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Perhaps this is for the best... Old Friend.


Gambit
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A burning church, with a burnt man inside of it.

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The once Handia of the MRA walked with his personal guard, his entourage, and himself marched towards an isolated church, opening the great doors to the Holy Place, he sat, lighting a cigarette, inhaling, exhaling, he spoke to GOD out loud, he was the only one who was to pay witness to the mad-man...

 

"Our Most Holy and Great Lord-GOD, for what else do you have for me, your loyal servant? Am I to now wither and die? The Big Four have turned to heathenry and paganistic ideas of false romanticized senses of mercy and honor, they believe we are no more just in our belief, in your place, your plan for us, Our Most Holy and Great Lord-GOD... I attempted to stop the atheistic heathens from corrupting us, our place, our most holy of crusades against the heathen... Yet, Our Most Holy and Great Lord-GOD, I have failed you... I am sorry."

 

The Once-Handia flicked his cigarette to the carpet, itself sparking a small flame.

 

"My Most Holy and Greatest Lord-GOD, I breathe in your service, I bleed in your service! I brought forth the revolution of us Mercatorii! In the name of Alexei, Mother, and you, my Holy Master GOD, I brought to the pagan host the terror of their atheism, the pain of their traitorous heresy. OUR, revenge, was struck to them, in the branding iron, the blade of iron, like Owyn, I purified the pagan, the heretic, the monster, those who dare question your most holy word. My Most Holy and Great Lord-GOD, ye whom crafted land and sky, how do they not see? Roko, Morado, Petrovich, the rest... They are Heretics to turn their backs on the two of US, my Lord-GOD!"

 

The flame grew, it cackled as the madman rambled on.

 

"They abondon US, you, MY Lord-GOD, my humble, MASTER GOD. We are the revolution! We are what has spread OUR word, my Lord-GOD, I see future for the Mercatorii people, under your banner, like Mankind before, the battered, bloodied banner, bearing the Cross of Mother Mercatore! I see the soldier, the citizen, the men among men who see as I do, who are not yet blind to the heresy of modernity and conservator... They call me radical, they call me mad? I see who is mad, who is blind, who is wrong, it is thy whom ignore your grace, your word, your mercy, your greatness, who ignore you, my Lord-GOD!
    I Know the pagan is of weaker stock, they are born into the slavery of their mistakes, their weakness is not learned, they are born with their curse... Their curse must be eradicated, destroyed, removed, call it what you will my Lord-GOD, but the cure for the world, for MAN, for our kin, and future kin, and their future we must secure their betterment... If not the Mercatorii, then who?! Lord-GOD, I Believe I know my message, I know my faith, I know my life, and it is yours! 
    Oh, Mother! Alexii and Merlene! You hear me from the Skies, don't you? Don't you know what your children have degraded to? What we scrap to survive! I do, I take that life gratefully in the name of GOD and you, my parentals above! However, the traitor Roko and his heretical follows of their atheistic cult of ignorance, heretical nonsense, and the Traitor Son Merous. I know the Traitor Son has infected them, I know it, Lord, I do. Does Simon think me MAD? He does! As does Roko and Petrovich, they think me INSANE? They are mad, they are lost, they are to seek help in your arms, Lord-GOD. Not me, not me, not me!"

 

The Fire had spread, as the church filled with smoke, he stood still, he did not move, only stood in his place as he monologued to GOD.

 

"Lord-GOD, I have seen it, the paradise, in where Mercatore lay embathed in sun light and other goodness we are not common to yet. I will break into pieces right in front of you, as you watch in wonder, Lord-GOD, I will die in your name in one-hundred times at your command... I shall die for you! Yes, right now, Lord-GOD, I shall meet with you, I am soon to be with you, with you Mother, with you Alexii, with you, Merlene! To soon was MRA taken from me, yet now, I see why! Lord-GOD thank you, you have brought me here to die! Thank you, my Lord, my creator! I will see father, mother, all of them! I am prepared! Take me Lord, Master, Creator, I am ready. I was blind, yet now I see.

