, as he got back to scheming, no longer would such atrocities weigh down his work.  If his people wanted a chance at freedom, this would be their shot to take. 

Viva Mercatore.

Edited June 29, 2021 by KindOfToast

[megavoltar 1131]

It was a small inkling in the mind of Brachstowitz that gave him some sort of pang in his chest, a friend of the M.R.A was something uncommon to hear of.  In his small pace around the woods he was in, receiving the news only meager hours ago, he began to sit along the rotted tree log and ponder the very phrasing itself, 'dear friend'.  It was a silent prayer for the man that gave way to tears from the newest M.R.A member, unbroken Faith to his cause stifling the tear ducts a mere moment after the last of the unspoken words left his lips.

"Viva Mercatore, may the Faith relieve our weary minds of the weights of war."  And so with those words finally piercing the long silence with only a whisper, the Priviya agentea had begun to move away from the old rotted log still covered in the rain from days prior.  His legs far removed from shaking from the guilt as he began to hold his hands behind his back and think to himself of what was to come.

Viva Mercatore.