As Mother Mercatore wished for life, I wish for you to take me, Lord-GOD!" 

 

The Once-Handia, he held both arms out, looking to the burning church as he inhaled the smoke from the flames.

 

"Take me Lord-GOD!"

 

Was what was last heard from the Fanatic, his rambling silenced, the burning for wood and cackling of fire was all that overtook the voice of the Once-Handia,, perhaps permanently, perhaps not... Though it was sure, he would not be seen for a long time, maybe forever...

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Luka Bishop signs the cross upon his chest at the news of his fallen ex-Handia. "The Mercatorii nowadays have fallen upon new principles and ideas. The degradation of a culture." He sighs, setting a hand upon his scabbard defensively.

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Simon was first brought news of his old friends death after the destruction of the rest of the fanatical devotee's to his rhetoric, the old scout staring out across the E.O.A.M report sprawled before his desk with a certain dread mounting in his features. The slow churn of his stomach brought him back down to the reality that was his world, the men of his organization now free from the tyranny of those that had once promised to guide them. Silently he would stand, pacing from just behind his aging desk, the memories of their triumphs and their greatest losses playing over and over in the depths of his mind.

Irony struck his thoughts, the man that he had once stood alongside, the man that he had once pledged to give everything for, the man that he had spoke with as the walls of the House of Commons burned in flames set by their hands, the man he had shared so much with would die just the same. Surrounded, by the biting flames and sparks of fanaticism, and in that moment Simon would crumple the paper up into a ball between his gloved palms, turning to toss it into the similar fire that sat before him now.


"I'm sorry old friend, it was never meant to end this way."

And once more, as all the others had come before it, the Fourth Hour of the Mercatorii would ring true alongside the audible crackle of flame. 

"Viva Mercatore." The partisan murmured as he had so many other times, solemnly signing the cross of Lorraine across his chest.

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There sat the 'traitor' in his dead brethren's eyes.  He had done what was needed to save not himself but the MRA as a whole.  He valued his men more than a dead one that of which a lunatic was in shambles to find.  Willing to throw hundreds if not thousands into perilous situations just to find a hint of his existence.  Upon hearing the news of his beloved friend, Prüsian Ksiæzect's disappearance, his once cheery and bright smile dripped to a frown.  A crippling one at that.

"Till death do us part.  That was the oath he swore me under.  And it appears that may have been taken in a literal fashion as it was with Prüsian.  What drives a man so mad to wish death upon himself or others to find nothing but a dead corpse that of which we've known has been dead for years.  I'm baffled, Where is he to go?  To find the corpse himself to only return to us with his sorrows of the truth the hardliners could not comprehend?  To die trying?  To kill someone in the search of it?"

The man had many more questions to ask but alas he couldn't bring himself to say them.  He was a tough man, but when it came to his beloved friends and the Handia who turned him into what he was today.  To that he'd shed a tear.  The Marshal would stand up from his seat, his steadily shaking hands finding himself a drink to attempt to calm his nerves, but to no avail.  The bottle would gently be placed back down upon the ledge where it was rightly taken from.  The Mercatorii veteran would go back to his favorite chair, slumping down in it as a temporary state of depression would kick in.  His Handia, His veteran friend who'd saved his life and vice versa, His mentor, His Comrade in arms but most importantly his friend

was dead.

There could be no other explanation as to the ex-Handia's disappearance more simpler than he had died.  And it would be one of the fates they'd all come to expect to arrive soon.  He didn't want to bear a burden that his friend could still be alive, that his mentor could still be endlessly searching for a dead man who'd tell no tales.  And the shaky hands of the man would reach over for his Cross of Lorraine, and he would sign it for his fallen comrade.  The man's trembling voice would state something beneath his breath.

"May we meet again Prüsian, in the seven skies."

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